The House of Seven Fountains

by Anne Weale

  Mr. Adams had told her that he was empowered to pay the household bills until the future of the property was settled. But what happens after that, she wondered anxiously. The income from her godfather’s legacy will never cover all the expenses of a house like this, and I haven’t any way of earning more. As far as I can see, I have no choice but to sell the house. There’s still something oddly mysterious about the whole affair.

  She was gazing thoughtfully at the distant hills when she noticed a dark blur in the sky. It was moving steadily in the direction of the house, and as she watched, the amorphous cloud gradually resolved itself into a series of wavering, threadlike formations. At the same time the strange green twilight bathed the landscape, warning of approaching nightfall.

  “The flying foxes come,” Chen said suddenly from behind her.

  Vivien jumped. Chen always wore rubber-soled shoes and moved so noiselessly that he often startled her.

  “Flying foxes?” she asked curiously.

  “They have the wings of a great bat and the head of a fox. The season has begun and each night they will fly overhead to plunder the fruit orchards farther south,” he told her. “I will fetch the tuan’s field glasses.”

  He went indoors and Vivien watched the long V-shaped skeins coming closer. Within a few minutes the first wave was directly overhead, hundreds of dark-winged shapes beating through the dusky sky. Looking up through the powerful binoculars that Chen had fetched, she could see that the creatures were very like foxes with huge leathery wings.

  “What a marvelous sight,” she said, when the last stragglers had faded into black specks.

  “The tuan also liked to watch them,” Chen said, and for the first time his expression was quite friendly.

  “Chen, is Malay a difficult language?” she asked. She had discovered that it was the lingua franca of the country. Even the trisha riders, most of whom were unable to read or write, could speak enough Malay to cover their dealings with the other races of this polyglot nation.

  “It is a language that is easy to speak badly and difficult to speak well,” Chen said. “The tuan spoke it as a man born to this land. He was also fluent in Tamil and Cantonese. He was a great scholar and it was his belief that if all men spoke with one tongue there would be no wars.”

  “Could you teach me a little Malay?”

  “It is not necessary for the mem to learn. The English language is known to many and I can speak for the mem.”

  “Yes, I know, but I should like to say some things for myself. What is the Malay word for thank you?”

  “You must say trima kaseh,” he explained and suddenly an astonishingly warm smile creased his sallow face. “The little mem is indeed the daughter of the tuan. I shall be honored to teach her what she wishes to know.”

  From that evening onward there was a marked change in Chen’s manner toward her. He began to volunteer information instead of politely replying to her questions, and she no longer caught him studying her with a guarded, distrustful expression. He had a dry, rather malicious sense of humor, and when she laughed at his caustic comments, his black eyes would twinkle and the corners of his mouth turn down as if he was trying to repress a grin.

  At the weekend Vivien went into Mauping to fetch the dresses she had ordered. She had learned several Malay phrases and was able to compliment the tailor on his workmanship and express her intention of having some more clothes made at his shop.

  While Chen was stowing the dress boxes in the back of the car, she crossed the street to fetch her sandals from the shoemaker. She was waiting for them to be wrapped when she noticed a Chinese infant crawling in the dust beneath the wheels of a stationary bullock cart. The town was full of street urchins foraging in the monsoon drains or playing marbles on the five-foot-way, and except to wonder how they kept so healthy with the gutters for a playground, Vivien was not perturbed by the sight of the baby under the cart. Then she saw that it had spotted an intriguing piece of litter in the middle of the road and was standing up. At the same instant Vivien saw a car coming.

  The infant tottered precariously on its fat little legs and then toddled forward.

  With a cry of alarm she dropped her handbag, thrust aside a dawdling Indian woman and flung herself into the road. There was a screech of brakes, a crunch of swerving tires and a flurry of dust.

  It had all happened so quickly that for a minute Vivien held the child in her arms without knowing what had happened. Then, before she could collect her wits, she was surrounded by a cluster of shouting, gesticulating Asians.

  The baby began howling and instinctively she rocked it against her shoulder, murmuring incoherent endearments. Suddenly an anxious-faced Chinese woman thrust her way through the crowd, snatched the baby out of Vivien’s arms and started to wail at the top of her voice. Immediately she became the focus of attention and Vivien found herself shouldered aside. Remembering that she had dropped her handbag in the shoe shop, she edged her way out of the jostling herd. Now that the emergency was over she felt decidedly queasy and aware of a pain in her right foot.

  Just as she got clear of the crowd she saw Chen hurrying toward her.

  “The mem is hurt?” he asked quickly.

  “No, no. I’m all right. It was the baby who was almost killed. The driver was going much too fast,” she explained confusedly.

  “But the mem is hurt. See, there is blood.” He pointed at her skirt.

  Vivien looked down. Her dress was sticking to her leg just above the knee and the moist red stain showed up vividly on the pale cotton.

  She clenched her fists, hoping she was not going to make a fool of herself by being sick in public.

  “It’s just a scratch, I expect. My ankle hurts a bit. I think we had better go home,” she said in a muffled voice.

  “First, we see doctor,” Chen said. “The car is near and I have the mem’s shoes and her handbag.”

  Vivien limped to the car and sank onto the backseat with a gasp of relief. She closed her eyes and presently the sickness lessened.

  “The surgery is open. If the mem can walk we will go in. The doctor will cleanse the wound,” Chen said. With a start of astonishment, she realized they were now in another street. She had not even known they were moving.

  Chen helped her out and guided her through an archway and up a flight of stairs. At the top was a waiting room occupied by a number of Chinese. While Vivien sat down on a bench, Chen spoke to the receptionist. The girl nodded and went into an inner room.

  “The doctor will see the mem when he has finished with this patient,” Chen told Vivien.

  She smiled gratefully at him. “Thank you, Chen. I’m sorry to be such a nuisance.”

  To her annoyance she began to feel sick and dizzy again. Her heart pounded against her ribs and everything was oddly blurred. The room tilted at an alarming angle, and vaguely recalling some long-ago first aid lesson she bent forward until her head touched her knees. From far, far away she heard Chen calling out in alarm and then everything went black.

  When she opened her eyes she was lying flat on her back and somebody was holding her wrist.

  “Just lie still, Miss Connell. There’s nothing to worry about. You fainted for a second or two. It’s nothing serious.”

  The voice was familiar. Looking up, she saw Dr. Stransom standing beside her.

  She attempted to sit up, but he pushed her gently back and said, “Not just yet. Rest for a while. I want to have a look at this cut you’ve collected.”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked muzzily.

  “This is my surgery. Here, drink this. It will get rid of that cotton-wool feeling.”

  He slipped an arm under her shoulders and held a glass to her lips. Vivien obediently sipped the liquid.

  “I can’t think why I passed out,” she said in a puzzled tone. “I’ve never done it before.”

  “People often faint in hot climates,” he said easily. “Chen tells me there was an accident. Do you remember what happened?”
<
br />   “A baby crossed the road and was nearly run over.”

  “I see. How did you come into it?”

  “The car swerved and I ... must have got in the way,” she said evasively. She was beginning to wish she had not been so impetuous. Probably the driver would have been able to avoid the child without her darting under his wheels and causing a scene.

  “Hmm, I’m afraid it hasn’t improved your dress. I shall have to cut part of it away. Cuts dry up very quickly in the heat.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s a very old dress and I have some new ones now.” She raised her head to see what he was doing.

  “I shouldn’t watch. It’s a bit messy, but not as bad as it looks.”

  “Oh, I’m not afraid of blood. I’d rather sit up a bit if I may.”

  He rearranged the pillow and propped her up.

  “Comfortable?”

  “Yes, thank you. What about all those people outside? Won’t they be annoyed with me for jumping the queue?”

  “I explained that you were a casualty and needed patching up. Now, grit your teeth. This will hurt for about thirty seconds.”

  She braced herself and winced as he peeled a strip of blood-soaked cotton from the lacerated place on her thigh.

  “Good girl. Hmm, a nasty graze, but at least it won’t need stitches. You won’t have a scar.”

  She watched him clean and dress the wound, his lean brown hands as deft and gentle as a woman’s. He was wearing a white shirt, open at the throat, the sleeves rolled up. She noticed the strength of his wrists and the swell of muscle just below his sleeve.

  “Now, let’s have a look at your foot. I’m afraid you’ve sprained your ankle slightly,” he said, slipping off her shoe and testing the swollen instep. “That hurt?”

  Her indrawn breath answered him.

  “Oh, it can’t be sprained. I’ve got so much to do,” she exclaimed vexedly when the shaft of pain had subsided.

  “Yes, it’s bad luck, but it isn’t severe, and if you rest for a couple of days it should be fine.”

  “Two days! It doesn’t hurt as badly as all that. Surely I can hobble about?”

  “Not unless you want to be laid up for considerably longer than two days. It will hurt a good deal more when you put your weight on it,” he told her firmly.

  Vivien sighed resignedly.

  “Well, that’s that,” she said flatly. “Thank you for looking after me, Dr. Stransom. I’m sorry to have interrupted you.”

  “That’s what I’m here for. You won’t be able to get your shoe over the strapping. I’ll give you a hand downstairs. If I were you I would go to bed for the rest of the day. You’ve had a nasty experience, and you are bound to feel pretty limp for a while.”

  Vivien sat up and swung her legs over the side of the examination couch. When he had offered to help her downstairs she had assumed he meant lending her his arm, but to her astonishment, he slipped one arm around her waist and the other beneath her knees and picked her up as easily as if she had been a child.

  “Really ... it isn’t necessary ... I can quite easily hop,” she protested in confusion.

  “I don’t want you to pitch down the stairs and twist your other ankle,” he said, looking slightly amused at her startled face. “Open the door, will you?”

  Vivien reached out and turned the handle.

  “I’m just taking Miss Connell to her car. You can send in the next patient,” the doctor told his receptionist as they passed through the waiting room.

  Chen was hovering near the archway.

  “The mem is better?” he asked anxiously.

  “Yes, much better now,” Vivien assured him.

  The doctor deposited her carefully in the car.

  “What were you telling him?” she asked as he spoke over his shoulder to Chen in Cantonese.

  “Just ensuring that you don’t disobey my orders about taking things easily for the next twenty-four hours,” he said casually. “I’ll look in this evening and change that dressing. In the meantime, if you want to take a shower, get your amah to pin a towel over the bandage.”

  Before she could repeat her thanks he had sketched a salute and disappeared.

  Disregarding the doctor’s advice that she should spend the rest of the day in bed, Vivien had lunch on the swing couch in the courtyard. When Chen remonstrated with her she told him not to fuss. Ah Kim had helped her to change into tennis shorts and a thin silk shirt, and it was far pleasanter to lie in the sun-dappled shade of the frangipani tree than to be shut away in the bedroom. Seeing that she was not to be persuaded Chen threw up his hands and observed that the tuan had also been a person of great obstinacy.

  “It’s a national characteristic,” Vivien said, laughing. “Even if I can’t walk I’m not an invalid. Can you play cribbage, Chen?”

  Seeing that he did not understand her, she added, “It’s a card game like whist and bridge.”

  “Ah, a card game.” He brightened and then shook his head regretfully. “I regret that the game is unknown to me—but to play Mah-Jongg is a way to pass the time while the mem is confined to her chair.”

  “But isn’t Mah-Jongg very difficult?”

  “By no means. It was a favorite pastime of the tuan and he had great skill.”

  “Then I should like to learn—if you aren’t too busy,” Vivien said.

  So it was that when Mrs. Carshalton came to call an hour later, she found the mistress of the house engaged in a hilarious gambling game with three of her servants—Chen, Ah Kim and the youngest houseboy.

  “My dear child, I was so distressed to hear of your accident. How are you feeling? Is there anything I can do? Surely you should be in bed?” Madge Carshalton said effusively as she hurried across the courtyard. She had been admitted by the second houseboy, who happened to be on the veranda when she arrived, and she was considerably taken aback to find the object of her solicitude in such high spirits.

  “In bed? But I’ve only twisted my ankle and got a few cuts. How did you hear about it?” Vivien asked lightly. She had been enjoying herself and was not very pleased at being interrupted just as she was mastering the game.

  “Won’t you sit down?” she added hastily, remembering her obligations as hostess.

  Mrs. Carshalton accepted the invitation with alacrity. As soon as she had heard of the accident she had realized that there was an ideal pretext on which to visit the mysterious Cunningham mansion, and she was looking forward to describing her findings at the cocktail party she was attending later in the day.

  “It’s all over town, my dear. You’re quite a heroine,” she explained, surveying the courtyard with interest.

  “Then I think you must have heard a rather highly colored version of what actually happened,” Vivien said with a smile. “Chen, could we have some tea, please—or would you prefer a drink, Mrs. Carshalton?”

  “Tea, please. What a charming place you have here. So these are the famous fountains,” her guest said brightly, including Chen in her undisguised appraisal. Ah Kim and Liu had already disappeared, taking the Mah-Jongg table with them. “Now, tell me what happened, dear. They say you saved a child’s life. I must say I think it was rather rash of you to take such a risk. The natives are quite infuriating the way they let their children stray all over the road. They often get run over and it’s entirely their own fault for being so careless.”

  “In this case it was the fault of a motorist who was driving much too fast in a busy street, and I didn’t exactly risk my neck. Anyone would have done the same thing if they had seen that the baby was in danger.”

  “Nevertheless it was a very brave action and we are all proud of you.” Mrs. Carshalton patted her arm approvingly. “Is your poor foot dreadfully painful?”

  “No, hardly at all, thank you. Dr. Stransom says it will be perfectly fit again in a couple of days, and this is just a graze.” She indicated the bandages on her thigh.

  “So Dr. Stransom is attending you. I believe he is quite competent in spite
of his odd manner,” Mrs. Carshalton said.

  At this point Chen returned with a tea tray and there was a break in conversation while he poured out, and arranged a lacquer stool between his mistress and her guest.

  “Your number one seems very well trained,” Mrs. Carshalton said when he had retired, leaving the tray within Vivien’s reach.

  “Yes, he runs the house most efficiently and he even engaged an amah when he heard I was coming. I don’t know how I should have managed if none of the staff had spoken English.”

  “Talking of servants, I wonder if you would mind if I gave you a word of advice,” Mrs. Carshalton said, accepting a second cucumber sandwich.

  “Why, no, of course not,” Vivien said. She wondered how long her guest intended to stay.

  “As a newcomer to Malaya you are naturally not au fait with many of our customs and the rather complicated etiquette that has been built up,” Mrs. Carshalton began. “I’m sure you realize how important it is to maintain British prestige, especially now when the country is so dreadfully unsettled and these wretched Communists are doing their best to undermine our influence.”

  “Yes, but I don’t quite see...?”

  “People are so quick to misinterpret innocent mistakes,” Mrs. Carshalton continued blandly, “and, of course, in a small place like Mauping one’s every action is noticed and discussed. I always say that gossip is the root of half the trouble in the world.”

  She brushed off a crumb that had fallen on the skirt of her beautifully cut shantung suit and gave the girl a speculative glance.

  So far Vivien had not the least idea where all this was leading, but since her visitor was evidently enjoying her self-appointed role as mentor, she decided to let the homily run its course.

  “Now I don’t want you to misunderstand and think that I am in any way prejudiced against the Chinese and Malays,” Mrs. Carshalton went on, unaware that her listener had stiffened slightly. “But when you’ve lived in the tropics as long as have, my dear, you’ll know that certain conventions must be observed. It makes life easier for both sides.”