Leila

by Robin Jenkins

  She stood close to him. He smelled her perfume, among all the other fragrances of the warm night. She shivered and sighed. He sensed in her – what? Unhappiness? Grief? Despair?

  He almost embraced her then.

  Instead he showed her the presents he had brought, a record of Scots love-songs for her and an illustrated book of Scottish folk-tales for Christina.

  She put her hand on his arm. ‘Love-songs?’ she said, smiling.

  ‘We have some of the finest love-songs in the world, though the world finds it hard to believe.’

  ‘Why does it?’

  ‘Because the Scots are thought to be dour and reserved.’

  ‘I think you are a little dour and reserved, Andrew.’

  Thanks to mosquitoes he did not have to answer that. They started biting in earnest so that he and Leila had to flee up the steps into the house.

  Her father, she said, was at a meeting. Was she letting him know they had the house to themselves?

  ‘Why aren’t you at it?’ he asked. ‘Won’t they be discussing the great news?’

  ‘Yes, but I’d much rather be here with you, Andrew.’

  It would have been ludicrous for him as a lover to ask her why she preferred to be with him, and yet he would have liked to ask, not because he wanted to hear praise of himself from a woman he loved or thought he loved, but because he really could not see what in him attracted her. It was easy to tell what he found attractive in her: beauty, grace, intelligence, courage, and sadness, but above all mystery. There was so much about her that he didn’t understand and perhaps never would. Jean, so different, had revealed her inmost thoughts and feelings as freely as she had her body. Would he be happier or at least more at home with a woman like that?

  They went into her daughter’s bedroom. Christina was in bed, looking at a picture book.

  ‘Here’s a lovely book Mr Sandilands has brought you,’ said her mother, in English. ‘It’s about Scotland. I’m sure if you were to ask him nicely he would read one of the stories to you.’

  ‘Would you like that?’ he asked.

  She nodded, dourly. After all, she had Scottish blood in her.

  He chose a tale set in North Uist where his mother had been born and his grandfather had been a Free Kirk minister. It was about a little girl the same age as Christina herself who, while playing on the beach, had been kidnapped by selchies, creatures half-seal and half-human. They had taken her to their land under the sea. One day, years later, she had returned, strangely changed, with a marvellous account of where she had been and to where she must go back.

  Now and then he would look up from the page and see those young brown eyes watching him. She was following the story, smiling at some parts and looking sad at others, but all the time she was judging him, not as a reader of stories but as a person. Had her mother told her he might be taking her father’s place? She was old enough to remember her father.

  He thought that he would be proud and happy to regard her as his daughter. What if he and Leila had children of their own? Would they all be happy together? There could be more joy and more danger in their marriage than he had so far foreseen.

  Leila tucked in her daughter and kissed her goodnight.

  Sandilands did not offer to kiss the child, nor did she expect him to. He wished her good night. She returned it, quietly; not shyly, though. Young though she was, she seemed to have put up defences.

  In the dining-room, as they ate, Leila said: ‘She’s very interested in Scotland. She tells her friends that she’s part Scottish. She’s sorry she never saw her Scottish grandmother.’

  ‘You’ll have to take her there some day.’

  ‘We’ll have to take her, you mean.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Tell me about your mother, Andrew.’

  How could he, telling the truth, say that his mother was bigoted, embittered, vindictive, and unloving? That she would never welcome Leila as her daughter-in-law? That she would write letters full of hysterical vicious screams?

  If the truth could not be told, what lie could he make convincing?

  All the defences he had built up since childhood were no protection. He felt exposed and desolate. Even that dark beautiful face opposite him seemed inimical, though it was smiling at him with sympathy and love.

  ‘She’s very religious,’ he said at last. ‘Like most of the people on the island. Her father was a minister.’

  ‘You are not religious yourself?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘But you would not mind being married in church?’

  He minded but would not object if that was what she wanted. He shook his head again.

  ‘Thank you, Andrew.’

  In the sitting-room, as they sat on chairs well apart, he looked more like a casual visitor than a lover, and she like a polite hostess. For something to say, he asked if she would like to hear the songs on the record. Let other lovers say for him what he could not say for himself.

  She said she would like very much to hear them.

  So for the next half hour they sat and listened to the yearnings, griefs, joys, and triumphs of those other lovers of long ago. The Highland chief inconsolable after the death of his Maiden of Morven. Jock o’ Hazeldean riding off o’er the border with his English sweetheart. The Borders man lamenting fiercely the death by accident of his burd Helen on Kirkconnel Lea. Leezie Lindsay joyously off to the Highlands with Lord Ronald McDonald, a chieftain of high degree. The poet taking farewell with ae fond kiss. The lovers who would never meet again on the banks of Loch Lomond.

  Jean had laughed at his fondness for those ‘sentimental’ songs of the past. ‘For heaven’s sake, Andrew, be more up to date.’ But the love-songs of today seemed to him by comparison shallow and tawdry.

  Leila, he saw, was in tears: thinking of Azaharri, he thought, but he did not feel jealous. On the wall was a photograph of her dead husband. Chichaks lurked behind it. He had died when only thirty-six.

  ‘Would you take Christina and me to the Golf Club on Sunday?’ she asked, suddenly.

  He could not quickly enough disguise his dismay.

  Members’ wives sat outside in the shade of the trees, drinking and gossiping, while their husbands played golf and their children built sand-castles. Most were white. Jean’s friends would be there. Jean herself might be. Did Leila realise that? Was she deliberately putting him to a test? He had been seen with her in the restaurant. Now he was to be seen with her and her child. Those women, most of them mothers themselves, would be especially interested in watching how he behaved towards Christina. They knew that he never made any fuss of their own children. He was not that kind of man.

  ‘Don’t you go to church on Sunday?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. But after the service we could go to your house and then to the Club. Perhaps we could have lunch there.’

  It would amount to an announcement of their engagement. There might be unpleasantness. One or other of Jean’s friends, who had had too many gins, might shout abuse. But it wouldn’t matter. It came to him, as an inspiration surely, that he had a defence against not only abusive women but against the whole world; against Leila even. The child, Christina. She represented everything of value that had been left out of his own life. Even if she never grew fond of him, looking after her would give him strength and comfort.

  Twenty-Four

  THE CLUBHOUSE was on the edge of the South China Sea; in front a beach as spacious and splendid as any in famed Bali. Tall casuarina pines gave shade. That Sunday, as usual, it was crowded. Children, near naked, playing on the sand, were as brown as Christina; some were darker though both their parents were proudly white. She saw some of her friends among them and rushed to join them. They were glad to see her and made her welcome.

  Sandilands called after her to be careful.

  He and Leila found an empty table in the shade.

  They were stared at with more surmise than animosity.

  ‘Not playing this morning,
Andrew?’ shouted one woman.

  There was a competition that he would probably have won.

  ‘Giving the others a chance, is that it?’ cried another.

  ‘That’s right, Marjorie.’

  He went in and brought out drinks, beer for himself, lemonade for Christina and Leila. Christina came running up to get hers. She was excited and happy. She gave Sandilands a big smile.

  He felt that nothing else would matter if the child trusted him.

  Suddenly, though, he grew tense. One of Jean’s friends, and then Jean herself, came out of the clubhouse, wearing bathing costumes.

  Others saw her. There were whispers. Everyone stared.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Leila. Then she too saw Jean.

  He had no idea what Jean would do. Had she loved him enough to hate him now and seek revenge in the presence of all these people? But it would not matter. There was Christina happy among her friends. She turned then and waved to her mother and him.

  It was at Leila that Jean kept staring, for a long minute, before running towards the sea.

  ‘Isn’t she afraid of the jelly-fish?’ murmured Leila.

  There were Portuguese men-of-war which could cause painful burns. A child had once died.

  ‘My father says she’s very brave. It’s important for a nurse to be brave.’

  ‘Yes.’ He had eyes only for the little dark girl with the yellow ribbon.

  ‘Have you thought about where to go for our honeymoon? I’ve been thinking myself that we could go to Scotland. I would like to meet your parents, Andrew. But perhaps they’ll come to our wedding.’

  ‘No, they won’t do that. My mother’s not well enough for the journey.’

  ‘So I should go and visit her.’

  A meeting between his mother and Leila would be agony for him, but he would be able to bear it if by that time he had won Christina’s love.

  ‘If you like,’ he said.

  ‘We could also visit Temple, the village where my mother was born. It’s not far from Edinburgh.’

  ‘I know Temple.’

  ‘I’d like to stay in Singapore for a day or two first. I have friends I would like to see.’

  Political friends, he thought. But he did not feel displeased.

  ‘We could take Christina with us,’ he said.

  Leila shook her head. ‘No. Later perhaps. Not on our honeymoon, Andrew. My father will look after her. We should have moved into our house by the beach by then, near her friends, where she can play with her bicycle.’

  ‘Is that what she’d prefer?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve discussed it with her. She says the Robinsons will look after her. Mary Robinson’s her special friend. That’s her with the white ribbon.’

  Mr and Mrs Robinson were seated not far off, with friends. They had already given Leila, and therefore Sandilands too, cheerful waves.

  Jean was now splashing ashore. She took off her cap and shook her hair. The sun glittered on her as it would have on a selchie. With what sinister purpose had she come out of the sea?

  Anxiously he watched her bend down to talk to the children. She put her hand on Christina’s head, beside the yellow ribbon.

  He got to his feet.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Leila.

  He could hardly say that he wanted to run down on to the sand to protect Christina. Trembling, he sat down again.

  ‘You don’t think she’d do Christina any harm?’ asked Leila. ‘I’ve been told she’s fond of children.’

  Yes, so much so that she had said she and Sandilands would have three, two boys and a girl. Those children would never be born. Yet was that altogether true? She had said she might be pregnant. If she was and she refused to have an abortion he would be faced with another enormous difficulty. But again his love of Christina and his need of her would help him overcome it.

  Jean was now coming towards their table. Drops of seawater sparkled on her cheeks like tears. Her nipples showed through the wet costume. Her thighs were brown except at the top.

  ‘Do you mind if I join you?’ she asked, and sat down.

  She was instantly interested in the black mole on Leila’s neck. ‘Pardon me for asking,’ she said, ‘professional curiosity, but have you had that long?’ She pointed to it.

  ‘All my life.’

  ‘Does it ever hurt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or get bigger?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I’d leave it alone. These things can turn cancerous if disturbed. I believe your husband died of cancer.’

  Added to the sunburn there was a blush. She was being mean and spiteful and had not intended or wished to be. She was letting herself down.

  ‘My father’s a doctor,’ said Leila, quietly.

  ‘So he is. No doubt he’ll keep an eye on it. By the way, Mr Sandilands, I’m to be Matron after all, in three months, when Mrs Aziz retires. I’ve been wondering if you had anything to do with it. Through your influence with His Highness, I mean. As a sort of consolation prize.’

  He shook his head. ‘I had nothing to do with it. Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She turned to Leila. ‘Perhaps it was you then? I hear you’re related to His Highness.’

  ‘Very distantly. I’m afraid I can’t claim the credit either.’

  ‘Anyway, it means I’ll be staying in Savu for a while longer. Unless of course the People’s Party takes over and throws out all the white faces.’

  ‘I don’t think we would wish to do that.’

  ‘I’ve heard it said you would. I’ve also heard it said you haven’t a snowball’s chance of taking over.’

  ‘That remains to be seen.’

  Jean turned back to Sandilands. ‘What’s happened to your contempt for politicians? Not to mention that thing of yours about dark-skinned ladies?’

  She stood up. The water drops on her cheeks had dried up.

  ‘Is that your little girl with the yellow ribbon?’ she said. ‘She’s very bright.’

  Then she walked away. By the jaunty swinging of her buttocks she let them know she wasn’t broken-hearted.

  Sandilands was left wondering, shamefully, if he would have been happier, or at least safer, married to her. But no, for in that case he would have lost Christina.

  Twenty-Five

  THEY WERE married, within six weeks, in the Anglican church. His Highness, regretfully, could not attend. He sent a card, hinting that some of his more devout Muslim subjects might object. But he also sent a present, a very valuable solid-gold salver. It was as well that he did not come, with his retinue of attendants and bodyguards, for there wouldn’t have been room for them in the small church. Some of Sandilands’ students were there, including Chia and Lo. So too were officials of the People’s Party, quiet, discreet, purposeful men in dark suits, Malays, Chinese, an Indian or two, and even a few aboriginals or bumiputras. Sandilands had seen some of them in Savu Town where they were businessmen or shopkeepers. They were all deferential towards Leila, not because she was the bride but because she was the daughter of their leader. Perhaps, thought Sandilands, the Sultan’s Party ought not to be so sure of a crushing victory in the elections. These men – there were no women among them – would say little but work hard. They looked very patient. They might not win this time or the next but in the end they would. It was possible that they might establish a true democracy in which the politicians were the servants of the people and not the masters. It would not last long. Corruption would inevitably set in, affecting the best of them, including Leila herself.

  Sandilands’ parents were not present. He had telephoned. Luckily his mother had not been at home. His father had offered timid congratulations. These he seemed to want to withdraw when told that Leila was part Malay. Sandilands was sure that his father would not inform his mother of the conversation.

  Dr Abad gave his daughter away. He did it with his usual mild good nature, though he had not yet given his blessing to the marriage.

  Davi
d Anderson, the Principal, was best man. He too thought the marriage a mistake. Andrew, he had hinted, lacked the recklessness that would be needed.

  Sandilands had been afraid that Jean would show up, not angry or resentful, at any rate not showing anger or resentment, but deliberately radiant, with her fair hair conspicuous among all the black, and her blue eyes among all the brown. She would want to show him that she wasn’t pining. Once, late at night, she had telephoned to tell him that, thank God, she wasn’t pregnant.

  Two of her friends were present in the church, though not invited. They sat at the back, as unobtrusive as spies. He wondered if Jean had asked them to attend.

  If they told the truth they would have to report that the bride had looked lovely in a light-blue costume, with a bouquet of orchids in her hand. As for the groom, well, Jean would be pleased to hear that he had looked more anxious than triumphant. She would say that it was because he was getting married and so committing himself for life. It wouldn’t have mattered who the woman was.

  The spies, though, wouldn’t have noticed his glances at the little girl Christina, acting as a bridesmaid with her friend Mary Robinson.

  Mary’s parents were in the church. They were afterwards to be reproved for it.

  A meeting had been held in the Golf Club at which it was decided that, considering how badly he had treated Jean Hislop, no one should accept Sandilands’ invitation to the reception in the Gardenia. By marrying Abad’s daughter he had let the side down. God knew why he was doing it. Was it ambition? Did he think that the People’s Party would win the elections and through his wife’s influence he would become Minister of Education? That would never happen, of course. What would happen was that, to use one of his Scots words, he’d soon find himself scunnered, surrounded by dark-skinned aliens, including, it could be, his own half-caste children. Jean needn’t worry. The big bugger had a punishment in store for him that would serve him bloody well right.

  One member, rash with drink, had proposed that Sandilands’ name be deleted from the list of past captains and also the list of past club champions, on which it appeared six times. This proposal, after much debate, was rejected. After all, he held the course record and, to be fair, he had always conducted himself like a gentleman, even when playing with duffers. Also, through his pal the Sultan he had got the Club a number of useful little privileges.