Jean took charge. She got Mary ready for bed and prepared supper for her. She was kind but not sentimentally so, as if she realised that, so soon in their acquaintance, to kiss and hug would have been going too far.
‘You’re right, Andrew,’ she said, when she joined him in the living-room. ‘She is a proud little girl. She knows how to be grateful without being obsequious. They can be a very obsequious lot, these Savuans. How does she manage to be so special? With such a background too!’
For the rest of the evening they sat well apart, sipping whisky, listening to chichaks, and not talking much. Jean was content for herself, but because she loved him she had to feel some of his suffering. It was real and intolerable but it had in it its own cure. He was not yet looking for consolation but he was realising that it was to be found. Every time he looked at her he realised that. Without being conceited she knew her own value. So, though she now and then shared his agony, like the stab of a recurrent toothache, and was glad that she was sharing it, she felt also a soothing confidence that once these horrible events were past they would find happiness together; indeed their future happiness would be all the more precious and secure because of these present horrors.
It would depend, of course, on what happened to Leila. Should she hope that Leila would be pardoned? Should she pray for that? Those were questions she preferred not to answer.
Twenty-Six
JEAN HAD much experience of telling people that their loved ones were dying or dead, and had acquired the necessary tact and fortitude. She had learned that some had to be given the sad news with a touch of sternness, otherwise they would have broken down. Andrew was one of those. Therefore, that night, when he showed signs of lapsing into maudlin self-pity, only partly induced by the amount of whisky she had let him consume, she rebuked him fondly. When they were in bed, naked, and he showed a rather pathetic desire to make love, she wouldn’t have it: not because it would have been adultery, his wife being still alive, but because it would have been on his part an expression of pity for himself and not of love for her. He might even have addressed her as Leila.
Next morning, and all that long anxious day, she kept close to him and dealt with any awkward situation that arose. For instance, that nuisance Mr Srinavasan, whom she detested, called at the house, ostensibly to discuss with the Principal some College business, but really to see for himself if it was true that Sandilands, whose wife at that point was still alive, so far as was known, was in an adulterous relationship with his former lover, the fair-haired Miss Hislop, with whom Mr Srinavasan would have dearly loved to have an adulterous relationship.
‘Mr Sandilands has other matters on his mind,’ she said, brusquely.
‘But this, dear lady, is a matter of considerable importance. I am Principal Lecturer of Mathematics and prospective Principal of College, and this concerns arrangements for forthcoming examinations.’
‘I am sure it can wait, Mr Srinavasan.’
And he had to go, thinking not about the examinations but about her lily-white bosom. He knew it wasn’t really lily-white. He had once seen it almost totally exposed on the beach and it had been as brown as his sandals; as indeed had been her buttocks, also immodestly but thrillingly revealed in part. But he liked to think of them as lily-white and had so described them in a poem he had written, in Tamil.
A deputation of students came shyly to the house. They were taken aback to be received by her, especially as she was so brisk about sending them away again.
‘We wish to convey to Mr Sandilands our dreadful sympathy.’
‘Dreadful? You must mean something else. On Mr Sandilands’ behalf I thank you. He intends to call a meeting of all the students very soon. Till then he wishes not to be disturbed.’
‘We understand. Is it true he will be leaving the College?’
‘We must all wait and see.’
They went off, muttering sorrowfully in Malay and Cantonese.
‘What did you tell them?’ asked Sandilands, with a sigh.
‘That you would be calling a meeting of all the students very soon. That is what you intend, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Before you do, Andrew, we’ll have to talk about it. I don’t suppose I could be present. We’ll see. There could be clypes among them, yes, there could, so you’ll have to be careful what you say, not just to them but to everybody. There’s a great deal of goodwill for you, Andrew. It wouldn’t do to spoil it.’
An hour before she had spoken on the telephone to the Director of Finance, Jack Halliday, an Englishman, at his house, since his office in Government House was in the hands of the rebels. She had elicited that, on the orders of His Highness himself, Mr Sandilands, his golfing friend, was to be treated with unprecedented generosity. The sum to be paid him for the curtailment of his contract was ten times what it legally should have been: it was therefore considerable. Halliday had not been able to hide his amazement and envy. Also Sandilands’ journey home was to be first class all the way. Jean’s own would be economy class but she would pay the difference so that they could travel together. There would be free champagne but any toasts would of course be low-key. The child’s expenses were also to be borne by the State: a not negligible sum had been bestowed on her.
‘Wish I was a champion golfer,’ Halliday had said.
‘But, Jack, His Highness can easily afford it.’
‘That he can.’
‘And really, between ourselves, you could say he’s the cause of Andrew having to resign. I mean, speaking in confidence, he has it in his power to pardon them all.’
‘He won’t do that, Jean. Don’t think it.’
‘I know, but, again in confidence, it will be a bit thick having them hanged when all they’ll have done is stick up for their rights. I simply had to say that, Jack.’
‘I understand, Jean, but I wouldn’t go about saying it.’
‘Of course not. I suppose some bad-minded people are saying it’s done me a good turn, and Andrew too, if we’re going to be brutally frank.’
‘It’s an ill wind, Jean.’
‘You could call this a hurricane. Thanks, Jack. Give my regards to Hilda.’
Though she felt very pleased, indeed exultant, about Andrew’s sudden affluence, she was cautious when telling him about it. What was money, her tone sorrowfully implied, when life and death were involved. But as she spoke she was reflecting that in Edinburgh they would be not just well-off, they would be almost rich. She could have a nursing-home of her own and the semi-detached villa might after all be wholly detached.
She dealt fairly with Saidee and the other servants. If Saidee felt aggrieved on Leila’s account that was fair enough so long as she didn’t show it offensively. Each servant was promised three months’ pay. Tuan did not know who would take his place but he hoped, and Jean herself hoped too, that whoever he was he would keep them on. Saidee then said peevishly that if it was the Indian Tuan she would rather go back to her village than work for people as black as burnt toast.
When Jean, to amuse him, told Andrew about his dark-skinned ugly little amah’s absurd prejudice he disappointed her by missing the point altogether. He muttered something about Saidee’s having been a devoted servant to him and Leila.
He kept mumbling that he would have to call Alec Maitland to find out what was happening now that the soldiers had arrived. She offered to make the call for him, but rather huffily he insisted on making it himself.
‘All right, Andrew, but for goodness’ sake keep calm. Remember it’s not Alec’s fault. Be careful. You never know who might be listening in.’
She sat with her face close to his so that she could hear what Alec said.
‘This is Andrew, Alec.’
‘Hello, Andrew. How are you?’
‘What’s happening? What’s going to happen? I know the soldiers have come. I heard the planes last night.’
Jean frowned and drew in her breath in warning.
‘So far as I know, Andrew, an u
ltimatum is going to be delivered to Abad today. He’ll be given a few hours to think it over: either surrender or be forced out. By the way, those who were occupying the hospital have given themselves up.’
Jean smiled, demurely.
‘What’s been done to them?’ asked Sandilands.
Jean shook her head: that wasn’t at the moment relevant.
‘They’re in jail.’
‘How many?’
‘About thirty.’
‘Is there room for so many?’
Another shake of Jean’s head: no sarcasm, it meant.
‘It’ll be extended, I have no doubt. Is Jean with you?’
She grabbed the telephone. ‘Yes, Alec, I’m here, listening. I know you won’t mind. As you can imagine poor Andrew’s in a state. It’s making him quite ill. Suppose they reject the ultimatum, what then?’
‘They’ll be forced out. Soon after dawn. Colonel Anstruther who’s in command thinks it shouldn’t take longer than half an hour. He was surprised at how few of them there are. He said he’d been led to believe there were hundreds.’
‘He’ll do his best, I hope, to avoid serious casualties?’ She was speaking as a nurse.
‘Yes, of course.’
Sandilands snatched the telephone back and shouted: ‘Has anyone told him what this so-called rebellion is about?’
‘That wouldn’t interest him, Andrew,’ said Maitland, quietly. ‘He’s a soldier. He just obeys orders.’
Jean was shaking her head vigorously. Sandilands was to keep off that subject.
‘Telephone communications with Government House have been cut off,’ said Maitland.
It was a hint that it would be useless now for Sandilands to try and speak to Leila again.
‘I’m glad you’ve got Jean with you, Andrew. She’ll see you through.’
She smiled and nodded.
‘If there are to be executions,’ said Sandilands, ‘if some are still alive after the colonel has carried out his orders, how soon will they take place?’
‘For God’s sake, Andrew, don’t ask me that.’
‘I’m asking it, Alec.’
In spite of Jean’s frown.
‘There won’t be any protracted trials, that’s for sure.’
‘How soon, Alec?’
‘Days, I would think.’
‘How many?’
‘How would I know that, Andrew? I’m just a policeman. Two? Three?’
‘And the British Government will do nothing to stop them?’
‘How could it? Savu’s not a colony. It’s a sovereign State.’
Jean again grabbed the telephone. This time it was easy. Sandilands’ grip had gone slack.
‘Thanks, Alec. We’re grateful. If there are any developments would you let us know?’
‘Yes, I certainly will. Do you intend to go home with Andrew?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m glad. What about the little girl? Is it settled about her?’
‘We’re taking her with us.’
‘I heard she was to go into the orphanage.’
‘That was suggested but we wouldn’t have it. We feel we owe it to Leila. Anyway, she’s a great little girl and it’ll be fun looking after her.’
‘Have you considered, Jean, that they might want to make a fuss of you in the UK? There could be headlines.’
‘Don’t worry. If there’s any publicity of that sort I’ll see that Andrew is kept well away from it. Nobody’s going to pester him with stupid questions, if I can help it.’
‘Good for you, Jean. I hope to see both of you before you leave.’
‘Surely, though, there won’t be any going-away parties?’
‘No. You’ll be living in Edinburgh?’
‘Yes. We’ll be buying a house there. Be sure to look us up when you go home yourself. Perth’s not that far. Bring Kate. I’d like to meet her again.’
She put the telephone down, thoughtfully. When it next spoke what would it have to say?
‘We just wait now,’ she murmured.
Twenty-Seven
WHEN IT was not quite daylight Maitland telephoned. It was Jean who rushed to answer. She was wearing a dressing-gown. She had been out of bed for over an hour. ‘Yes?’ She was panting, on the verge of hysteria and tears. The hours of waiting, all through the night, had been almost too much for her.
Sandilands was asleep. She had given him sleeping pills.
‘It’s you, Jean?’
‘Yes. Any news?’
‘It’s all over. I’ll leave it to you to tell Andrew. Where is he?’
‘He’s asleep. What have I to tell him?’
‘They came rushing out but not to give themselves up. Damned fools. Suicidal. Firing guns. They must have been firing them into the air or their aim was rotten, for none of the soldiers was hit. The soldiers didn’t know that at the time. They didn’t fire into the air. That’s not their way.’
‘Was anybody hurt?’
‘Three were killed, eight wounded, how badly I don’t know yet. Abad himself wasn’t hurt.’
‘So he’ll be hanged?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Jean found it hard to ask what had to be asked. ‘And Leila?’
Maitland found it just as hard to answer. ‘She was one of those shot.’
‘Shot?’
‘She’s dead, Jean. She was at the front. She didn’t have a gun. She was holding that damned silly petition. If Andrew wants to see her for God’s sake tell him he can’t, it won’t be allowed. Anyway, he wouldn’t want to. I saw her. A bloody mess. I don’t envy you having to tell him.’
She was sobbing. ‘I can tell him because I love him.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ But the Deputy Commissioner was frowning, as he put the telephone down. He did not quite understand.
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM POLYGON BY ROBIN JENKINS
POVERTY CASTLE
Poverty Castle is an absorbing work of contrasts and subtle irony centred around an idealistic family in Argyll. A compelling novel, it deals with human nature, as always with Jenkins, and the socialism of industrial Glasgow.
SOME KIND OF GRACE
Two British travellers, Donald Kemp and Margaret Duncan, have disappeared in the wild mountainous region of northern Afghanistan; a terrain into which western Europeans seldom penetrate. The authorities in Kabul say that they have been murdered by the inhabitants of a small and primitive village and that retribution has already been exacted in the form of wholesale reprisals. John McLeod, a friend of the missing couple who has spent some years in Afghanistan as a diplomat, is deeply suspicious of these explanations. He returns to Kabul and starts his own enquiries, but everywhere he is met with obstruction and evasion, though McLeod is deterred neither by the devious courtesies of local officials nor by the discreet negations of his own embassy. The quest becomes an obsession in which physical pursuit is linked with a personal desire to discover the truth of Donald and Margaret’s whole strange relationship.
DUST ON THE PAW
Abdul Wahab, an Afghan science teacher, is eagerly anticipating the arrival of his British fiancee, Laura Johnstone, in the capital of his home country. Having met while Abdul was a student at Manchester University, the couple are eager to settle down in Isban. However, Abdul is not the only one interested in Miss Johnstone’s arrival. Prince Naim, one of the sons of the king, sees the marriage as a symbol of a successful union between East and West, and in his hurry to cement this union, promotes Abdul into a position of power he is far from ready for. Meanwhile, the employees at The British Embassy are in turmoil at this new arrival and all the disaster they are sure this mixed marriage will bring.
LEILA
Robin Jenkins returned to the Far East in the 1950s for “Leila”, a tender love story involving a Scottish teacher, Andrew Sandilands, and Leila, the exotically beautiful daughter of a local politician. Leila is, like her father, implicated in the revolutionary tremors shaking the small country and the lovers are soon torn betw
een the small-minded mores of the expatriate community and Leila’s determined efforts to play a role in her country’s future. The masked oppression of the regime forms the backdrop to a novel where personal dramas collide with the legacies of colonialism.
THE PEARL FISHERS
When a family of travelling pearl-fishers arrives in a small Scottish town, the inhabitants react in their own different ways, from warmth to outright rejection. But how will they respond when love seems to blossom between local man Gavin Hamilton and the beautiful pearl-fisher Effie? The Pearl-fishers is a classic love story and the master storyteller’s last novel.
Leila Page 25
