by Anne Weale
Vivien folded the letter and tucked it in her pocket. It certainly seemed an excellent opportunity, and the salary that the solicitor mentioned was extremely generous. She thought it over for the rest of the day, and by nightfall she had come to a decision. She would apply for the post and if she was successful she would sell the House of Seven Fountains to Mr. Wong.
TEN DAYS LATER Vivien flew south to Rangore. The sultan had sent his private aircraft to fetch her, and she arrived at the palace at midday. After being welcomed by a uniformed aide-de-camp, she was taken to a luxurious suite where an elderly amah unpacked her overnight case and indicated that she had time to bathe and change before luncheon.
It was while she was combing her hair that Vivien suddenly had the eerie sensation of being watched. She looked around the room, wondering if there was a secret peephole in one of the walls. The amah had gone and it was very quiet. Then a faint tinkling sound that seemed to come from the window caught her ear. Tiptoeing forward, she leaned cautiously across the ledge and looked up and down the flagstone gallery that ran the length of the wing.
There was a stifled gasp of laughter and with a jerk of surprise Vivien discovered that a young Malay girl was crouching down below the jutting ledge.
“Hello. Are you hiding from me?” she asked.
The girl scrambled to her feet. She was dressed in a filmy turquoise bodice with a turquoise and yellow sarong wrapped around her slender hips. Her thick black hair was braided into a heavy plait that hung down to her waist, and she had one of the loveliest faces Vivien had ever seen.
“Yes, I was,” she admitted with an impish grin. “You are Miss Connell, are you not?” I hope you aren’t angry with me, but I was impatient to see how you looked.”
“Do you mean that you are the sultan’s daughter?” Vivien exclaimed in astonishment.
“Yes, my name is Sabariya. May I come inside?”
“Why, of course, Your Highness.” She wondered if she should curtsy.
Sabariya looped up her sarang and swung her bare brown legs over the ledge. She had a circlet of tiny silver bells on her left ankle and it was this that had betrayed her presence.
“What is your first name, Miss Connell?” she inquired, with an engagingly frank stare that took in every detail of the English girl’s appearance.
“Vivien.”
“Vivien. That is pretty. May I call you by it?”
“Please do.”
“And how old are you?”
Vivien told her.
“Indeed? You do not look as old as that—though of course the English do not show their age. Oh—” she darted to the dressing table “—you have a lipstick. May I use it?”
Vivien nodded, suppressing a smile.
She had expected the princess to be a serious-minded bluestocking, but Sabariya, busily applying the lipstick to her laughing mouth, was obviously a thorough minx.
“There! Now I look like a movie star,” she said, regarding herself with approval. “Do you like the films, Vivien?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good. My father thinks I should not go to the movies too often, but you can tell him that it is what everyone does in England.”
“How did you learn to speak English so well?” Vivien asked.
“Oh, I have had English governesses since I was very small. They were all very dull. I was afraid that you would be dull, too, but now I can see that we shall have lots of fun together.”
“But your father has not engaged me yet. He may not think I am suitable,” Vivien pointed out.
“He will if I like you. Now I will wipe off this lipstick, and we will go to him.”
Scrubbing her lips with a crumpled handkerchief, she seized Vivien’s arm and hustled her out of the room and along the corridor.
“Are you afraid? You need not be. My father is a very kind man,” she whispered reassuringly.
After hurrying through a labyrinth of passages they came to a tall lacquered door and Sabariya tapped on the panel.
The sultan was sitting at a writing desk. He was a man of about sixty with thinning gray hair and a lined, scholarly face. As his daughter introduced their guest he came around the desk and held out his hand.
“Welcome to Rangore, Miss Connell. We are delighted to meet you. I trust that you have found everything to your comfort?”
“Yes, thank you, Your Highness. It is a great honor to be asked here,” Vivien answered, making a careful curtsy.
“I suppose my daughter could not control her eagerness to see you,” he said dryly. “She is in danger of becoming a hoyden. I hope that a year or two in England will correct her impulsive ways. What do you think?”
Vivien’s mouth twitched as she glanced at Sabariya’s demure expression.
“I think it might have the reverse effect, Your Highness. Perhaps your daughter would succeed in making the English less, er, stuffy.”
The sultan laughed. “I fear you may be right. However, we can discuss Sabariya’s shortcomings later. I expect you are hungry after your journey.”
After luncheon he sent his daughter away and took Vivien back to the study.
“Now, Miss Connell, I understand that you wish to remain in Malaya but that you cannot afford to maintain the house left you by your godfather ... a man for whom I had the greatest respect, I may add. Do you think you would be happy living here with my daughter?”
“I am sure I would,” Vivien said warmly.
“I should explain that in spite of her youthful high spirits Sabariya has an excellent brain, and it is my hope that she will obtain an economics degree to help her to understand the problems that will be hers after my death. Both my sons were killed in the war and with the consent of my councillors I have appointed her as my successor. You will realize, Miss Connell, that this is a most revolutionary step in a country where the feminist cause is still in its infancy. It is essential that Sabariya should be equipped to meet her future responsibilities, and since in your country women are accustomed to independence and authority, I feel that the companionship of an intelligent Englishwoman will be of great benefit to her.”
“Yes, I see,” Vivien said slowly. “But I must tell you that I really have no qualifications for such a position.”
“There are no tangible qualifications,” the sultan told her. “I have already gathered from your conversation that you are well read, and the fact that you wish to stay in Malaya proves that you like this country and its people.”
He went on to ask her a number of searching questions, and when she had answered them he nodded judiciously and said, “I think you are the person I am looking for, Miss Connell. If you want it, the job is yours.”
So it was arranged that she should come to live at Rangore Palace as soon as her affairs in Mauping were settled.
She spent the evening talking to Sabariya, whom she found more and more likeable. In spite of her girlish chatter, punctuated by bursts of infectious laughter, there were moments when the Malay girl’s vivid little face grew solemn, and it was then, in the proud tilt of her head and the steadiness of her glance, that the underlying stability of her character becomes evident. In many ways Sabariya was still a child, but the proud blood of the Malay rulers ran in her veins, and when she chose, she had all the stately dignity of her lineage.
The following morning Vivien returned to Mauping. Sabariya saw her off and as the plane rose above the palace grounds Vivien waved to the slim little figure standing by the grass runway. During the flight she felt a renewal of confidence at having made a decision, but as soon as she reached home she was assailed by fresh uncertainty. The house looked so beautiful that to have to part with it was like destroying some treasured possession. Yet it must be done.
After lunch she called the staff together and told them what was going to happen. Ah Kim and the junior boys were obviously very upset and even the old Tamil kebun looked distressed. Only Chen received the news with an impassive face, and she was puzzled and disturbed by his apparent lack
of feeling.
When they had returned to work she put through a long distance call to Mr. Adams and asked him to negotiate the sale of the house to Mr. Wong. She spent the rest of the day roaming from room to room; trying to convince herself that this was the only sensible course, that it was absurd to torture herself with doubts that had no real foundation.
By supper time she felt that if she could not talk to someone she would scream. She phoned the children’s home to ask Miss Buxton if she could come over, but it was the amah who answered the telephone with the information that the mem was out and would not be back until late. Vivien phoned Julian’s number, but there was no answer. She had never felt so utterly alone.
Then, about eight o’clock, the thought that had been lying at the back of her mind suddenly crystallized. Hurriedly changing her shorts and shirt for a linen dress, she ran around to the garage and hauled back the sliding doors.
When she reached Tom’s bungalow and saw the light shining through the sitting-room blinds she felt a thrust of apprehension and nearly turned back. Then the desperate need to talk to somebody overcame her cowardice, and she parked the car and walked purposefully up to the porch.
The houseboy answered her knock.
“Ada-kah tuan di-rumah?” she asked.
“Yah, ada, mem.” He ushered her into the sitting room. “Nanti sedikit, mem.”
Vivien nodded. When he had gone away she sat down, clasping her hands tightly in her lap to still their trembling. It was silly to be so keyed up. Tom could not eat her.
Almost at once there were footsteps in the hall, and she drew a deep, preparatory breath.
If Tom was surprised to see her, he did not show it. Closing the door behind him he leaned against it, regarding her with the impersonal expression that she knew so well now.
She swallowed. “Good evening,” she said huskily.
“Good evening.” He remained against the door, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.
For a long moment neither of them moved or spoke. Then Vivian stood up.
“I’ve come to say goodbye.”
Still he said nothing.
“I don’t expect we shall meet again, so I wanted to thank you for ... for your help.”
There was another long silence. Then he moved to the center of the room and flicked open a cigarette box.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve got a job in Rangore. The house is being sold.”
“I see. No doubt you’ll find Rangore more entertaining than Mauping.” His tone was final, as if there was nothing more to be said.
She bit her lip. “Please ... I know you’re angry but—”
“Angry? What makes you think that?”
She spreads her hands. “It’s obvious. Ever since ... can’t I explain?”
“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
The 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 m
ust 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.