Leila

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘I think you should wait,’ he said. ‘You’ve suffered enough for one day.’

  ‘But so has she suffered.’

  ‘Very much,’ said Jean.

  ‘If I can help her, Andrew, should I not do so?’

  Sandilands turned to her father. ‘What do you think, sir?’

  The old man said, or rather whined, ‘It would be a godly act.’

  Sandilands turned from him in disgust. He could not bear giving any credit to God.

  ‘However it happened it was an accident,’ said Leila.

  ‘It will give her nightmares for the rest of her life,’ said Jean.

  ‘What do you think it will give Leila?’ asked Sandilands, angrily.

  ‘Will you come with me, Andrew?’ asked Leila.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Don’t be angry.’

  He shook his head. It would depend on how the Wilkinsons treated her.

  Mrs Wilkinson was in a private room. Jean asked them to wait at the door while she went in to prepare the old woman.

  Sandilands was searching his mind for words of love and support when Leila showed him how easy it could be, by kissing him. He would never have the knack. She was so much more gracious and generous than he. This ordeal she was about to undergo she would endure bravely. She would know what to say and would say it with compassion and dignity. She was, too, heartbreakingly beautiful in her dark-blue costume.

  Jean came out. ‘She’s awake,’ she whispered. ‘She’s been given sedatives but she’s conscious enough.’

  ‘Does she still wish to see me?’

  ‘Oh yes. I think she’s a bit frightened but she very much wants to see you. Remember she’s seventy-five.’

  ‘What about her son and his wife?’ asked Sandilands.

  He knew Sam Wilkinson, a big burly mechanic who worked at the oil wells. He had the reputation of being aggressive when drunk and morose when sober. Celia, his wife, was a thin nervous woman notorious for the number of amahs she had hired and fired.

  ‘They’re really grateful,’ said Jean, and added, ‘though they might not be able to show it.’

  She opened the door for them. ‘I’ll leave you to it then. I’ll come back in, say, five minutes.’

  Three would have been enough, thought Sandilands.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Leila, and walked in.

  Sandilands followed close behind her.

  How did one confront a woman who, even if by accident, had just killed your only child? Sandilands watched it being done and felt humble and inadequate and yet proud too. This tall dark-faced elegant woman who spoke so quietly and with intense feeling was his wife. Getting to know her would be a voyage of exciting discoveries. She deserved a more adventurous explorer than he.

  Mrs Wilkinson’s face was yellow and shrunken. There was a dressing on her cheek. She kept licking her lips. Her white hair had recently been permed. She looked her age, though, in spite of the neat coiffure and the lipstick. Her hands, outside the bed covers, closed and opened all the time. Their backs were covered with brown spots. Sandilands counted six rings.

  Leila took one of those hands in hers. The other became more agitated still. ‘How are you feeling, Mrs Wilkinson?’ she asked.

  Words that anyone could have said, thought Sandilands, but very few could have said them like that.

  ‘I’m the one that should have died,’ whispered Mrs Wilkinson.

  She did not weep. She had no weeping left.

  ‘Please don’t say such things,’ said Leila.

  Again the words were trite, again the way they were said was very moving.

  ‘You must hate me.’

  ‘Why should I hate you, Mrs Wilkinson? It was an accident.’

  Yes, thought Sandilands, feeling more than ever inadequate, let’s all leave it at that. Don’t anyone say it was God’s will.

  From the background Wilkinson spoke, churlishly. ‘It wasn’t my mother’s fault. Ask Maitland. He’ll tell you.’

  ‘Be quiet, Sam,’ said his wife. ‘She didn’t say it was Mum’s fault. She said it was an accident.’

  Sandilands noticed how both of them avoided addressing Leila directly. In spite of her magnanimity and her beauty they instinctively saw her as inferior.

  ‘How is little Mary Robinson?’ whispered the old woman.

  Sandilands thought it time he gave his wife some help. ‘She’s still unconscious, Mrs Wilkinson,’ he said. ‘A surgeon’s being flown from Britain. He’s expected tomorrow.’

  ‘The Sultan sent for him,’ said Wilkinson. ‘He’s paying all the expenses.’

  His mother ignored him and Sandilands too. She had eyes only for Leila. ‘I’ve seen you in church, Mrs Sandilands, you and your father.’

  ‘Yes, my father and I attend regularly.’

  ‘Do you pray?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ Leila smiled but she was close to weeping.

  ‘Will you pray for me?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll pray for you.’

  ‘And I’ll pray for you.’

  Sandilands was relieved then when a knock on the door put an end to this unbearable conversation.

  Jean came in, briskly professional. ‘Time to say goodnight to the patient,’ she said. ‘She needs sleep.’

  Leila put her hand on the old woman’s head. There wasn’t a trace of condescension in the gesture. ‘Goodnight, Mrs Wilkinson,’ she said. ‘Try to remember happier things.’

  For the first time there was a tremor in her voice. All of them noticed it.

  The Wilkinsons hurried out after Leila and Sandilands. He had something to say to Leila. He could not say it graciously. ‘Thanks. Not many would have done it, the way you did. They say you’re a dangerous Red, but I’ll tell them you’re all right.’

  ‘We’re grateful,’ said his wife, curtly. ‘Have you got the car keys, Sam? He’s always losing them. Good night, Andrew. Let them say what they like but you’ve got a real lady for a wife.’

  Sandilands and Leila watched them walk towards the hospital door. They would be back again tomorrow.

  ‘Take me home, Andrew,’ said Leila, at last in tears.

  He held her in his arms. How could he comfort her? He did not have the resources. Besides, where was home? He still had his PWD house at the edge of the sea, and Leila had hers near the airport. They would soon be moving into the Principal’s house in the College grounds. But no place could be home without Christina.

  She dried her eyes. ‘Am I a dangerous Red, Andrew?’ she asked.

  ‘He was being stupid.’

  ‘Is that really what they think of me?’

  He felt bitter. ‘They’ve got a nice little apple cart here. They don’t want anyone to upset it.’

  Thirty-Two

  MAITLAND TOOK Dr Abad to the airport to pick up his car before taking Sandilands and Leila to the house by the sea. That was Leila’s wish. She had said she would like a walk on the beach.

  At the airport Maitland held the car door open for Dr Abad. In his uniform he was as deferential as a chauffeur. ‘Will you be all right, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mr Maitland. You have been very kind.’ The old doctor looked into the car. ‘Good night, my pet. Take care of her, Andrew.’

  ‘Yes, I will.’

  If he could. He himself was thoroughly exhausted, after that long painful day; but even after he was rested would he be able to comfort her?

  God knew how she was feeling.

  The car bumped along the track through the jungle. The night was busy and loud with many insects. The rest of the world seemed very far away.

  ‘Do you really like living here?’ muttered Maitland.

  ‘Yes. I used to, anyway.’

  When he had been content with his own company. It was very different now.

  The house was in darkness. As they got out of the car Sandilands thanked Maitland. It did not occur to him to thank the driver too. Leila did.

  ‘You’re a brave woman, Mrs San
dilands,’ said Maitland, ‘and Andrew’s a very lucky man. I think you both should go away for a bit. Take her to Scotland, Andrew. It’ll be cold at this time of year, but it could be the change you both need. Good luck anyway.’

  As the car drove off Sandilands noticed the driver giving Leila a smile and a wave.

  The house was now lit up. Saidee appeared on the verandah. She was weeping and felt that she was being impertinent. A small, squat, ugly little peasant woman had no right to weep in sympathy with this tall lady who was a lawyer and the daughter of a doctor, who spoke English as well as she did Malay, and who was related to His Highness.

  It didn’t occur to Sandilands that poor Saidee needed to be comforted. But that was what Leila did, as if it had been Saidee’s child who had been killed.

  The telephone rang. He hurried in to answer it. It was Jean, to say that Mary Robinson had died.

  Thirty-Three

  HE WAITED till after the funeral before suggesting to Leila, one night in their bedroom, that they should take Maitland’s advice (the Deputy Commissioner had been among the mourners in the small cemetery) and go away for a while, if not to Scotland, then to any other place she liked. She shook her head. He was forgetting the elections, she said. She must stay and work hard. Without her her comrades might lose heart.

  ‘Perhaps you should go home, Andrew,’ she said, ‘to see your parents. How long is it since you last saw them?’

  It was at least six years. He had spent all his long leaves visiting places like Cambodia.

  ‘Not without you,’ he said.

  Nor with her, either. He remembered his mother’s hysterical letters.

  ‘It would be only for a few weeks.’

  Did she think the elections more important than their marriage?

  ‘A day would be too long away from you,’ he said.

  ‘But you’re not interested in the elections. You think they’re a waste of time, because His Highness is sure to win.’

  ‘Yes. Your father thinks so too. Everybody does.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  He saw that her hope of victory was somehow bound up with her grief. It was to be part of her consolation. He must be careful not to take it from her.

  ‘You don’t know the people of Savu as I do, Andrew. I was born and brought up among them.’

  ‘I’ve been teaching their intelligentsia for eight years,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, but you’ve said yourself they never let you know their inmost thoughts.’

  He remembered how he had laughed at their sensible conception of love.

  He couldn’t resist saying: ‘But, Leila, don’t you realise that if there was a miracle and your People’s Party won it would really make no difference? His Highness would still have the money. He’d still have the first and final say in everything.’

  ‘It would be a step forward, a small one, yes, but it would be a beginning. You don’t prefer dictatorship, do you?’

  ‘I suppose I just don’t trust politicians.’

  ‘I am a politician.’

  ‘An exceptional one.’

  But she would not let him dismiss it with a joke and a kiss, the one as awkward as the other. ‘You are my husband, Andrew. If you were to forbid me to take part in politics I would have to obey you.’

  That was preposterous, but he felt tempted.

  He had not offered to make love to her since Christina’s death, showing the same consideration as he would have if she had had a child recently born and not one recently buried.

  She had not offered either.

  Tonight he did, half-expecting her to refuse, half-hoping indeed, but no, she was eager. She had one condition, though.

  ‘I want a child, Andrew,’ she murmured, ‘but not yet.’

  He supposed it was because Christina’s death was still too painful a wound, and he loved her all the more for it.

  ‘Not till after the elections.’

  He felt let down. Irony was needed to make the situation tolerable, but neither he nor she had any, then. She was sweetly serious, he rather sourly embarrassed.

  ‘You understand, Andrew?’

  Yes, he understood. Any woman, in a Muslim country, standing up on a platform and addressing a crowd mostly of men would be regarded as shameless. If she was noticeably pregnant she would be doubly condemned.

  Had she forgotten that she might already be pregnant? No contraceptive had been used when they had consummated their marriage in Raffles Hotel.

  He remembered that she was no shrinking novice, she had been married before and had been made love to dozens, no hundreds, of times. It was stupid being jealous of a dead man, especially one who from all accounts had been worthier than himself, but if what he felt wasn’t jealousy, it was worse, it was resentment. For a few mad vicious moments he wanted to hurt her.

  ‘Are you angry with me, Andrew?’

  Not with her exactly, and surely not with Azaharri. With whom then? Himself. He saw, far away in the depths of his mind the admission that he had made a mistake in marrying her. He had thought before that he wasn’t worthy of her, but it had been part of his love for her. Now, though it was still part of his love, he was afraid it would make their marriage impossible.

  He got out of bed. Naked, he fumbled in a drawer for a contraceptive. Seated on the bed, with his back to her, he put it on. Tenderly she stroked his back. That was a trick of the Shamrock whores.

  He saw himself in a mirror. Did a man ever look more silly than when doing that? Love-making was always ridiculous; love itself was, sometimes.

  That she was willing, and ready, more so than he, was shown by how easy she made it for him. She pressed his buttocks, gently: another Shamrock trick. He should have been delighted and exalted, but instead was dismayed. This lovely fastidious woman ought not to be performing this crude act with someone like him.

  He had seen chichaks do it on the ceiling, upside-down.

  ‘I love you, Andrew,’ she said, humbly and, God forgive him, gratefully.

  ‘I love you, Leila,’ he said.

  He meant it, and if reservations made his voice hoarse it wasn’t doubt that caused them but fear.

  He would one day try to explain to her, but how could he if he didn’t understand it himself? Why should he be afraid of committing himself body and soul to this beautiful woman who loved him and wished him nothing but good? There was that aversion to dark skin, so wickedly fostered by his mother, but it couldn’t be that, not altogether. For the past fifteen years he had worked with dark-skinned people and surely had got rid of that pernicious prejudice. What was it then? A congenital defect of character? A distrust of happiness? Of love? Inherited from his grandfather perhaps, that fanatical old man with the grey beard and the belief that he looked like God. Or rather that God looked like him.

  PART TWO

  One

  EXPATRIATES, ESPECIALLY the British, looked on the elections as an entertainment: a chichak taking on a water buffalo. Dr Abad might be a competent enough doctor – though none of them would have let him treat their dog – but as a political leader he was simply pathetic. Some of them, out of mischievous curiosity, stopped to listen to him making a speech in public. They didn’t understand a word for it was all in Malay but they could tell by the reactions of the crowd that he was not being taken seriously. Hecklers, no doubt in the pay of his rivals, shouted questions at him that he tried to answer at length, getting himself into a tangle, so that his audience, though they didn’t want to hurt his feelings, had to laugh.

  Except for his daughter, his colleagues were no more successful. They were Malays and therefore soft-spoken and easily rebuffed. The Chinese members of the People’s Party, more aggressive and resolute, had the sense to keep in the background. In the past few weeks quite a number of them had been discreetly deported to Singapore and Hong Kong: a sensible move of His Highness’s. No Chinese was to be trusted. In their hearts they all supported Red China.

  Abad’s daughter, though now, God help her,
Mrs Sandilands, was not to be laughed at. The crowds at her meetings were large and enthusiastic. That could have been because she looked splendid in her brightly coloured saris and kebayas and sarongs, but, according to Malay friends, she was a passionate and persuasive orator. The expatriates were not sure what to make of her. They knew about her magnanimous treatment of old Mrs Wilkinson and had to give her credit for it. Of course she was

  half-Malay, and the Malays as a race, bless them, were good-natured and, to be honest, pretty indolent. They found it much easier to smile than to scowl, to forgive than to seek revenge. They were like their country’s climate: black clouds, torrents of rain, and then, minutes later, warm pleasant sunshine. That part of Mrs Sandilands – might as well give her her legal name, though it did sound odd – had been uppermost in her behaviour towards the old lady. It was the other part, the Scottish part, that was actuating her as a politician. Everyone knew that the Scots were a contentious, discontented lot. What about Red Clydeside?

  But, as was asked in the Golf Club and Yacht Club, what the hell did the woman want that she didn’t already have? She was a relative of His Highness and therefore an aristocrat. She was good-looking: even expatriate women granted her that – in some cases with qualifications: wasn’t she just a shade on the dark side, and wasn’t her backside more than ample? She was clever. George Heddle, the Englishman who was Chief Justice of Savu, had said he admired her skill as a lawyer, though he couldn’t understand why she took only cases that paid skimpy fees or none at all.

  Whether she was fortunate in having got a white man to marry her was a matter much debated. Sandilands was dour and thrawn (to use his own Scots words) but he was big and handsome, with a good job and a house damned near as big and well appointed as the Resident’s. He was an excellent golfer, too, and a golfing pal of His Highness’s. It was said the silly bugger refused to give His Nibs two-foot putts, but he got on well with him and would probably end up running the Education Department. There was ribaldry as to how he and his dusky bride got on in bed. According to Jean Hislop – who could blame poor Jean for being a little spiteful? – he wasn’t wholehearted in his performance, though there was nothing wrong with his visible equipment. Apparently it had to do with his upbringing. His grandfather had been a minister of the Free Kirk of Scotland, a bunch of bigots who regarded knitting on the Sabbath as sinful. Well, with his Calvinist hang-up and her Oriental coyness it wasn’t likely to be a joyous romp, was it?