The House of Seven Fountains (25 page)

“
As far as I am aware there is nothing to explain. You are selling your house and moving to Rangore.”

“That isn’t what I meant,” she said impatiently.

“Then what did you mean?”

“Oh, never mind. What does it matter?” she said wearily. “You wouldn’t understand anyway.”

“If I had some idea of what you are referring to it might be easier,” he said smoothly.

At that, her temper flared.

“You know of perfectly well what I’m talking about,” she burst out. “You just won’t admit it because you might prove to be wrong, and then you’d have to apologize and it wouldn’t be in character.”

“Go on,” he said. “Don’t hesitate to say what you think of me. It won’t hurt my feelings.”

“Feelings?” She gave a choked laugh. “I don’t believe you have any feelings. Oh, you may feel something for your patients, but as for other people you don’t care a jot. All you care about is preserving that magnificent superiority. Well, I hope you do. I hope nobody ever makes you sorry or ashamed or unsure of yourself. Because if that happened I don’t think you’d survive the blow to your pride. You—”

She broke off, alarmed at the rush of bitter, hurtful words that welled up inside her.

“Go on,” he said softly. “Don’t stop now.”

“What else can I think?” she demanded. “I believed we were friends. And then, because you found me in what seemed to be compromising circumstances, you proved how friendly you were by condemning me out of hand with no chance to explain.”

“So you thought we were friends,” he murmured. “Perhaps you would have liked a more interesting relationship. Is that what really riles you? Were you piqued because I didn’t follow Barclay’s lead?”

In one stride he was beside her, his hands on her shoulders. “How dare you say that! Let me go!” she cried furiously.

“Not before I’ve shown myself capable of some emotions,” he said calmly, drawing her closer. “Oh, come, you don’t find Barclay’s embraces objectionable. Why pretend that mine are?”

With one arm around her waist and the other hand forcing her chin up, he held her against his chest.

“Let me go!” She struggled wildly to free herself but resistance was futile.

“Tom, please
...
I didn’t mean it
...
I was angry
...
” Her entreaty was stifled by the swift hard pressure of his mouth on hers.

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
he atmosphere
in the tumbled-down hut was fetid with filth and decay. After a few minutes, Vivien made a hasty exit and leaned against a tree, fighting against a wave of nausea. She was horrified to find a human being living in such appalling conditions, although the huddled shape on the floor might easily have been mistaken for some wretched misused animal.

Wiping the sweat from her face and neck, she turned and found Chen standing nearby. He was obviously as distressed as she was by what they had seen.

“I’m pretty sure it’s dysentery,” she said, frowning. “In any case the old man can’t possibly stay in that hovel. I’ll call the hospital and get them to fetch him.”

Together they followed the track leading to the road and got into the car.

“Every year there is the same sickness. Always it comes in the dry weather,” Chen told her as they drove back to the house. “The heat causes many deaths.”

“It’s not the weather but the lack of proper sanitation, and hygiene,” she said. “The flies were having a field day.”

As soon as they reached home she phoned the hospital, but when she went to find Chen her face was troubled.

“The hospital can’t help. It seems there’s an outbreak of dysentery in the town, and they are full up. Now what can we do?”

Chen shrugged his shoulders. “It is always so. Each year many are sick and many die. When the rain comes the sickness will go away.”

“But the rain may not come for a week, perhaps longer,” Vivien exclaimed impatiently. “We can’t just stand by and let that old man die of neglect.”

“There is nothing we can do,
mem
.”

Vivien tapped her thumbnail against her lower lip, a characteristic mannerism when she was thinking hard.

“Yes, there is!” she said after a minute. “We can bring him here. It’s the only solution, Chen. Tell the boys to clear the green bedroom. I want everything out, the rugs, the curtains, everything. Then send Ah Kim into town to buy a camp bed. No, wait: I’ll go with her. We’ll need medicines and plenty of strong disinfectant. As soon as we’re ready we’ll carry the old boy up on a stretcher.”

“But,
mem
,
this is impossible. In two days you go to Rangore. There is much to do,” Chen protested in alarm.

“Never mind that. The old man must be looked after before it’s too late. If necessary, I’ll put off going for a few days until there’s room for him at the hospital or until he’s better.”

“You cannot bring him here. He is
a
bad
man. Always drunk. He has no family. It will not matter if he dies.”

“Of course it matters. He’s a human being, not a stray dog. No wonder he drinks, living in that dreadful squalor,” she said abruptly. “Now don’t argue, Chen. He’s coming here and we must all do our best for him.”

Half an hour later she was hurrying out of the Main Road Pharmacy when she bumped into Anna Buxton.

“Good morning, m’dear. Coming along to the coffee shop?” Miss Buxton boomed cheerfully.

“I can’t just now. I’m in a tearing hurry,” Vivien said, shaking her head. She had been across to the children’s home the previous afternoon to tell her friend that she was leaving and had been surprised when Miss Buxton accepted the news without comment.

“Busy packing, I suppose,” Miss Buxton said.

“No actually I’ve got an invalid on my hands. You know the old hermit who lives by the river? The
kebun
was passing his hut this morning and heard groans so he called me down to investigate. The poor old chap is very ill.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“Dysentery, I think. The hospital is full up so we’re moving him to the house. I’ve just been buying some medicines.”

“Ever done any sick nursing?” Miss Buxton asked.

“No, I haven’t, but at least it will be better than leaving him where he is.”

“I hope you’ve got a strong stomach, m’dear. Dysentery isn’t pleasant,” Miss Buxton said dubiously.

“So I’ve already discovered,” Vivien said dryly.

“What about your new job? Leaving on Tuesday, didn’t you say?”

“Yes, I was, but I may have to postpone it for a bit.”

“Hmm. Well, if there’s anything I can do you must let me know. I hope we aren’t going to have another outbreak like the one in ’49. Half the town went down with it.”

“I hope not, too. I must see how they are in the settlement.”

“Take care of yourself, m’dear. Make sure the servants wash everything in potassium permanganate. Fruit and vegetables are the worst carriers,” Miss Buxton advised.

They said goodbye and Vivien dashed away. When she got home she found the boys had carried out her orders, although Chen looked extremely displeased.

The hermit was carried up to the house on an improvised stretcher and although he was very weak and in considerable pain, Vivien decided that the first task was to make him reasonably clean. She had his ragged garments burned in the garden incinerator and replaced them with a pair of her godfather’s silk pajamas, which invoked a tirade of disapproval from Chen. All afternoon she attended to his needs, steeling herself against a treacherous queasiness.

At teatime, after a hasty shower and change of clothes, she went down to the settlement to see if any of the villagers were ill. As she had feared there were already two cases, both young boys. After some argument with their families she arranged for them to be brought up to the house.

“You wish me to call the doctor?” Chen asked grudgingly when the two new patients had been settled in.

Vivien hesitated. All afternoon she had been trying to avoid the knowledge that Tom must be called. Now she wondered if it would be possible to ask one of the other doctors to come, but at heart she knew that it would be a breach of etiquette.

For the past two days, every time she thought of the episode at the bungalow a hot, shamed color swept up to the roots of her hair. Part of her recollection was vague. She remembered rushing out of the bungalow and stumbling blindly toward the car, but the actual drive home was as confused and distorted as a nightmare. The other part, the worst part, was wretchedly clear. Now, scrubbing her hands with a solution of Dettol, she could feel the fierce grip of Tom’s arms, the bruising imprint of his mouth as he forced back her head with a kiss that was almost savage in its violence. Now, as if it were happening again, she could feel her rigid resistance and futile attempts to break free. At last, when she was shaken and breathless with the demanding urgency of his kisses, he had thrust her away from him and laughed, cruel mocking laughter that had echoed in her ears for the rest of that dragging sleepless night.

“Do you still think me lacking in emotion?” he had asked tauntingly.

With a shiver of self-contempt Vivien remembered how she had shrunk from the dangerous glitter in those cold blue eyes and how, again, he had laughed at her.

“You wish to call doctor,
mem
?”
Chen repeated.

With a startled movement she returned to reality and found that her nails were digging into the bar of antiseptic soap.

“No!” she exclaimed violently. “No, we can manage without the doctor.
”

“But if these men die the people will say it is your fault,” Chen said concernedly.

Vivien pressed the back of her wrist against her throbbing forehead. “I’m sorry, Chen. I wasn’t thinking. Yes, of course, we must get the doctor to look at them,” she said wearily.

“I will telephone,” Chen said, looking relieved.

But as they went into the hall they heard the sound of an engine and a moment later the familiar black car chugged up the drive.

Before she had time to prepare herself Tom was in the hall.

“Anna says you have a dysentery case here,” he said crisply.

“Yes. There are three now. Will you come through?” Vivien was astonished to find that her voice sounded perfectly normal. They might have been strangers meeting for the first time.

She led him to the bedroom. After he had examined all three he rolled down his sleeves and fastened the cuff links.

“You can’t keep these men here. They need qualified nursing. The old one is in bad shape. He may not survive the night.”

“
Where are they to go? The hospital is full. If the two boys go back to the village the illness will almost certainly spread. The old man has nowhere to go and no relatives.”

His dark brows drew together, contemplatively, and he ran a hand over his jaw.

“I suppose it’s the lesser of two evils,” he said at last. “I don’t approve of amateur nursing in cases like this, but there seems to be no alternative.”

For the next five minutes he gave her a long list of instructions for tending the patients and ensuring that none of the servants lapsed from a rigid standard of household and personal hygiene.

Vivien was up all night, looking after the old hermit, whose condition vacillated between convulsive bouts of sickness and periods of exhaustion. Twice he seemed so utterly prostrate that she thought he was dying, but each time the feeble spark of life lingered on as if, having nothing to live for, he still refused to die. Toward morning she fell asleep in her chair and was woken by Chen, who insisted that she should go to bed for an hour while he took her place.

The next night there were five patients in the large bedroom and an Indian girl in another room nearby. The week that followed was a strange and curiously satisfying experience for Vivien. Having telegraphed an explanation of her altered plans to the sultan, she threw herself into the exacting business of running a private hospital. For hours at a stretch she hurried about the house, changing bed linen, carrying buckets, preparing glucose and milk drinks, taking pulses and giving blanket baths. She worked until her eyes smarted with fatigue and her back ached almost unbearably, but through it all something kept her going, and on the day that the hermit was able to sit up against a mound of pillows, she felt a triumphant sense of achievement that was an abundant reward for all the hours of strain and worry. Tom came to the house every day and she was too absorbed in her work to feel anything more than relief at having his professional knowledge to guide her.

After his initial censure, Chen accepted the inevitable and worked almost as hard as his mistress, although he frequently expressed his disapproval of her doing chores that he considered to be demeaning. Vivien only laughed and told him not to be such a snob.

On the eighth day of the epidemic, Tom telephoned to say that he would be coming around later than usual that evening. He arrived at half-past eleven and found Vivien sitting beside a ten-year-old Tamil boy, the only one of the patients who was still seriously ill.

She was wearing one of Chen’s white jackets with a white handkerchief tied over her hair, and in the pale circle of lamplight she looked very weary. She had lost weight and there were dark smudges under her eyes.

“How’s it going?” Tom asked quietly, standing on the other side of the bed.

“Much better. The others are all doing well. Krishna’s had a bad day, but he’s been sleeping for nearly an hour.”

She bent over the pillow and gently smoothed the tousled black hair from the child’s damp forehead.

Tom studied the homemade temperature chart hanging on the bedpost.

“
Come outside for a moment. We shall hear if he wakes up. ” She followed him onto the veranda and leaned against the rail.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Me? I’m fine.”

“You’ve lost weight.”

“A little perhaps. That’s better than putting it on,” she smiled, swallowing a yawn.

“I think you should rest for a day or two. Chen and Ah Kim can cope now.”

“Oh, nonsense, I’m perfectly all right. Just a bit sleepy. I’ll make up for it when Krishna’s well again.”

She pulled off the handkerchief and ran a hand through her hair. “You know, Chen still pretends he doesn’t approve of all this, but he’s worked tremendously hard. I shall miss him when I go.”

“You’re still leaving Mauping, then?”

She looked away. “Yes, of course.”

Suddenly they were back on the old footing, no longer doctor and nurse, but man and woman.

“I’ve changed my mind about one thing, though,” she said. “I’m not going to sell the house.”

“Oh?” He took out his cigarette case and offered it to her. There was a pause while they lighted up.

“I’m going to ask Miss Buxton if she would like it for the children. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I was never really happy about selling to Mr. Wong.”

“Have you told Anna yet?”

“No, there hasn’t been time. I sent a wire to Mr. Adams asking him to cancel the sale and find a buyer for the jade collection. The money will make a small endowment and I think my godfather would approve of its being sold for that. You don’t think Anna might not like the idea, do you?” she added, suddenly anxious.

“She’ll probably be overwhelmed with delight,” he said. “But what about you? The sale would have brought you in a great deal of money.”

“Yes, it would have, but I didn’t really need it. I’m young and I have a job. I’ll manage.”

Before he could comment on this there was a muffled whimper from inside and they both hurried into the bedroom. Krishna was awake, his face glistening with sweat.

For the next hour the boy was racked with recurring paroxysms of violent pain. He was so weak and emaciated that it seemed impossible that he should endure the terrible convulsive spasms, but Tom worked over him with such intent concentration that it was as if he was keeping the boy alive by sheer force of will.

At last the pain and sickness slackened, and Krishna lay lax and spent on the sweat-soaked sheet.

For the rest of the night they sat by him, and the sky was paling into dawn when Tom stood up and stretched himself.

“I think he’ll be all right now,” he said softly.

Vivien dragged herself out of her chair. Her whole body hungered for sleep, and her head felt as if it was full of cotton wool.

She swayed slightly, and he put out a hand to steady her.

“You must have something to eat and then go to bed,” he said. “You’re out on your feet.”

“You don’t look very lively yourself,” she said with a ghost of a laugh. His chin was dark with stubble, and his shirt was limp and creased.

“We’ll both feel better after some hot coffee,” he said. “I’ll give Chen a call.”

They breakfasted in weary silence. Vivien drank several cups of coffee but could only manage to swallow half a roll. Afterward Tom insisted that she should go to bed until he returned at midday.

“That’s an order,” he added before she could argue.

But although she was dizzy with fatigue she could not sleep. Her joints ached and splinters of pain pierced her temples as she turned restlessly on the pillow. Finally, she fell into an uneasy doze.

At midday Ah Kim tiptoed into the bedroom with a lunch tray. Vivien waved it away and struggled out of bed, hoping that a bath would make her feel better. It took her a long time to dress, for the floor kept tilting at a crazy angle.

She made her way into the hall, clutching at the furniture for support. Everything was blurred and hazy and there was an unpleasant singing sound in her ears.

A long way away she could see Chen staring at her. She spoke to him, but he didn’t seem to hear, and she reached out to switch on the light because it was getting so dark. She felt herself falling and then, suddenly, there was nothing but silence and blackness.