Leila

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘Which we are told corrupts. Yes, I’ve often wondered myself what makes men involve themselves in politics; women too, nowadays. Take Mrs Azaharri. She’s a politician. Would you trust her? What are her motives?’

  What indeed? Sandilands said nothing.

  ‘But in the meantime we should be grateful to her. I shall write and tell her so. But I’m afraid there are more troubles ahead.’

  They listened to bursts of cheering.

  ‘You used to grumble at their docility, Andrew.’

  ‘Yes. But it will be all right. If change comes it will happen peaceably. They’re that kind of people.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. So polite. So good-humoured. So patient.’

  ‘Yet you’re going to leave them.’

  ‘It’s the climate, Andrew. The heat. I’m too old.’

  ‘Well, you’re going to where it’s a lot cooler. You’ll live to be a hundred there.’

  The Principal closed his eye so as not to let Sandilands see the pain and grief in it. ‘You will have to come and visit me, Andrew, before you go back to Scotland, and stay for a while. There’s an excellent golf course nearby. And you will bring the dauntless Miss Hislop with you.’

  Sandilands smiled and nodded, but he was wondering what his friend would say if he replied that it might not be the ‘dauntless’ Miss Hislop who would accompany him, but the ‘dangerous’ Leila Azaharri.

  Fifteen

  LEILA WAS dressed and ready, so unlike Jean whom he had always found in her underwear. She had chosen a long close-fitting white dress that showed off the shapeliness of her figure – indeed gave it a touch of voluptuousness – and accentuated the blackness of her hair; as did the one white flower in it, a child-like touch that caused him to remember Miss Leithbridge’s charge of cunning. She was quite stunning. If there were any friends of Jean’s in the restaurant their resentment at him and their sympathy for Jean must be muted by involuntary admiration. A favourite saying of his mother’s was: what have I done to deserve this? Only she said it if some misfortune had befallen her. He was saying it now, to himself; but it was because of his inexplicable good luck. His mother also said, if she had been fortunate: ‘You’ll see, I’ll have to pay for this.’ He felt that he too would have to pay for it, though what form the penalty or penance might take he had no idea.

  Her father was in the house, she said. He was reading a story to his grandchild.

  ‘He wants to meet you, Andrew.’ She took his hands and gazed at him. ‘You’re looking very handsome.’

  ‘And you’re looking beautiful.’ His voice was a little hoarse.

  She let go one of his hands and held on to the other to lead him to her daughter’s bedroom. They must have looked like an engaged couple. He wondered if that was her intention.

  Her father, small and grey-bearded, finished the story – it was in English – closed the book, kissed the little girl on the brow, and stood up to meet Sandilands.

  ‘Father, this is Andrew Sandilands.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘I have heard of you, Mr Sandilands, from your students. They are full of praise. What is it they say above all? You do not condescend.’

  ‘Well, sir, we Scots consider ourselves the most democratic nation on earth.’

  ‘If you, Mr Sandilands, and my dear late wife are examples then your boast is justified. Leila’s mother was born in Scotland, not far from Edinburgh. She was as gracious to the peasant in his hovel as to the prince in his palace.’

  Well, thought Sandilands, so would I be. What, though, of that absurd colour prejudice? Mrs Abad could not have had it, but then her father had been a doctor most of whose patients had been Malays, whereas Andrew’s mother had from his infancy filled him with prejudices, most of them out of the Bible, the kind so hard to get rid of. He hated colour prejudice and knew all the arguments against it and yet he suffered from it. So did all mankind, but that was no excuse. Surely Leila could cure him.

  The little girl in the bed was gazing steadily at him. She did not frown but she did not smile either. She had still to make up her mind about him.

  Lacking natural ease towards small children, but knowing that he must gain her approval, if not her affection, he went over. ‘Hello, Christina. Do you remember me?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Do you like to listen to stories?’

  Still impassive, she nodded again. Perhaps a little distrust had come into her eyes.

  ‘I’d like to read you a story. What kind do you like best?’

  ‘About bicycles.’

  He couldn’t help laughing. It was the wrong thing to do.

  She frowned. ‘I’ve got a bicycle. It’s red and white. It can go fast.’

  ‘I hope you’re very careful when riding it.’

  ‘I always put my hand out when I’m going to turn.’ She demonstrated.

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘And I always ring my bell when there’s anybody in front of me.’

  Her mother then rescued him. ‘That’s enough, darling. Mr Sandilands and I have to go. Perhaps Grandfather will read you another story.’

  Grandfather still had the book in his hand.

  Leila kissed her daughter. Sandilands did not. He could not trust himself to make it look natural. Besides, the little girl did not look as if she wanted him to kiss her.

  They went out.

  ‘Has she ever been to Scotland?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Neither have I.’

  He was surprised.

  ‘My mother died when I was three. I have never met her people.’

  ‘I’d like to take you there.’

  ‘Then I could meet your parents.’

  ‘Yes.’ His father would make her welcome but his mother was more likely to rebuff and insult her. He could not hide his disquiet.

  Leila noticed but said nothing.

  Sixteen

  THEY WENT in her car, the immaculate white Saab, leaving his dusty, untidy Triumph at her house.

  ‘You can drive if you like,’ she said.

  So he was driving when they arrived in the parking space in front of the restaurant. Two men and two women were getting out of a car. They were in evening dress and were in a party mood, laughing and giggling. They saw Sandilands. ‘Hello, Andrew,’ cried one of the women, a Mrs Williams. Then she became aware that his companion was not Jean Hislop. She was shocked into silence as she stared at Leila. So were her companions. It wasn’t so much that Leila was in Jean’s place, as that she was the notorious Leftie and daughter of the demagogue Dr Abad. It was also because she was so stunningly beautiful and so self-confident. A coloured woman as beautiful and elegant as she ought, in the presence of whites, to be humble, or, if that was asking too much, to be at least diffident. Instead of which this woman was holding her head high and smiling at them, as if her smiles were as good as their smiles, though none of them was smiling. One of the men, John Williams, was heard to mutter, ‘Good God!’ and he didn’t mean it as an oath.

  Sandilands swithered about introducing Leila to them and decided not to. He took her arm and went with her through the door and up the stairs to the restaurant.

  The quartet followed them, but not closely.

  The Gardenia was sumptuous. It would not have been out of place in a fashionable part of Paris. Its patrons, especially the expatriates, joked about its extortionate prices but were really proud of being able to afford them. It was thickly carpeted, air-conditioned, and luxuriant with plants. On the walls were paintings of Savu scenes.

  The waitresses were little Malay girls, in native dress. The one who led Sandilands and Leila to their table smiled at the latter. It was a shy but grateful salute to her countrywoman, who outshone all the white women.

  Those white women were not smiling. Those who knew who she was whispered the information to those who didn’t. All of them were displeased by her intrusion; not because she seemed to have supplanted their friend Jean Hislop – they did not think of that immediately – but
because she was a native and coloured and therefore automatically inferior. That she was said to be a relative of the Sultan made no difference. Indeed, in spite of his immense wealth, he too was inferior, though of course if they were ever invited to his palace they would bow and curtsey, as they would do in Buckingham Palace.

  Then those women, and their men, turned to the matter of the intruder’s escort. ‘It is Andrew Sandilands,’ a man’s voice was heard to say. Incredulity did not quite smother the envy.

  They began to conjecture as to why Sandilands was with her and not with his usual companion, Jean Hislop.

  ‘I suppose you know them all?’ asked Leila, coolly.

  ‘Most of them. Now what would you like to drink?’

  ‘A glass of water, please.’

  He had forgotten she did not drink alcohol. There were many things about her that he had yet to learn.

  ‘You drink whatever you like,’ she said.

  He ordered a whisky. He must not, so soon anyway, let her change him, even for the better.

  They were approached by a man Sandilands sometimes played golf with. Bill Nelson sold expensive cars to the Sultan and the Sultan’s rich relatives: his commissions were very lucrative. His wife was in England, seeing to the education of their teenage children. He drank too much. He lived with a native woman whom he called his amah but who was really his mistress. She was a quiet dignified woman with too broad a nose and a fondness for gaudy jewellery. He never took her out or introduced her to his friends. One or two of those friends had written to his wife, telling of his adultery. It was believed that she had written back, sarcastically thanking the sneaks and saying she didn’t give a damn who Bill slept with, so long as he kept increasing her allowance. It was suspected that she too might be having an affair.

  He patted Sandilands on the shoulder. ‘How are things, old man?’

  ‘Fine, Bill.’

  He leered at Leila. ‘So you’re the fabulous Madam Azaharri? Those that said you were the most beautiful woman in Savu weren’t lying. I’m Bill Nelson. I play golf a lot with this big bugger and I always lose.’

  He held out his hand and Leila took it.

  ‘Don’t worry about this po-faced lot,’ he said. ‘Live your own life is what I say. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Good for you. Do you happen to play golf yourself?’

  ‘I did once, in Malaya, years ago.’

  ‘Good. Get this character to have you made a member. There’s a big flame-of-the-forest tree that’s the glory of our course. Isn’t it, Andrew? Well, here’s a lady who’d outshine it.’

  At last she got her hand back. ‘Thank you, Mr Nelson.’

  ‘Bill. Please call me Bill.’

  He then staggered off to rejoin his friends.

  Sandilands briefly gave an account of him.

  She smiled. ‘Would you, Andrew, if we were separated for a long time, find another woman?’

  He was glad that his whisky arrived then. Not only did it save him having to answer, he also needed it.

  Seventeen

  QUESTIONS WERE being asked at every table.

  ‘What’s Jean going to say about this?’

  ‘I didn’t know it was finished with her and Sandilands.’

  ‘It isn’t. I happen to know that she spent last night, or was it the night before, in his house which meant in his bed.’

  ‘We’ve all heard her say she and Sandilands were going to get married and live in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Yes, but nobody’s heard him say it.’

  ‘He’s too canny.’

  ‘Look, he can’t keep his eyes off her.’

  ‘No bloody wonder. She’s tremendous. Lucky bugger!’

  ‘If she’s so tremendous why is she interested in him? He’s nothing special.’

  ‘Except on the golf course.’

  ‘He plays with the Sultan, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Maybe he met her through His Nibs.’

  ‘They say she’s related to His Highness.’

  ‘Why then are she and her father, the old doctor, always on about elections?’

  ‘I read an article by her in the Savu Times once. Well, I didn’t read it all, it was too damned long, but I read enough to realise that she wants to get rid of His Highness and put an elected Parliament in his place.’

  ‘I don’t think they want to get rid of him exactly. They want him to be like our Queen, a figure-head.’

  ‘I can’t see him standing for that.’

  ‘He needn’t worry. If there were elections his Party would win every seat. Look at all the money he’s got to buy votes.’

  ‘What would happen to us if they had a Parliament? We’d all be kicked out.’

  ‘Or kept on with reduced salaries.’

  ‘They’d put their own people in all the top jobs.’

  ‘That’s happening already.’

  ‘Our man, Sir Hugo, would have to go if they had a Parliament. I heard him say it himself. It seems old Abad had the cheek to tell him to his face.’

  ‘That’s gratitude for you. We open up their oil fields for them, make them one of the richest countries in the world, and then they want to throw us out.’

  ‘They wouldn’t throw us out. They’re too polite for that. They’d ask us very nicely to leave. Mind you, in next to no time they’d want us back, for left to themselves they’d make a mess of everything. They’re charming but God, aren’t they incompetent?’

  ‘If they weren’t under British protection wouldn’t they be in danger from the Japs? I don’t mean by war, I mean by buying them out.’

  ‘We wouldn’t allow that.’

  ‘Jean’s got nothing to worry about. Sandilands would never marry a coloured woman.’

  ‘Has he ever said so?’

  ‘Not in so many words. But it’s an impression he gives.’

  ‘Well, there couldn’t be a bigger contrast, Jean with her blond hair and that dusky creature.’

  Eighteen

  ALL THIS whispering was interrupted by the sudden clattering of a chair to the floor, as a woman jumped up and rushed out, in the middle of her meal. Everyone was startled but no one was surprised. It was just Nancy Turner being outrageous again. They were all sorry for poor Archie. There he was, looking miserable, with his fork at his mouth. He was too nice for his own good. Any other man would have sat there, finishing his meal and drinking lots of wine as a gesture of defiance. Archie, though, got up at once, paid his bill, and hurried after her.

  Those nearest to their table had heard no quarrel; in fact they had heard nothing, from Nancy at any rate. Archie’s few careful remarks had been unanswered. He was always careful, especially in public, for Nancy was given to bursts of obscenity if thwarted in any way.

  She was waiting for him in their car. ‘For Christ’s sake, what kept you?’

  ‘I had to pay the bill.’

  ‘Well, get going and don’t dawdle.’

  ‘What’s the hurry? Do you feel ill?’

  ‘I want to be the first to tell that conceited cow Hislop.’

  Archie’s niceness sometimes made him dense. ‘Tell her what?’

  ‘That Andrew Sandilands has thrown her over for that haughty black bitch.’

  Archie’s thought processes were slow and simple. It seemed to him she had no good reason for saying Sandilands had thrown Jean over; or that Mrs Azaharri had looked at all haughty, and she certainly wasn’t black. Also, even if all those things were true, telling Jean about them was none of Nancy’s business. As her husband he should be trying to prevent her from stirring up mischief, but he was too afraid of her insane rages.

  Still, he had to try. ‘It will upset Jean.’

  ‘Fucking right it will. I hope it has her screaming her head off.’

  ‘What harm has she ever done you?’

  ‘She’s sorry for me. That’s what she’s done. Interfering cunts, all of them, and she’s the worst. I’ve never understood what Andrew Sandilands sees
in her.’

  Once before, from something she’d let slip, he’d got the impression that she fancied Sandilands, though as far as Archie knew she had never spoken to the big Scotsman.

  ‘She’s vulgar. She’s got a vulgar laugh.’

  Jean did have rather a loud laugh and, if she’d had a drink or two, it could become a bit boisterous, but hardly vulgar. Nancy herself, because of her obscenities, was considered by most of the expatriate women as worse than vulgar.

  ‘I don’t think you should telephone her, Nancy.’

  She laughed.

  ‘I’m serious.’

  She laughed again.

  At their house she was out of the car and up the steps before he had time to shut the garage door.

  He went up the steps slowly. Not for the first time he let the thought of strangling her pass across his mind. He would do it fondly, for he loved her. He remembered the one child they had had, ten years ago, a little girl. She had died in infancy.

  He hoped Jean was out and not available, but no, Nancy was through to her immediately. The telephone system was efficient, thanks largely to him. He was Chief Engineer.

  ‘Hello, Jean. Nancy Turner here.’

  He went close enough to hear Jean’s reply. ‘Hello, Nancy. How are you?’

  ‘Is there a chair handy, Jean? A bottle of whisky? You’re going to need them when you hear what I’ve got to tell you.’

  He wished he had the courage to snatch the telephone from her grasp.

  Jean was laughing. ‘What terrible news is this then?’

  ‘Archie and I were at the Gardenia tonight.’

  ‘You’re home early then.’

  ‘Guess who was there.’

  ‘Let me think. His Highness?’

  Now and then the Sultan showed himself among the people. He always had bodyguards with him.

  ‘Not His Highness. Her Highness.’

  ‘One of his ladies, do you mean? With her face covered?’

  ‘No. Azaharri. Mrs Azaharri, Abad’s daughter. The lawyer. Her that’s always writing political articles in the newspaper. She’s a widow.’