The House of Seven Fountains (12 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

Vivien slept soundly
and woke up to find that her ankle had stopped aching and, judging by the slackness of the strapping, the swelling had almost subsided. The upper part of her leg was still sore, but it was a minor discomfort and otherwise she felt in excellent spirits. She was stretching luxuriously on the buoyant foam rubber mattress when Ah Kim brought her early morning tea.

After her shower she dressed in a lemon yellow sun dress with a bolero of crisp, white, waffle piqu
e
. She had adopted the Chinese habit of wearing rubber-soled mules around the house. At first she had had difficulty in keeping them on, but she had soon learned to clench her toes slightly as she walked and now found them far more comfortable than English sandals.

Going into the courtyard—she was still limping slightly—she was surprised to find Tom Stransom standing by the fountains, smoking a cigarette.

“Good morning. I came over for a swim, and as I have to see to your ankle I’ve invited myself to breakfast. How did you sleep?”

“Very well, thanks. I didn’t need the pill you gave me.”

“Good.”

He pulled out a chair for her and seated himself on the opposite side of the breakfast table. He was wearing a faded, blue cotton shirt, which accentuated the blueness of his eyes.

“Is this your day off?” she asked, noticing his denim trousers. Usually he wore drill shorts and white stockings.

“No, once a week I go over to the children’s home on Gata Road. I thought you might like to come with me. It’s quite a pleasant drive, and I think you’d like the woman who runs the place,” he said, unfolding his napkin.

“I should like to, but are you sure I won’t be in the way?”

“Not at all. You and Anna can have a chat while I’m checking over the kids. She doesn’t get many visitors, and she’s a sociable creature. We’ll start out as soon as I’ve dressed your leg. How does it feel?”

“It prickles a bit when I bend my knee, but nothing to speak of. Tell me about the children’s home.”

“There are about twenty children in it. Some are orphans, some illegitimate. Anna came out here about thirty-five years ago as a missionary. Then she decided that it was a waste of time converting people to Christianity when they already had a similar religion and decided to devote herself to the care of waifs and strays.”

“She sounds like a wonderful woman,” Vivien said sincerely.

“She’s one in a million,” he agreed. “The kids adore her, and if she had the funds she’d take in every cast-off in the country.”

After breakfast he inspected her ankle and said that another forty-eight hours would see it completely recovered. The graze on her thigh would take a week or so to heal.

“If that’s a new dress, you should change it. The children are messy little blighters, and you’ll probably be roped in to play with them,” he advised, putting his gear back in his bag.

“It is a new dress, but it will wash, and I’ve given all my old ones to Ah Kim,” Vivien said cheerfully.

He appraised her supple young figure for a moment.

“Did you know that the townspeople have nicknamed you the little
mem
with the white hair? Most of them have never seen a natural blonde before. I’m glad to see you don’t follow the fashion of having it all cut off. Why women are so keen to look like men nowadays is beyond me.”

“As a matter of fact, I was thinking of having it cut. It would be much cooler and easier to dry after swimming,” Vivien said.

“I hope you won’t. Pretty hair is one of the most feminine things about a woman. Those shaggy crops are hideous.”

Her mouth curved. “I should have thought you would have preferred utility to femininity,” she said, amused and faintly surprised that he should notice such things.

“I prefer a blend of the two, but it’s extremely rare. Capable women are usually plain and glamour girls seldom have any intellectual equipment.”

“How very cynical!” She wondered in which category he placed her.

“Merely realistic,” he said dryly.

By the time they set off it was just after nine o’clock. The sun was hot but had not yet reached the broiling intensity of midday, and Vivien had no need of the shady straw hat that she had bought a few days ago and now lay on the backseat of the car with her handbag.

Along the road they passed a group of Malay women drawing water from a communal tap. The vivid patterns of their sarongs were like bright petals against the greenery of the wayside undergrowth.

“What a good-looking race they are,” Vivien said, waving to them. “I wonder why the white races consider themselves superior. I think brown skins are much more attractive than ours.”

“You’re getting quite a good tan yourself,” he said, glancing sideways at her.

She had taken off the white bolero, and her bare arms and shoulders had the satiny texture of youth and health. The light breeze whipped her pale hair into a glossy pennant, and she laughed aloud because the day was fine and she was enjoying herself.

“I shall never be as sunburned as you,” she said, looking at his forearms, which were the color of teak.

They were approaching a hill, and he changed gear smoothly. She noticed how gently he handled the old car, nursing the engine and steering with the light, economical movements of a confident driver.

“If you ever are, you will probably also have wrinkles and bags under your eyes. This climate plays havoc with women’s complexions unless they spend half their time daubing themselves with creams and whatnot,” he said.

“I shouldn’t mind wrinkles, but bags under the eyes sound revolting. How soon do they begin to appear?”

He grinned. “I should think you’ll escape them for a year or two yet. Are you taking paludrine tablets every day?
”

“Yes, doctor.”

“Impertinent child.” His mouth twitched.

The children’s home was a large weather-worn bungalow built upon solid concrete blocks for the purpose of excluding damp and insects. The roof was made of oxidized iron, and the whole structure was badly in need of a coat of paint. Except for an old Tamil
kebun
who was cutting grass in the
corner
of the compound, the place appeared to be deserted.

Tom stopped the car beside the rickety flight of steps leading up to the veranda and played a brisk tattoo on his ham. The last note had scarcely died away before the screened door burst open, and an avalanche of children tumbled down the steps and hurled themselves on the car. They were of every size and color. Skinny little Indians with sleek black hair and dark, merry eyes, plump Chinese ragamuffins with flattened noses; and two Malay girls of about ten years old in miniature sarongs and
bajus.
They were all shouting at the tops of their voices and scrambling over the car like a pack of excited puppies.

Tom opened the door and climbed out. Immediately, he was seized around the legs by two eager toddlers while the larger children hung onto his arms and clamored for attention.

“Where’s Miss Anna?” he demanded, shouting to make himself heard above the noise. A dozen small arms pointed toward the bungalow. A dozen breathless voices informed him that Miss Anna was in the kitchen.

“We’d better get indoors before they overpower us,” he said with a grin to Vivien. “Here, you are, kids. Perhaps these will keep you quiet for a few minutes.”

Thrusting a hand into his trouser pocket, he produced a paper bag and tossed it to one of the Malay girls.

“Dole these out, will you, Khatijah? There should be enough for everybody.”

While the children jostled around Khatijah for their share of boiled sweets, Tom and Vivien went up the steps and into the bungalow.

“Is that you, Tom?” a stentorian female voice called.

“It is. I’ve brought a visitor to see you,” he shouted.

“Take him into my room and help yourselves to the whiskey. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“This way.”

He opened a door leading off the hall and showed Vivien into a small room that seemed to be a cross between an office and a dispensary. It was also the untidiest place she had ever seen. The desk by the window was littered with papers, some wedged on metal spikes, some piled carelessly into wire baskets. Behind the desk was a long shelf ranged with a score of medicine bottles and a large first-aid box. Both chairs were occupied by a jumble of shabby toys, and an overflowing linen basket stood in one
corner
. The window ledge and the edge of the desk were scarred with cigarette bu
rn
s, and the whole of one wall was covered with photographs stuck on with push-pins.

“Anna’s never heard of the old maxim about a place for everything and everything in its place,” Tom said dryly, seeing Vivien’s startled expression. “Will you have a tot of whiskey?” She shook her head and picked up a dilapidated teddy bear with one eye missing and both ears hanging by threads.

“That fellow was a Christmas present two years ago. He’s lasted pretty well considering he’s shared by twenty of them,” he said. The thump of heavy footsteps in squeaking shoes sounded outside. “Here comes Anna now.”

Vivien replaced the bear and turned to meet her hostess, a little nervous of anyone with so loud a voice and such clumping feet. The door opened, and she took an involuntary pace backward.

At first sight Miss Anna Buxton was enough to unnerve anyone. For one thing she was enormously fat, so fat that she was only just able to press through the doorway without turning sideways. For another she had a wild bush of flagrantly dyed red hair.

She stared at Vivien for a few seconds, and then let out a bellow of laughter.

“Good lord, it’s a girl. What’s your name, m’dear? Where did Tom find you?”

“Her name is Vivien Connell, and she’s the goddaughter of John Cunningham,” Tom put in swiftly, before Vivien could recover from her astonishment.

“So! Well, any connection of his is welcome here. How do you do, m’dear.”

Vivien’s hand was seized in a bone-crushing grip and pumped vigorously up and down.

“How do you do. I hope you don’t mind my coming like this
...
without an invitation,” she said hesitantly.

“Glad to see you. Tom, why haven’t you given the girl a drink? You know where it’s kept.”

“She didn’t want any,” he said.

“Nonsense! Pour out three glasses. There’s nothing like a drop of whiskey at mid
-
mo
rn
ing to keep one fit. Don’t you believe all this nonsense about alcohol rotting your liver, m’dear. I’ve taken a glass night and morning for thirty years, and
I
’ve never had a
day’s illness. Makes you sweat. The reason why so many whites can’t stick the heat is that they don’t sweat enough. Gets the poison out of your system. Take my word for it.”

“Whiskey is an acquired taste. Vivien is still at the shandy age,” Tom said, delving into a cupboard and producing a
bottle and three glasses.

“Then the sooner she grows out of it the better,” Miss Buxton said briskly. He obeyed her instructions, casting an amused glance at Vivien.

“Up the rebels!” cried Miss Buxton, downing her glassful at one gulp.

Vivien took a cautious sip and gasped as the fiery liquid stung her throat. She was relieved that Tom chose that moment to say, “What have you got for me this morning, Anna?”

“Nothing much, m’dear. Yen’s been off his food for a day or two and young Hussin has a boil on his neck. Otherwise, we’re all as fit as fleas, praise this Lord. Care to see around the place, Miss Connell?”

“Yes, very much.” Vivien rested her glass on the desk beside Tom’s empty one. A moment later he picked hers up and finished off the contents, whether by accident or design she could not be sure.

“Right, then we’ll leave Tom to his labors,” Miss Buxton said, heaving herself out of the chair she had cleared for herself. “This way, m’dear. Watch out for young Hew Meng’s roller skates. He’s always leaving them about, untidy young monkey. Someone’ll come a cropper one of these days.”

The exterior of the bungalow might be shabby, but inside all was clean and bright and homely. Gaily colored rattan mats covered the well-scrubbed floors, and the wooden walls were distempered in fresh pastel shades.

“
Here’s the nursery. We’ve only four babies at the moment, but I’m expecting a new arrival next week,” Miss Buxton said, throwing open a door and shepherding Vivien into an airy room with a row of white-painted cots along the wall. A Chinese girl was sitting by the window hemming diapers. She smiled and bobbed a curtsey as they entered.

Vivien looked around at the Walt Disney animals stenciled on the walls.

“Tom did those for us,” said Miss Buxton. “He’s
good
with a paint pot. Don’t know what I should do without the boy.”

Vivien repressed a smile at hearing the austere Dr. Stransom described as a boy. She thought that he and Miss Buxton were rather alike in some ways and wondered what would happen if they ever had a clash of wills. Having inspected the dormitory where the elder children slept, and looked in at the dining room, the playroom and the spotless kitchen, they went onto the back veranda and sat down.