Leila

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘What are you havering about, Nancy? I know who Mrs Azaharri is. What’s wonderful about her being at the Gardenia?’

  ‘But who do you think she was with?’

  Jean laughed. ‘Who the hell cares who she was with?’

  ‘Oh, I think you’ll care, Jean, you’ll care a lot.’

  ‘Well, tell me.’

  ‘Andrew Sandilands. That’s who she was with. Just the two of them. Holding hands.’

  ‘I didn’t see them holding hands,’ muttered Archie.

  If Jean was upset she didn’t show it. On the contrary, her tone was sympathetic: the caring nurse’s, not the enraged lover’s. ‘You’re not well, Nancy. If you don’t get treatment soon you’ll end up in a mental institution. Good night.’

  Nancy threw down the telephone with a scream, and rushed into her bedroom, slamming the door shut.

  Archie heard her weeping. If it had been the heartbroken weeping of a woman in distress, as indeed she was, he would have felt nothing but compassion; but it wasn’t that kind of weeping, at least not much of it was – it was the weeping of a woman mad with hatred and jealousy. Was it possible that she was in love with Sandilands herself? He had hardly ever looked at her. Whatever his game was with Mrs Azaharri he always kept clear of women likely to cause him trouble, such as married women. Archie did not know him well. No one did. He didn’t let himself be known. But Archie had never heard him say ill of anyone, and had seen him by himself in bars frequented only by Malays and Chinese. He was a lonely decent man and Archie wished him well.

  Nineteen

  IF ARCHIE had been an invisible presence in the car as Sandilands and Leila drove towards her house, he would have heard Sandilands’ decency being put to a severe test.

  Passing Mr Cheng’s bookshop they talked about the old man and the others deported with him. They would be invited to return in honour one day, said Leila, when the country was free and democratic.

  ‘How long will that be?’ asked Sandilands.

  ‘Not as long as you think, Andrew.’ Without a change of tone she added: ‘What is your relationship with Miss Hislop?’

  He had noticed that Eastern women sometimes blurted out impertinent questions, not realising that they were impertinent. But Leila was not as naive as that.

  Tell her to mind her own business, Archie’s shocked shade would have advised him, but Sandilands, the decent man, felt obliged to answer honestly.

  ‘She’s a friend; well, maybe more than a friend.’

  ‘I know of her, of course. She’s a nurse at the hospital. My father praises her. I have seen her. She has beautiful yellow hair. She is Scottish. I was told you and she are engaged.’

  ‘That’s not true. We’re not engaged. We’ve never been engaged.’

  ‘You think so, but does she? Women see these things differently. Have you slept with her?’

  She asked it coolly, like a lawyer.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Recently?’

  Archie would have stopped the car there and then and got out to walk the rest of the way, rather than put up with this insulting inquisition. But he did not know how guilty Sandilands felt.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sandilands, meekly.

  ‘Since meeting me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She said no more until they stopped beside his Triumph outside her house.

  Sandilands could not bear to look at her. He was sure that his romance with her, if it could be called that, was finished. He was going to say that he was sorry and then leave. They would never meet again. But his affair with Jean was over too. He would go and live in the Cameron Highlands with David Anderson, taking his guilt and regret with him.

  ‘Wait.’ Leila took hold of his arm and kept him from getting out of the car. ‘You have a choice, Andrew, Miss Hislop or me.’

  This was the height of arrogance, and yet he did not see her as arrogant.

  Her grip on his arm was quite painful. She was in a state of great stress, though she did not show it in any other way.

  ‘You heard me tell His Highness that we were to be married. You did not deny it.’

  ‘I thought you said it so that he couldn’t send me away.’

  ‘Yes, but surely you saw that I was in earnest?’

  This was the East where marriages were arranged, but not by the bride herself.

  ‘Shouldn’t there have been a discussion first?’

  (Not to mention a courtship of sorts.)

  Her grip tightened. ‘You kissed me.’ She whispered it, tragically.

  It hadn’t been much of a kiss.

  ‘And I kissed you.’

  That had been even less of a kiss.

  He had realised, from the first time he had met her, that she was not the kind of woman with whom his life would be safe and cosy, and he had felt qualms. Now he saw that, in spite of her formidable competence, her political ambitions, and her self-confidence, she had weaknesses of a deep-seated kind and needed help. Christ pity her, she seemed to think he could give it.

  ‘Are we engaged, Andrew?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He was amazed at himself, canny Andrew Sandilands, jumping recklessly over this wide chasm, with a drop below all the way to infinity, and knowing that there would be more chasms ahead.

  She let go his arm and leaned forward to let him kiss her. He did so, with more politeness than passion, but she returned it with sudden desperation. He tasted tears.

  He felt tender towards her. He wanted to embrace her but shyness kept him back. He stroked her head.

  ‘Good night,’ she said, and got out of the car. She was crying. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  He got out too and stood watching her go up the steps. At the top she turned and waved. He waved back.

  Only then was he aware of the racket of the night creatures, the fragrance of the bushes, and the brilliance of the stars.

  Twenty

  HE HAD to let Jean know. It was tempting to wait till she got in touch with him, for out of pride she might not, but that would be cowardly. By this time one or more of her friends would have telephoned her, with the titbit of news. She would have been more amused than angry, for she was fair-minded and intelligent, and would place little importance on his taking another woman, even one as unlikely as Leila Azaharri, out to dinner. He, though, had to confess to a great deal more than that. Just how culpable was he? He had told the truth when he had said they weren’t engaged. He had slept with her, more than once, but always at her instigation. She had noticed his reluctance and teased him about it, attributing it to the influence of his Calvinist grandfather. Even so, it did not exonerate him. Her friends would be justified in saying that he had callously jilted her. She herself would take it bravely. She would not abuse him or seek revenge. She would not go out of her way to avoid him. If they met by accident she would give him a smile and turn away. If he had Leila with him perhaps she might not smile.

  Now that he was about to part from her he recognised as never before what an admirable woman she was. No wonder other men had envied him.

  No one was to blame. It just happened that he was not in love with her.

  Once, a class of his, with whom he had been studying Jane Eyre, had been puzzled by Jane’s falling in love with Rochester, who was old and ugly and in the end blind. Their own wives or husbands would be carefully chosen for them. Was Jane going to marry Rochester because he was rich and had a big house? That made sense. Giving love as the reason did not. Sandilands, not taking the subject very seriously, had concluded, to their dissatisfaction, that love was a mystery.

  Now he had fallen in love with Leila and she with him.

  As soon as he was in his house he dialled Jean’s number. It was engaged.

  Saidee had gone to bed, so he could not ask her if Jean had telephoned earlier. He would have to wait and try again.

  A few minutes later the number was still engaged.

  What if Jean came to confront him face to face?

  There was somet
hing he had forgotten or rather had not taken into account. She loved him. God knew why, but she did. It was a great pity in the circumstances.

  The third time he got through.

  ‘Jean Hislop speaking,’ she said.

  She sounded cheerful.

  His heart sank. ‘It’s me, Andrew.’

  ‘I thought it might be. What’s this about you gallivanting with a dusky lady?’

  Was her cheerfulness a defence? If she was hurt she was not going to let anyone, him especially, see it. Her sneer at Leila as a dusky lady was uncharacteristic. She had no prejudice against people with dark skins. ‘How could I have?’ she had once said to him. ‘Most of my patients are dark. Some of them die.’

  ‘How did you get to know her?’ she asked. ‘Was it through His Nibs? I believe she’s related to him. Me, I’m related to an Edinburgh shopkeeper.’

  Her uncle had an ironmonger’s business.

  She was not as carefree as she was trying to have him think.

  ‘Leila and I are going to get married,’ he said.

  There was a pause.

  ‘Leila? Is that her name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you say you were going to get married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought that that was what you said, but it sounded so silly. Is this some kind of joke, Andrew? You do have at times a rather laboured sense of humour.’

  ‘It’s not a joke.’

  ‘You may not intend it as a joke, but it is a joke all the same. All our friends will laugh at it. How long have you known her?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Is this Andrew Sandilands talking? Him that walks round every situation, half a dozen times at least, studying it so cautiously, as if it were a putt to win a championship?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered.

  ‘Is it some kind of marriage of convenience? Does she want to become a British citizen? Is that it? As soon as the ceremony’s over, you part company, never to see each other again. Lots of Asian ladies do it. Some pay a lot of money. How much is she paying you, Andrew?’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘Isn’t it? Is it you that’s paying for it? If you marry a Savu citizen you become one yourself. So you’d be eligible for the Principal’s job.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s a love match then. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jean.’

  He put the telephone down. It was cruel but not so cruel as prolonging so painful a conversation.

  For the next few minutes he dreaded that the telephone would ring and it would be Jean, weeping.

  It did not ring.

  Twenty-One

  IT RANG next morning as he was getting ready to set off for the college. Thinking that it might be Jean, with a question that had already occurred to him, spoiling his sleep, he let it ring several times before picking it up.

  The question was: What if I’m pregnant, Andrew? What do we do in that case?

  In that case the world would have turned upside down.

  It was Leila, sounding elated. ‘Good morning, Andrew.’

  He remembered last night’s tears. ‘Good morning, Leila.’

  He braced himself. She was going to ask if he had been in touch with Jean and what had happened. But her subject was altogether different.

  ‘Have you seen the newspapers this morning?’

  There were two, the Savu Times and the Savu Herald. Usually he didn’t see them till he got to the College. They were fond of big black headlines that dirtied the hands.

  ‘No. Is there anything special in them?’

  Such as the announcement of their engagement. No, there wouldn’t have been enough time for her to put it in.

  ‘There are to be elections. We are to have our Parliament.’

  He almost said: Is that all? It was how he felt but it would have been churlish to say it, since she was so delighted. So he simply said: ‘When?’

  ‘In six months. There’s to be a commission to divide the country into constituencies.’

  He had to be careful how he expressed his scepticism. ‘His Highness must be very confident his side will win. He’ll get the credit of being democratic without the pain of having to give up power.’

  ‘Is that what you think will happen?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘You underestimate the people of Savu. They are proud of their country. They want it to be their country, not the Sultan’s only.’

  If they got married was he to sit at home while she was out making election speeches? Even worse, was he to attend her meetings and listen to her speeches? Seeking privacy himself, how could he survive having a wife who sought publicity?

  ‘See you this evening,’ she said. ‘Goodbye for now.’

  No endearments, he noticed. But then he himself hadn’t used any. It wasn’t a Scottish custom.

  Yet, in spite of all his misgivings, he was looking forward eagerly to seeing her again. There was nothing he wanted more. He would tell her how much he loved her and she would tell him how much she loved him. They would convince each other. He would overcome his dislike of politics for her sake and promise to help her in every way he could. As her husband he would have a right, for, as Jean had said, his marriage would entitle him to Savu citizenship. Being involved, he would be better able to console her in defeat, for he had no doubt whatever that her People’s Party would be so badly beaten that they would lose heart and break up.

  Twenty-Two

  IN THE staffroom the conversation was about the proposed elections, but only Mr Srinavasan was enthusiastic. Savu, he announced, would be the smallest democracy in the world, while his own country was the largest. Sandilands did not have the heart to remind him that the world’s largest democracy had the world’s worst corruption, poverty, and violence. Mr Srinavasan was now saying that it would be a matter for congratulation when Savu had its own Parliament, provided, of course, it did not too officiously reduce the salaries of expatriates or get rid of these altogether. It was true that those salaries were the most generous in all Asia, but surely that was something the country should be proud of, since it meant that it was able to call upon the services of the most qualified and efficient people. ‘Such as ourselves, dear colleagues,’ he said, beaming round at them all, without a trace of irony.

  Baker, the Australian, rubbed his hands together. He would not mind being kicked out, he said, if he was laden with bags of gold.

  ‘You’re all being ridiculous,’ said Miss Leithbridge. ‘There will be no Parliament to speak of. His Highness knows what he’s doing. He knows the people are behind him.’

  There were nods of agreement. Their servants, they said, assured them that very few supported the People’s Party. There were large crowds at their meetings but most people went out of curiosity and also, especially in the case of the men, to see Dr Abad’s daughter, the beautiful Mrs Azaharri.

  ‘Beautiful!’ cried Miss Leithbridge. ‘Shameless, if you ask me. That naked midriff!’

  Mr Srinavasan wagged his finger. ‘You are being naughty again, dear lady. Are Indian ladies shameless?’

  ‘A sari is a traditional Indian dress, Mr Srinavasan, and therefore quite proper when worn by Indian ladies. Mrs Azaharri is not Indian. She has no right to wear a sari. She does it because she is conceited as well as shameless.’

  Sandilands had to say something. ‘A sari is a beautiful garment. That is why Indian ladies wear it. That is why Mrs Azaharri wears it.’

  ‘Well spoken, Mr Sandilands,’ said Mr Srinavasan. ‘I would be obliged, however, if this subject was closed. Please let us discuss arrangements for the forthcoming examinations.’

  In the classroom block the students were excited and gleeful. Girls, usually so demure, danced and shouted in the corridors. Everywhere students were shaking hands with each other. It was as if the elections had been held and victory won. Sandilands was amused to see Salim, the spy, as triumph
ant as the rest.

  He noticed Chia and Lo by themselves in an empty classroom, talking earnestly. When he went in they stood up, respectful but wary.

  ‘Well, so far so good,’ he said.

  They smiled and at the same time frowned.

  ‘I mean, elections are fine but they’re only one step forward. There’s a long road ahead of you.’

  ‘We are patient,’ said Lo.

  ‘If you lose will you still be patient?’

  ‘If the elections are free and fair,’ said Chia, ‘we shall not lose.’

  Sandilands remembered that when the elections took place, if they ever did, Chia and Lo might be in exile in the interior, far removed from the centre of things. They would be among ex-headhunters, whose grandchildren were their pupils. It was amusing to imagine these dedicated young Chinese haranguing, in not very persuasive Malay, antediluvian old men about the advantages of democracy, and going from longhouse to longhouse canvassing for votes, with shrunken heads grinning down at them.

  ‘Well, good luck anyway,’ he said.

  ‘We do not need luck,’ said Chia, ‘because we have justice and right on our side.’

  ‘Still, a little luck is always useful.’

  He would need more than a little himself.

  Twenty-Three

  AS SHE came down the steps in the lamplight to greet him she looked so dignified and chaste – he could think of no better word, unfashionable though it was – that lust certainly, and perhaps love itself, was chilled. She seemed to be carrying herself with exaggerated elegance, as if to emphasise how untouchable she was. He was being made to look crude and unworthy. Was that her intention? Did she suspect, from giveaway signs that he himself had not been aware of, that he had an instinctive or instilled prejudice against coloured skins and was challenging him? No, that was absurd. More likely she was simply letting him see that if he married her he would be getting a wife he could be proud of. The trouble was she was doing it too well. Could it be that she was not as self-possessed as she pretended?