Leila

by Robin Jenkins

  The students congregated outside the Principal’s house, playing guitars and singing songs in homage to the Principal’s wife. But it wasn’t as the Principal’s wife that they were honouring her, it was as the future Prime Minister of their country. When she appeared on the verandah they gave a cheer that was heard in the teachers’ flats a good three hundred yards away.

  In those flats, which had a good view of the scene at the Principal’s house, Mr Srinavasan was paying one of his sneaky visits to Miss Leithbridge who lived next door.

  Miss Leithbridge’s verandah was small. Mr Srinavasan had to stand close to her. She was looking through binoculars.

  Mr Srinavasan prophesied doom for the lady at present being exalted. ‘You will see she will come a cropper.’

  ‘Why do you think that, Mr Srinavasan?’ Miss Leithbridge asked, aware that he was closer than he needed to be but not yet prepared to push him off. She liked to play a game of waiting to see how far the ‘sneaky black prick’ would go. The description was not hers, but Baker the Australian’s. She thought it apt.

  She rather liked the spicy smell of Mr Srinavasan’s breath. It was quite sexy.

  ‘She is too big for her boots.’

  ‘She never wears boots.’

  ‘I speak metaphorically. Does she think in her foolishness that the Sultan will abide by those ridiculous results?’

  It hadn’t occurred to her that the Sultan would not abide by the results. She was sure it had occurred to no one but Mr Srinavasan. ‘Why shouldn’t she think that?’ she asked. ‘He gave a solemn promise to accept the people’s verdict.’

  ‘That was before he knew he had lost. Is he not a mighty man? Is this not his kingdom? Can he not, with Allah’s consent, break any promise?’

  ‘But what reason could he give?’

  Miss Leithbridge was genuinely curious, though there was the distraction that Mr Srinavasan was now not so much nudging as thrusting, and he was not using his hand. Her bottom too was thinly protected with only a cotton dress and skimpy panties.

  ‘He will say they cheated.’

  ‘Cheated? How could they cheat? There were impartial observers.’

  ‘He will say that though women were given the legal right to vote they ought not to have voted. They should have stayed at home, like decent Muslim women.’

  Miss Leithbridge was still interested, but he really had to be deterred. His thrusting had become too obvious and too urgent. He was panting as if he had just run up a flight of stairs.

  As if casually, with no particular intent, she swung the heavy binoculars behind her with some force, and hit him where she had hoped to hit him. He gasped, squealed, withdrew, clutched himself, and, as she saw from a quick glance round, turned greenish, which was odd considering how black he was.

  Using the binoculars now for their proper purpose, she saw, with surprise, that Sandilands had brought out a little girl, a native from the look of her. Who could she be?

  Mr Srinavasan, usually a source of information, was not yet fit to be consulted. Besides, tears of pain were blurring his vision.

  ‘He’s holding a little girl in his arms,’ she said. ‘Who can she be? She’s not white. She can’t surely be the daughter of a servant? That would be ridiculous. Look, Mr Srinavasan. Have you any idea who she can be?’

  With shaky hands he took the binoculars and looked through them. ‘Perhaps she is Mrs Sandilands’ daughter.’

  ‘But Mrs Sandilands’ daughter was killed in the car accident.’

  ‘This could be another daughter, hitherto concealed.’

  She thought his mind was deranged. ‘Why on earth should she be concealed?’

  ‘Perhaps her father is the Sultan.’

  Now that was worth considering. ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘It is said he wished to add her to his harem of wives.’

  Miss Leithbridge took the binoculars and looked through them, concentrating on the child in Sandilands’ arms.

  ‘No, she can’t be,’ she said. ‘Too common-looking. Too shy. If the Sultan was her father she’d be unbearably proud.’

  ‘Perhaps she is the bastard of our esteemed Principal. I have been told he consorted with loose women. This child could be a consequence.’

  Miss Leithbridge had sometimes wished she was one of those loose women Sandilands had consorted with. ‘You are being silly, Mr Srinavasan.’

  Mr Srinavasan groaned.

  ‘I think you should go and see if Mrs Srinavasan is awake now and waiting for you to bring her tea.’

  He crept away, as if, she thought crudely, he had wet his pants. Perhaps he had. She had read once in a women’s magazine that that was the most tender part of a man’s anatomy. If a woman was being raped, the writer had said, she should seize the villain by the testicles and squeeze them hard.

  She wasn’t angry with him, though. She had got some of her own back, not just on silly Mr Srinavasan, but on all men, especially conceited Andrew Sandilands.

  Sixteen

  HE HAD not asked Leila’s consent to bring Mary onto the verandah, to be seen by the students; nor had he asked the child’s. He could not have said then why he did it, and afterwards he regretted it. Perhaps he had been provoked by the students’ gleeful faces and Leila’s so pleased and triumphant, while the child crouched on a chair at the back of the living-room, terrified.

  She had not been willing to come with him. She was in tears as he held her up.

  The students were puzzled, particularly as they saw that Leila was annoyed.

  ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ she whispered.

  He couldn’t have told her. He wasn’t trying to shame her into keeping her promise to the child, nor was he intending to show that his concern was more genuine, and more Christian, than hers.

  ‘This little girl is called Mary,’ he cried.

  They waited for further explanation but he stopped there.

  None of them had seen this child before. To quite a few of them occurred the same suspicion that Mr Srinavasan had suggested to Miss Leithbridge, that the girl was Mr Sandilands’ daughter and her mother some Savuan woman. That would explain why he seemed so defiantly fond of the child and why his wife was refusing to smile at either of them.

  Soon the students went off, discussing the little incident, but not letting it spoil their mood of celebration.

  In the house Leila confronted Sandilands. Mary had run off to hide in a small retreat she had discovered. There she stood with her hands over her ears.

  Even if she had been outside the living-room door she would not have understood. They spoke in English, Leila angrily but quietly. Sandilands hardly spoke at all.

  ‘Were you trying to shame me out there, Andrew?’

  He thought that she had for the time being at least lost her beauty and distinction; but he still loved her.

  ‘I would never do that, Leila.’

  ‘But that is what you did. The poor child was terrified.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘I was humiliated. Are you sorry about that too?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t mean to humiliate you.’

  ‘Surely you realised you were putting me in an impossible situation. For the sake of a child like that!’

  ‘Like what, Leila?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. If you were the kind of person, Andrew, who liked people I could understand and sympathise, but you have the reputation of being aloof and self-centred, and you deserve it.’

  ‘Why did you marry me then?’

  ‘I was warned you might ruin my career. My father warned me. I should have listened to him.’

  ‘Perhaps you should.’

  ‘Last night I could see you grudged me and my friends our success. Now you are trying to spoil it for me.’

  Had that been his motive? He did not think so. He was glad she had succeeded.

  ‘I love you, Leila.’

  ‘If you do you will help me, not make things dif
ficult for me. Will you agree to Mariam’s arrangement? It is really no business of yours, Andrew, but you are my husband and I would like your agreement.’

  ‘Why send the child to Malaya, so far away?’

  ‘If your mother was to be hanged for a brutal murder would you not want to be as far away as possible?’

  ‘She’s only ten.’

  ‘When she’s twenty she will be grateful to us.’

  ‘I would like to talk to her father and to her mother’s relatives.’

  ‘I have talked to them. They do not want her. They have disowned her.’

  ‘But she’s not to blame. Didn’t you tell them that?’

  ‘I did but it was no use. In their eyes she is as much to blame as her mother.’

  ‘That’s bloody nonsense.’

  ‘So it is, but that is how they see it.’

  ‘I should still like to talk to them.’

  ‘Please yourself. I don’t think they’ll want to talk to you.’

  ‘Whereabouts in Malaya? Shouldn’t we go and see the people she was being sent to? I would like to write to her and perhaps visit her. I could ask David Anderson to keep an eye on her.’

  ‘That is what you think now, Andrew. In time you will think differently. You will have our own family to think of. You say you love me.’

  ‘I do love you.’

  ‘Then help me. I admit I did give the poor child some kind of promise. I shouldn’t have. I was distressed at the time. But surely I am entitled to avoid that promise, and as my husband, who loves me, you will help me to avoid it. Will you help me, Andrew?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Explain to her. She likes you. She trusts you.’

  ‘If I was her I would trust nobody.’

  ‘She’s a child. She needs to trust someone. She will believe what you say to her.’

  ‘I will have to be very truthful then.’

  Seventeen

  HE FOUND her in her hiding-place.

  If he had come with a whip to lash her he could not have felt more guilty and ashamed. Before he could say anything, while he was searching his mind for words that would destroy her hopes without causing her hurt – no such words existed in any language – she said that she would leave now and, excusing herself, slipped past him and went to Christina’s room.

  He stood at the door watching her put her few belongings into a green plastic bag. She had very little: her old clothes had been burned and he noticed that she was taking none of Christina’s except those that she was presently wearing. There were two small books, with tattered covers; a ball-point pen; a small red handbag; a necklace of coral; and a handful of coloured sea shells. Packing took her less than a minute. She stood there holding the bag, ready to go. There was no self-pity on her face; no accusation; no emotion at all. If she had wept he might have known what to say or what to do. Surely he would have embraced her or taken her hand. This refusal to beg or blame made him helpless.

  ‘I would like to go now,’ she said.

  If he would please get out of the way, she meant.

  ‘Where will you go?’ he asked, though he had no right to ask.

  ‘To Nirmala’s,’ she said, after a slight hesitation.

  ‘Is she your friend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Kampong Ayer.’

  A fishing village about two miles from the College.

  Since he was turning her out of his house it would have been an impertinence to ask if she was sure that Nirmala’s parents would take her into theirs.

  ‘What does Nirmala’s father do?’

  ‘He’s a fisherman.’

  Like her own father. Poor therefore. With a house, a hovel, already overcrowded. A more hospitable man than Sandilands, though? And was his wife a kinder woman than Leila?

  ‘How will you get there?’

  ‘I’ll walk.’

  ‘No. I’ll take you in my car.’ He would want to see this place where she would find the welcome that she had not found here. He would want to speak to Nirmala’s father and offer him money.

  She was shaking her head. ‘I’ll walk.’

  She still would not ask him to get out of her way. She had too much dignity.

  He wondered where Leila was; somewhere keeping out of sight. He felt angry and disappointed. What would the people who had voted for her think of her rejection of this child? Most would commend her, for in her place they would have done the same.

  A ludicrous thought occurred to him. He would give up his job here, adopt Mary on his own, and take her to Malaya, to the Cameron Highlands, to join David Anderson.

  He stepped out of her way.

  She thanked him politely as she passed.

  He stood on the verandah watching her go down the steps, walk with head up among the flowers and bushes to the road, and there stride along bravely, swinging her bag. She did not want anyone to think that she was afraid or unhappy.

  Was she thinking of her mother?

  She did not look back. Three students, girls, spoke to her. She replied but did not stop. They looked after her and then they looked towards his house. He skulked behind his orchids.

  Soon Mary was gone out of his sight.

  The students were debating as to whether they should come and tell him about Mary. Perhaps they thought that she was running away and he did not know.

  Leila came out onto the verandah. She looked tired and unhappy. Perhaps she was remembering Christina.

  ‘She’s gone,’ he said, continuing to speak in Malay.

  Leila chose English. ‘Gone? Gone where?’

  ‘To a friend’s house, in Kampong Ayer. The girl’s father is a fisherman.’

  ‘Was she sure that they would take her in? Had they promised?’

  ‘She wasn’t sure. I don’t think they’d promised.’

  ‘Why did you let her go then?’

  ‘Wasn’t I supposed to tell her to go, that she couldn’t stay here? That we wanted to get rid of her?’

  She winced and turned away. ‘Not get rid of her,’ she murmured.

  ‘That’s what it amounts to, Leila.’

  ‘You could at least have offered to drive her there.’

  ‘I did, but she preferred to walk.’

  There was a pause. Leila sighed. The beauty had gone out of his orchids.

  ‘We must find out where this friend of hers lives,’ said Leila.

  ‘Why? We’ve no right to interfere. We’ve washed our hands of it.’

  ‘Don’t speak like that, Andrew. I don’t like sending the child away any more than you do. She could not have stayed here. Don’t you see that? It would have been misinterpreted.’

  He wondered what she meant by that but he would not ask.

  ‘I shall be ashamed all my life,’ he said, and was ashamed of saying it. If he had had the dignity of the little girl he would not have said it. Like her he would have kept quiet.

  ‘But, Andrew, we can still see to it that she’s well looked after.’

  By offering money? That it would be needed and gratefully accepted would not make the offering of it any less shameful.

  In the world there were many children unluckier even than Mary; at least she wouldn’t starve. To ease his conscience about those children he had sent cheques to Oxfam. With the same tainted generosity he could give money to the family looking after Mary; that was, if they were looking after her. Suppose they too were afraid that their kindness would be misinterpreted and had turned her away?

  Another ludicrous thought occurred to him: why not appeal to the Sultan?

  Eighteen

  THE TIME soon came when an appeal had to be made to the Sultan, about a matter more important than the disposal of a child.

  For long anxious days Dr Abad and his colleagues waited for a summons from His Highness and a request from him to form the new government of Savu. That was how they thought the transfer of power would be effected, since there was no constitutional method of do
ing it. It had never occurred to the Sultan or his National Council or his adviser the British Resident that such a situation might one day arise. If he had thought for a moment that his Party would lose so disastrously he would never have sanctioned the elections. It was as simple as that, and it was just as simple that since he had lost so humiliatingly he would pretend that they had never taken place. So Dr Abad and Leila and the rest of the successful candidates waited, holding private meetings at which they lamented about injustice and considered ways of having it redressed, such as an appeal to the Queen of England (as they styled her), the United Nations, or the President of the United States, the self-proclaimed defender of democracy throughout the world.

  Days became weeks. At last a deputation went timorously to the palace but found the gates locked and guards with guns. Another, which included Leila, went to Government House, intending to occupy the Council Chamber for an hour or so as a symbolic gesture, but they were prevented from entering by armed police. They had a grievance but how to have it remedied, indeed how to get it widely known in Savu itself, as well as in other democratic countries? The British press was not interested. The tabloids had never mentioned it. In the Guardian, in the News in Brief column, there had been a paragraph of six lines.

  The British Resident’s help was respectfully sought. Sir Hugo as always was courteous and evasive. With urbane mendacity he pointed out that it had nothing to do with him or with the government of the United Kingdom. Savu was no longer a colony: it was a sovereign State. The Sultan was its sole and supreme ruler. Since it was he who had proposed the elections and had paid for the conducting of them, surely it was for him to say whether the results should stand or be set aside? Dr Abad as an educated man must recognise that; and what was more – here Sir Hugo let a little sharpness come into his voice – Dr Abad must take steps to report to the authorities any of his associates raising their voices in protest or, worse still, their fists. There were no legal grounds for protest. What the Sultan ordained became instant law. Regarding the elections he had changed his mind, as he was entitled to do. Sir Hugo conceded that it might seem at present to be a little unfair but the sense of grievance was illusory and would soon fade. No one could prevent anyone from protesting in private, but public protests of any kind would be unlawful and rigorously punished. If force was used there could be executions. Sir Hugo himself was too sensitive to mention hangings but his deputy, Thomas Harvey, did it emphatically.