A Garland of Marigolds (10 page)

“
Had a busy day?
”
Gideon asked from behind me.

I turned swiftly. Gideon
’
s hair was
wet
from a shower. It stood on end, gleaming in the last of the light.

“
Yes,
”
I answered.
“
It is a depressing prospect without more water.
”

“
Oh, I shouldn
’
t say that,
”
he said cheerfully.
“
There
’
s a long way to go, I know, but the soil is pretty good.
”

“
I
’
ve just analyzed various samples,
”
I said dryly.

“
And?
”

“
And the sooner we add some nitrogen to the soil the better!
”
I said grimly.

“
Look, I know that soil—
”
he began.

“
Do you?
”
I asked him tartly.

“
Perhaps you
’
d better let me have your findings,
”
he sighed. He looked rather depressed.
“
Though where I
’
m going to conjure the stuff up from I don
’
t know!
”

“
It
’
s the lack of water that I
’
m really worried about,
”
I insisted.

Gideon grunted. The water from his hair was dripping down the back of his neck and he pulled out a handkerchief to dry himself. Across one corner was a smear of pale mauve lipstick. My sympathy for him died dramatically.

“
The new well will help,
”
he said.

I gave him a scornful look.
“
It might,
”
I agreed,
“
if anyone was around to work it!
”

“
Is that intended as a reference to me?
”
he asked stiffly.

I shrugged my shoulders.
“
If the cap fits
...”
I drawled.

To my surprise he looked amused.

“
I
’
ll tell you when it does,
”
he said.

Somehow, I thought dismally, he had managed to get the last word again.

In the morning my jeep was ready for me. I spent most mornings out in the field and afternoons checking
my
findings and working
in
the laboratory. Gideon managed to procure various chemicals, but it continued to be the lack of water that worried me most. When I was not worrying about my work,
I
worried about myself. I could feel myself growing tighter and more intense, but I didn
’
t feel that I could relax with anyone any longer. Whenever I did I was hurt too badly, or so it seemed to me.

I was sitting at the bench in the laboratory when the
Swami
walked in. He came and went as he pleased, his
saffron
robes flapping in the dusty breeze. Everyone respected him. I was always pleased
to see
him and soon
got used to his
shock of wild hair and his ability to remove himself
from any conversation
by the simple expedient of
staring into space.

“
I thought you would
like
to
accompany me through the village
to see the new
pump.
”

I was highly gratified.
For a moment I tried
not
to
show it, but the smile of pleasure spread across my face just the same.

“
Is it really working?
”
I asked.

He nodded.
“
So they tell me.
”

I
threw down my pen and stood up immediately.
I
had been astonished and appalled by the delay in getting the well into action.

We walked through the village as if we owned it. The
Swami
strode on ahead, his robes rippling in the wind; I followed a pace behind, anxious as always to see everything that was going on around me. The
Swami
must have been more observant than he looked because he stopped suddenly in the middle of the street. As always in the presence of
a
foreigner a knot of begging children had gathered, more
curious
than determined. The boldest of them touched my skirts, while the others
put their
hands over their faces and peered through their
fingers.

“
It will be well when
my
people learn
to be a
little less materialistic,
”
the
Swami
said sternly.

I laughed.
“
You want too much!
”
I teased him, a
little
shocked by my own audacity.
“
They have to eat!
”

“
But not by begging.
”

“
No, but by giving me water for my wheat!
”
I retorted.

He shook his head at me.

“
You must ask Mr. Wait for that.
”

I sighed.
“
I suppose so,
”
I said.

There were surprisingly few people at the well. I recognized most of the women drawing water. They were very graceful, filling their pots and carrying them off on their heads, but it was plain that the vast majority of them were still using the water from the buffalo tanks. We stood and watched for a while, trying to fight down a feeling of disappointment that the whole village was not making use of it as we had hoped.

I went to the edge of the well and peered down into its depths. There was very little to see, for the new electrical machinery took up most of the space and one could only glimpse the water below.

“
It is working well now,
”
the
Swami
told me, not without pride.
“
At first it was difficult because none of us knew how to prime it.
”
I giggled, remembering similar pumps in the country where we had spent our school holidays when I was a child. I put my two hands on the edge of the well and exchanged smiles with one of the youngest housewives I had ever seen. Aged no more than twelve, she nevertheless had the proud bearing of one who was sure of her own status. For an instant I thought she might have been a relative of Lakshmi
’
s, but as soon as she filled her earthenware pot and raised it to her head, the likeness disappeared and she wandered away down the street and was lost in the crowd.

I was so busy watching the first girl, I didn
’
t see the second until she was right on top of me. She had none of the confidence of the first, but was quite scared to take the water from the well. I stood up straight to help her, but other hands were there before mine. To my surprise, they were Gideon
’
s.

“
Will you get me water to drink?
”
he asked her.

She was plainly overcome by such a request, but his smile reassured her and it was obvious that she didn
’
t like to refuse his request.

“
The water is tasteless after the other,
”
she told him shyly.
“
It is clean,
”
he replied.
“
The other water holds many illnesses inside it. This will keep your children well and strong.
”

She licked her lips doubtfully.

“
My husband will say my cooking is not as good as his mother
’
s,
”
she went on.

Gideon laughed.
“
All husbands say that anyway!
”
he teased her.
“
You try it and see if he doesn
’
t compliment you on your new skill.
”

She was overcome with amusement at the idea, but she dipped her pot into the water and offered it to Gideon. The other women, gaining their confidence, pushed closer to see the fun. Gideon was completely at home with them. He was never familiar, but within seconds they all felt at ease.

The
Swami
watched paternally from the edge of the ring of women.

“
I shall leave you in his capable hands,
”
he said to me in amused tones.
“
He is already managing to do what I had planned.
”

“
To win their confidence?
”
I asked him.

The
Swami
nodded solemnly.
“
Exactly.
”

Gideon moved away from the well and joined me on the edge of the throng.

“
Working hard?
”
he asked me wryly.

I kept my head with determination.

“
There
’
s blight on some of your potatoes,
”
I told him, figuring that the best form of defence was to attack.

He smiled quite affably.

“
I know. I
’
m dealing with it tomorrow.
”
His grin grew bigger.
“
Afraid it will spread onto your fields?
”
he prodded me.

“
Of course,
”
I retorted.
“
My wheat is parched, but it is clean.
”
He was still amused, and I wondered what had put him into such a good temper.

“
Famous last words!
”
he said.

“
I haven
’
t enough water on those fields to feed a bug!
”
I turned to face him.
“
Dr. Wait—
”

His smile died.

“
Suki, don
’
t dare mention water to me again!
”
he reproved me.
“
I haven
’
t the time or the inclination to go into it now.
”

But when would he have? I wondered. I allowed my eyes to drop from his face, but not before I noted the signs of fatigue in his eyes. If he had been home at a reasonable hour I thought, he would be more able to do his work. I suppose my thoughts must have been mirrored on my face, because he grasped me firmly by the hand and pulled me down the street.

“
You and I,
”
he said,
“
are going to the pan seller and there we
’
ll sit in the shade and regain a sense of proportion!
”

I didn
’
t know what a
pan
seller was, but I followed him willingly enough. I liked being with him, liked it more than was good for me.

The
pan
vendor had chosen an ideal spot under a shady tree. Gideon and I sat on the red dust and watched him. He squatted beside a little cabinet and a potful of leaves covered with water. When Gideon nodded to him, he carefully prepared a leaf for each of us, covering it with various spices from the little drawers in the cabinet; lime and cutch, cardamon seeds and cloves and the inevitable shred of finely beaten silver which, for some reason, all Indians seem to think essential to their good health.

Gideon received the first leaf and popped it whole into his mouth, chewing it cautiously at first and then with obvious pleasure. I could smell the spices and, when he had finished, his mouth was as red as if he had swallowed a dollop of red ink. I was not at all sure at first that I liked the flavor of the spices, but the taste was so clean and fresh that I was sorry when I had reduced it to pulp and there was nothing left to wonder over.