The House of Seven Fountains (13 page)

“W
hat do you think of it?
”
Miss Buxton asked, taking a pile of darning onto her lap.

“It’s wonderful,” Vivien said warmly. “The children all look so happy and everything is so clean and cheerful. When Dr. Stran
...
Tom said it was a home for waifs and strays I imagined a sort of institution, but this is like an ordinary household with an
extra-large
family in it,” she ended, smiling.

“It’s a pity we haven’t space for all the children in need of a home. They’d be welcome if we had room for them, but as you see, we’re crowded already.”

“Wouldn’t the local authorities give you a larger house? They must see what good work you’re doing,” Vivien suggested.

“Ah, there’s the difficulty,” Miss Buxton said, pulling a gray wool sock over her fist and grimacing at the holes in it. “I don’t doubt that I could get help from the administration if I asked for it, but there would be strings attached. You see, m’dear, a lot of people don’t approve of my methods. They think this place should be run on the lines of a Victorian orphan asylum. Serviceable uniforms. Stricter discipline. Threatening texts on the walls. Bread and water for miscreants and a long list of rules and regulations. Tsk! That’s no way to bring up children who’ve been denied a normal home life.”

“But how absurd! Surely they can see that your way is the best one?” Vivien protested.

“You might think so, m’dear, but when people invest in something, they want to have a say in the running of it, and it’s usually the ones with money and influence who have the least sense. No, I’d sooner remain independent, although it breaks my heart to have to turn a child away.”

Vivien noticed that while she had been talking about the home, Miss Buxton’s loud voice had softened, and there was a gentleness in her weather-beaten face that belied her earlier heartiness.

“May I help with that mending?” she asked. “I’m
quite
good at darning, and I don’t like sitting idle while everyone else is busy.”

“Indeed you may. It’s astounding the rate at which these lads wear out their socks. I don’t know how they do it. Here’s a pair of Wong’s for you.”

Miss Buxton tossed a pair of socks, a needle case and a card of mending wool onto her guest’s knee. “Now, tell me why you’re here and what your plans are,” she said.

The direct inquiry was so refreshing after Mrs. Carshalton’s oblique curiosity that Vivien had no hesitation in explaining the circumstances of her arrival.

“I see. So you’re thinking of selling the house and going back to England? Is there a young man waiting for you?” Miss Buxton inquired.

Vivien shook her head, smiling.

“Well, you’re just a girl yet. There’s no sense in making your choice till you’ve had some experience of life. Men are strange creatures, m’dear. I daresay you’re wondering what I know about them, eh? I’m no oil painting now, but I wasn’t always a fat old party with a sharp tongue, you know.” She chuckled reminiscently. “Make the most of your youth, m’dear. You’ll lose it soon enough.”

“I wonder why my godfather never married?” Vivien said thoughtfully.

“That a question many women have asked,” Miss Buxton replied with a twinkle in her eye. “He was always a fine figure of a man, although it was his money most of them wanted. Mad Jack Cunningham they used to call him in the days when he spent his time cruising around the coasts of Borneo and Sumatra in a great white yacht he’d bought from some bankrupt American. Of course, that was all before you were bo
rn
. The war put an end to his wandering ways. When he came out of the prison camp at Singapore he was an old man, and he settled down in Mauping and stayed until he died. He used to come to see me once a week, and we’d talk over old times. He was a fine man ... a fine man.”

“You and Tom were his only friends, weren’t you?” Vivien asked. “Among the Europeans, I mean.”

“Yes, we were. He’d no time for most of the others, and he let them know it. Tom’s like him. When he came out here half the women in the place were after him, but he soon showed them he wouldn’t be bothered with a pack of imaginary ailments.”

“He doesn’t seem to like women very much anyway,” Vivien said casually, rethreading her needle.

Miss Buxton gave her a penetrating look.

“No, he doesn’t,” she agreed. “Tom’s like many men. He’s made one mistake, and he’s afraid of making another. All men resent it when a woman snares them, m’dear. It goes against their instinct for freedom and independence. If they get caught and the woman turns around and throws their feeling in their face, it’s enough to put them off our sex for life. That’s Tom’s trouble.”

“But why? What happened to him?” Vivien asked. Then, hastily, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. It’s none of my business.”

“I don’t know about that. You might be good for Tom. You’re not one of these hard-faced witches out for a good time. He wouldn’t have brought you to see me if you were,” Miss Buxton said slowly. “About six years ago Tom was engaged to a girl in England. From what he’s told me she had more looks than sense, but then intelligent men often lose their heads over a pretty face. Anyway, he was mad about the girl, and apparently she was very keen on him—until he decided to come out East. You see she wanted to be the wife of a successful Harley Street specialist, and the prospect of living here in the wilds didn’t appeal to her. She made him choose between her and the work he wanted to do. When he wouldn’t kowtow to her ideas she broke off the engagement and went off with a fellow who could give her all the luxuries she wanted. Since then Tom has avoided women.”

“But surely there are lots of women who wouldn’t mind living here,” Vivien said.

“Tom doesn’t look at it like that. He’s got it fixed in his head that it would be wrong to ask a woman to share the kind of life he leads.”

“I see. So that prickly manner is really just a defense,” Vivien said.

“That’s right, and he’s getting pricklier all the time. Forty years from now he’ll be a cross-grained old bachelor all because some empty-headed girl didn’t know when she was lucky,” Miss Buxton said tersely. “You must see if you can thaw him out, m’dear.”

“Heavens, I should be the last person to do that,” Vivien said with a smile. “To tell you the truth, I’m nervous of him. He makes me feel like a rather foolish schoolgirl—although he’s been very kind since I hurt my ankle,” she added, not wishing to sound ungrateful.

“Never judge by appearances, m’dear,” Miss Buxton told her firmly. “Tom’s human enough under that frosty air he puts on. Six years is a long time for a man to shut himself up in a shell. If you ask me he’s forgotten what that
fianc
é
e
of his looked like, but pretending he doesn’t like women has become a habit. One of these days he’ll snap out of it, and then the sparks will fly.”

“Who will snap out of what?” said a voice behind them.

Vivien jumped. She had not heard Tom coming down the passage that led onto the veranda.

“Never you mind. We were just having a good old gossip,” Miss Buxton said calmly. “Miss Connell is staying for lunch. I should think we might find a few scraps for you if you want to join us.”

“Thank you for that hospitable little speech,” he said with a grin. “You’re both very industrious. If I’d known you were going to have a sewing bee I’d have brought my socks along to swell the fund.”

“Haven’t you got a houseboy to do your mending?” Vivien asked.

“Of course he has. Don’t let him fox you that he’s a poor neglected bachelor,” Miss Buxton said. “His houseboy is one of the best in town.”

“
That’s right. I have all the home comforts without any of the
nagging
and fussing of a wife,” he said carelessly, dropping into a spare chair.

“I should think it must make one very lazy, living in a country where servants are so cheap,” Vivien said, ignoring the gibe. “I’m still not used to having my things washed and ironed for me. Ah Kim even insists on brushing my hair. I’m afraid I shall be hopelessly spoiled if I stay in Malaya for long.”

“There are plenty of other useful things to do if one wants to find them,” Miss Buxton remarked. “Some of the white women here get to the point where they can’t be bothered with their own children. They leave everything to their
amahs
.”

“I told you this morning that the tropics ruin women’s looks. They also undermine people’s characters. A hot climate seems to stimulate all the unpleasant aspects of human nature,” Tom said.

“Surely any conditions can only bring out latent qualities,” Vivien suggested gently. “There must be as many good, unselfish people in the East as there are grasping and shallow ones.”

“Of course there are,” Miss Buxton put in briskly. “Your godfather was one of them. That settlement of his is one of the best schemes I’ve seen put into action. Don’t let Tom convince you that the East is a hotbed of petty vice, m’dear.”

“He couldn’t very well do that, since his own job is an active denial of it,” Vivien said. “I think he is just teasing me, Miss Buxton.
”
She glanced at him as she spoke, a glint of laughter in her eyes.

The conversation was interrupted by an outburst of childish wails from inside the bungalow and Miss Buxton heaved herself out of her chair and hurried inside to see what the calamity was.

“How do you like her?” Tom asked, when she had gone.

“I think she’s a dear,” Vivien said warmly. She snipped a thread from the finished da
rn
and rolled the pair of socks into a neat ball.

“What is that scar on your wrist?” he asked.

“
This?
”
She indicated the faint white seam running down the curve of her forearm. “It’s ages old. I fell out of a tree and landed in a particularly spiky bush.”

He reached forward and took hold of her wrist to examine the scar.

“Must have been a nasty gash.”

“It was. At first I was convinced that they would have to amputate my arm, but it didn’t take long to heal. I believe I was rather disappointed. Children have a very gruesome outlook.”

He traced the length of the scar with his forefinger, and the light touch, so like a caress, sent a strange tremor feathering along her nerves. It seemed an age before he let go of her wrist and leaned back in his chair.

“What were you doing in the tree?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.

Vivien picked up another pair of socks.

“
I was evading a punishment,” she said, contriving to keep her voice steady in spite of the pulse beating in her throat.

“And what heinous crime had you committed?” he inquired lazily.

“I forget the details. I was always in some kind of trouble,” she said wryly.

“You don’t look the obstreperous type.”

“I’ve learned to conform to my surroundings now
.
It was different then.”

Somehow she found herself telling him about the difficult adjustments of her childhood, her inability to meet her aunt’s inflexible code of “ladylike” behavior and her deep-rooted sense of inferiority to her overbearing cousins.

“I’m sorry. I don’t usually pour out my life history like this. I’m afraid I’ve bored you,” she said awkwardly, suddenly realizing that she had been talking without a break for several minutes. It was the first time she had ever confided in anyone, and she was seized with an agony of shyness.

To her relief Miss Buxton came thumping down the passage. “Nothing serious,” she told them. “Just another fight between Ah Lo and Gloria Wong. Those two cause more trouble than all the rest put together. ”

After that the conversation remained on general topics until lunchtime.

Miss Buxton’s Indian cook had prepared a Madras curry, and Vivien gasped as the first mouthful scorched her tongue. By the time she had eaten the generous helping that her hostess had heaped on her plate she was flushed and watery eyed, much to the amusement of the other two, whose palates were accustomed to the fiery dish. Although her throat felt as if it were on fire, Vivien had to admit that the curry was one of the most delicious dishes she had ever tasted. Dessert was a soothing iced sago pudding with juicy mandarin oranges from Hong Kong.

“Now we’ll all have forty winks on the veranda. I’ll just see how the children are getting on,” Miss Buxton said.

“Whew! What a meal!” Vivien exclaimed as they went outside. “I feel as red as a lobster.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Tom assured her. “Curry is good for you. Like whiskey, it makes you sweat. By the way, you ought to take a salt tablet every day. I’ve got some in the car. Remind me to give them to you, will you?”

“Why salt tablets?” she asked as they sat down and stretched their legs comfortably.

“Because you’re drinking about five times as much water as you would in England, and you’re likely to have a salt deficiency if you don’t take them. Oddly enough, they taste quite pleasant in this heat.”

Vivien closed her eyes and sighed contentedly, lapped by the drowsy inertia that comes with the tropic noon. She must have fallen asleep, for when she opened her eyes Tom and Miss Buxton were drinking tea and talking in lowered voices.

“I’m so sorry. How rude of me,” she said apologetically, sitting up and blinking the sleep out of her eyes.