Leila

by Robin Jenkins

  Sandilands knew Maitland well. They were both Scotsmen and had once shared ownership of a sailing dinghy called Caledonia, in which they had won races. Maitland’s wife had gone home to look after the education of their teenage daughters. He had in her absence acquired a pretty young Malay girl as his amah. Whether or not he slept with her was a matter of humorous conjecture, but no one dared ask him. Sandilands thought he didn’t. Maitland had a fetish for cleanliness and took half a dozen showers a day. If he had been a Catholic he would have wearied his priest with frequent confessions.

  What could have brought him to the College? No place was more law-abiding. Perhaps he had come to arrange English lessons for members of his force. He had once mentioned such an intention to Sandilands.

  A few minutes later a servant came to say that the Principal wished to see Tuan Sandilands in his office.

  He left the students to get on with their work. They would do it quietly and honestly. There would be no cribbing. The Malays, who were the majority, did not mind having low marks while the Chinese were too proud to be beholden to anyone. When the bell rang they would dismiss themselves and leave in orderly fashion. They were the kind of students that teachers in obstreperous Scotland dreamed of.

  Sandilands was smiling as he made his way to the Principal’s office, with butterflies the size of his hand fluttering about his head. There was a serpent in this Eden. After a number of years – some said ten, some five – in the hot and steamy tropics a white man’s mind began to rust. He became slack and inefficient, without really knowing it; after all, everybody, except newcomers who didn’t count, was in the same plight. The Malays, of course, were born indolent. Blunders and deficiencies didn’t bother them, largely because they never noticed them, and if they were pointed out to them they just smiled with charming self-tolerance. The Chinese were exceptions, but then no Chinese was ever appointed to a top job. Indeed, most of the fifty thousand Chinese in the country, emigrants from Singapore or Hong Kong, had not been granted citizenship. Mr Cheng of the bookshop was an example. Their sons and daughters, though, born in the country, were legally Savuans.

  Sandilands was smiling because one man who strove ceaselessly to keep the rust at bay was Alec Maitland. Once, when slightly drunk, he had explained to Sandilands that it was all very well for a teacher to let his sense of morality become blurred and lazy; a policeman, especially the top policeman, must not. He spoke Malay well and worked hard at improving it, for how could he keep the dignity necessary to his position if he spoke to malefactors in the language of the bazaar? He had an obsessive distrust of Communists, having fought them in Malaya.

  * * *

  In the Principal’s office he sat upright, as stiff as if on parade. His hat and swagger-stick were on his lap. His hair, cut short, was reddish, like his eyelashes. His face and knees were freckled. He had the kind of skin that didn’t tan but turned ruddy and sore-looking.

  The Principal, David Anderson, was scowling; he always appeared to be because his left eye was missing and that side of his face was contorted: the result of a blow with a rifle butt in a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp. White-haired and elderly – he was due to retire in a few months – he was amiable and forgiving and much liked by staff and students. He had intended to spend his retirement in the coolness of the Cameron Highlands in Malaya, but his wife had died and now, as he had confessed to Sandilands, he looked forward to nothing.

  He was scowling, though. ‘Sit down, Andrew,’ he said. ‘It seems we have a little problem.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it little,’ said the Deputy Commissioner, dourly.

  Sandilands was amused. ‘What kind of problem?’

  ‘The Deputy Commissioner has accused three of our students of taking part in subversive activities.’

  Sandilands couldn’t help laughing. ‘What bloody nonsense!’

  ‘That’s what I think too,’ said the Principal.

  ‘Whatever you gentlemen think,’ said the Deputy Commissioner, ‘it happens to be true.’

  ‘Our students wouldn’t know what a subversive activity meant,’ said Sandilands. ‘I’m not sure myself.’

  ‘You can’t know your students very well then, Mr Sandilands.’

  That ‘Mr’ nettled Sandilands. ‘What exactly are they accused of?’

  ‘I am under no obligation to tell you.’

  Sandilands got angrier. ‘Is this a police state?’

  Well, was it? The Sultan ruled by decree. Those decrees were enforced by the police. There was no appeal against them. Wasn’t that how it was done in a police state? Savu happened not to be a particularly harsh one: that was, up till now it hadn’t been.

  ‘You know Cheng’s bookshop in the Old Town?’ asked the Deputy Commissioner.

  Sandilands nodded. He almost said it was a shop he was in often, unlike the Deputy Commissioner who listened to music but seldom read books.

  ‘There is a back room.’

  ‘Used as a store, I suppose.’

  ‘Used as a meeting-place for would-be revolutionaries, like your students.’

  Sandilands was incredulous. ‘Revolutionaries? Good God!’

  Then he remembered Leila Azaharri talking to Cheng in the corner behind piles of books. Had they been conspiring? No, that was too ridiculous.

  ‘They have been using it as a secret meeting-place for some time,’ said the Deputy Commissioner. ‘We suspect there are similar cells throughout the country.’

  ‘“They”?’ said Sandilands. ‘Who are they?’ Was Leila one of them, he wondered. ‘What do they do in the back room? Make bombs?’

  ‘They discuss ways of subverting the State.’

  ‘How do you know this? From spies?’

  ‘We have our means.’

  ‘What language do these conspirators use?’

  ‘English. They read and discuss books that advocate revolution and sedition.’

  ‘Name one.’ Sandilands could not help being sarcastic. This accusation was preposterous.

  Then he remembered something. Just a few weeks ago it had been reported in the Savu Times that Red China had exploded a nuclear bomb. He had remarked, to his senior class, that it was a pity, for the fewer nations that had those bombs the safer all humanity would be. To his astonishment he had been immediately contradicted by the Chinese in the class. Albert Lo, Captain of the class and most likely recipient of this year’s gold medal for the best student, had stood up and said, politely but proudly, that China had as much right to possess nuclear bombs as America and Great Britain.

  The Deputy Commissioner was not prepared to name a book.

  ‘Well, surely you’re going to tell us the names of the students? And what’s going to happen to them? Are you here to arrest them?’

  ‘They are not to be arrested, but they are not going to be allowed to continue with their studies. It has been decided they are not fit to become teachers.’

  Who had decided? Was it the Sultan? The Council of Ministers? The British Resident? The Deputy Commissioner himself?

  ‘Their careers will be ruined,’ said Sandilands. ‘I hope you realise that.’

  ‘I hope you realise, Mr Sandilands, and you too, sir, that if it is found that this canker has spread among your students the College may have to be shut down. In the meantime it will be sufficient if these ringleaders are sent away.’

  ‘Can we have their names?’ asked the Principal.

  The Deputy Commissioner took a sheet of paper from his breast pocket. He had to put on spectacles to read what was written on it.

  ‘Albert Lo.’

  Sandilands was startled and could not help showing it. Had he got it wrong? Was it possible that Lo was a crypto-Communist? Come to think of it, with his eager smile and zealous eyes he was very like the youths depicted in Red China propaganda films, brandishing flags and bawling patriotic songs. But wasn’t he a Christian? Didn’t he go to church every Sunday?

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ cried the Principal. ‘Albert is one of our
best students.’

  Sandilands was waiting for the next name. Would it be Richard Chia? He and Lo were close friends. Chia drew satirical cartoons for the College magazine.

  ‘Richard Chia,’ said the Deputy Commissioner.

  ‘But this is nonsense,’ cried the Principal. ‘What do you think, Andrew? Can you see Albert and Richard as revolutionaries?’

  ‘Hardly.’ But Sandilands had no difficulty in imagining Richard too among those young Chinese in the propaganda films.

  The Deputy Commissioner read out the third name. ‘Abdul Salim.’

  Now that really was absurd. Salim, a Malay, was plump, good-natured, indolent, and dim. His English was below standard. He was one of those for whom the entrance qualifications had had to be lowered. He would be allowed to graduate because there had to be more Malay teachers than Chinese. The idea of his being able to take part in political discussions was laughable. A revolution would be too much like hard work for him; as indeed it would be for the majority of his countrymen.

  ‘Abdul Salim?’ said the Principal. ‘That is a mistake surely.’

  The Deputy Commissioner looked again at his little list. ‘No mistake,’ he said.

  ‘I assure you that when you meet these students face to face you will see how mistaken you are, especially in Salim’s case.’

  The Deputy Commissioner picked up his hat and stick, and rose. ‘I do not intend to meet them. There would be no point. The decision has been made. It will not be changed.’

  ‘This is most unfair,’ said the Principal. ‘What are we to tell them?’

  ‘Simply that they are to be expelled. They will know why.’

  ‘When have they to go?’

  ‘Today.’

  ‘What has happened to Mr Cheng?’ asked Sandilands.

  ‘He has been deported to Singapore where he came from.’

  ‘More than thirty years ago.’

  The Deputy Commissioner put on his hat. ‘Good day, gentlemen. Thank you for your co-operation.’

  Sandilands and the Principal sat staring at each other, listening to the Land Rover drive away.

  ‘When I was in Malaya, Andrew,’ whispered the Principal, ‘I saw some young Communists who had been captured. They were as young as Albert and Richard. They looked so dedicated. Can there possibly be any truth in this, Andrew? Under the surface is there discontent?’

  ‘Shall we send for them? They’ll have to be told.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Five

  WHILE THEY were waiting the Principal took an envelope from a drawer in his desk. It had ‘Confidential’ stamped on it in large red letters.

  ‘Here’s something I think you should see,’ he said. ‘It came yesterday.’

  The letter itself had another ‘Confidential’ stamped on it. It was from the Chief Minister’s office and stated that in future all posts of seniority were to be filled by native-born Savuans. This would apply to the post of Principal of the College. Moreover, from the beginning of next year, the language of instruction in all schools would be changed from English to Malay.

  ‘I’m sorry, Andrew,’ said the Principal.

  What alarmed Sandilands wasn’t so much that he might soon be out of a job as that he might have to leave Savu and so never see Leila again.

  ‘Did you know this was going to happen?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think anyone did. It’s probably one of His Highness’s brainwaves.’

  ‘I suppose it’s fair enough. It’s their country, after all.’

  It was Leila’s country, not his.

  ‘Would you carry on here, under a Malay?’

  ‘I might not get the chance.’

  ‘Your Malay’s good enough, and you could always appeal to His Highness.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to do that. Who’s likely to get your job, David. Have you heard?’

  ‘No. Some relative of some Minister, I expect.’

  There was a quiet knock on the door and the three students came in, smiling. They seemed to think they had been summoned to be commended or given some special task. Whatever it was they were prepared to carry it out as best they could.

  As always they were neatly dressed in black trousers, white shirts, and black ties. Their hair was carefully brushed and, in Salim’s case, scented. Their shoes were polished. Their teeth were white and healthy, especially Salim’s. His smile was the widest and, in the present circumstances, either the most innocent or the most disingenuous. As a revolutionary, thought Sandilands, he would walk, not run. If handed a flag he would soon drop it. The two others, though, looked as if they would grip it tightly and hold it high.

  ‘Would you like to tell them, Mr Sandilands?’ said the Principal.

  There were, Sandilands saw, tears in that one eye.

  His own eyes were dry. But then, as Jean Hislop had often told him, he was good at hardening his heart, if it was necessary.

  It was necessary now.

  ‘We’ve just had a visit from the Deputy Commissioner of Police,’ he said.

  They nodded. ‘We saw his Land Rover,’ said Chia, cheerfully.

  None of them looked furtive or apprehensive.

  ‘He came to make an accusation against you three.’

  Their surprise seemed genuine.

  ‘He accused you of meeting with others in the back room of Mr Cheng’s bookshop to read and discuss books that advocate revolution.’

  That was a mouthful. No wonder they looked puzzled, though they kept smiling.

  ‘Do you understand?’ asked Sandilands.

  Lo chose his words carefully. ‘We have met in Mr Cheng’s shop and talked about democracy.’

  Yes, but in a country like Savu wouldn’t talk of democracy amount to sedition?

  ‘What books did you discuss?’ he asked.

  ‘Animal Farm by Mr George Orwell,’ said Chia.

  ‘The Rights Of Man by Mr Thomas Paine,’ said Lo.

  Salim just grinned.

  As their English teacher, thought Sandilands, I should be applauding their reading of books not on the list of those prescribed.

  ‘Who suggested you should read those books?’ he asked.

  Lo replied without hesitation. ‘Madam Azaharri, sir. She is the daughter of Dr Abad. We are members of the People’s Party. It is a legitimate organisation.’

  All Sandilands could say or rather mumble was: ‘You shouldn’t be involved in politics. Not while you are still students.’

  He was more worried about Leila. She couldn’t be deported like Cheng. Was she at that moment in prison? Had there been a crack-down on the People’s Party?

  It was unbearable to see the students gazing at him with trust and hope. He was their esteemed teacher. If they were in trouble he would help them.

  Self-disgust made him speak harshly. ‘The Deputy Commissioner came to say that you are to be expelled from the College.’

  ‘Expelled, sir?’ Lo turned to the Principal but found that one benign eye shut.

  ‘When have we to leave?’

  ‘Today.’

  Salim was still smiling broadly.

  An injustice was being done. All that these youths were guilty of was naivety. They did not deserve to have their careers ruined. Someone ought to speak up for them.

  It should be me, thought Sandilands. As their teacher I have tried to encourage them to think for themselves, so I am partly to blame for their predicament. But I have troubles of my own. The post of Principal that should have been mine will go to some feckless little Malay with dubious qualifications. I shall have to decide whether to swallow my pride and stay on or to resign. If I resign do I do it with dignity or with my hand held out for as big a golden handshake as I can wheedle out of them? Do I ask Jean to come with me? Do we buy that semi-detached villa in Morningside, where I shall spend the rest of my life haunted by the memory of Leila Azaharri?

  I’m not worthy of her, he thought. She would despise me for letting these young men down. Jean, on the other hand
, would approve of my not getting into trouble for their sakes.

  ‘Can you not help us, Mr Sandilands?’ said Chia.

  ‘I’m sorry. No, I’m afraid I can’t.’

  ‘In your country, Mr Sandilands,’ said Lo, ‘would this injustice be permitted?’

  Yes, it would, but there was a good chance that hundreds of students would demonstrate on behalf of their colleagues. Here there would be only some timid whisperings.

  When they had gone to collect their belongings, Sandilands and the Principal couldn’t bear to look at each other.

  He’s an old man, thought Sandilands, he’s not well, he could be dead within a year, and he lost heart when his wife died. There are excuses for him. What excuse is there for me? Why am I not lifting that telephone and asking to speak to the British Resident or His Highness himself? Why am I not threatening to let the outside world know what a despotic and unjust State Suva has become. In Britain those who have heard of the place think it is a quaint little kingdom luckily enriched by oil. Shouldn’t I make it my business to show it up as being as tyrannical as any Communist State, though it is under the protection of Britain?

  But who would care? At best it would merit a small paragraph in the Guardian. The rest of the world’s press would ignore it. He would have sacrificed his own career for nothing. Better to keep his head down and go on enjoying what benefits were left.

  ‘In the Japanese camp,’ said the Principal, with rare bitterness, ‘we learned to keep our mouths shut.’

  Six

  THAT EVENING, as Sandilands sat on his verandah amidst the orchids, slowly getting drunk, there was a sunset remarkable even in that country of splendid sunsets. Sea, sky, sand, and trees were for a few minutes blood red; so too his hand holding the glass. No doubt his face was sharing the glory as well, or was it the cosmic shame? ‘You’re drunk,’ he muttered, ‘and like a true Scotsman you’re maudlin and self-pitying with it.’ The expulsion of three students, however unjust, was hardly a reason for the whole universe to blush. Besides, who was to blame? Everybody and everything. Therefore nobody and nothing.

  As the splendour faded he thought of telephoning Maitland and arguing with him, but it wouldn’t have done any good and might have done himself harm. If the authorities could so callously, with a snap of the fingers as it were, deprive him of the promotion that he deserved they could just as easily tear up his contract and order him out of the country, on the grounds that he had interfered in matters that didn’t concern him. He had a right to look after himself. Didn’t everybody have that right?