by Anne Weale
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 burns, 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-morning 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.
“What 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 born. 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 fiancée 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 darn 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.
