They all waited for Sandilands to answer.
‘Miss Hislop is a nurse at the hospital, I believe,’ said Leila. ‘My father says she is very efficient.’
‘Miss Hislop and I are friends, that’s all,’ said Sandilands at last.
Quickly he changed the subject. He asked the little girl about school.
She replied warily. She had a friend called Mary, a white girl who lived at Tanjong Aru. When Christina went to live there she and Mary would have great fun on their bicycles.
He could not have claimed that he had won the child’s trust. She spoke defensively.
Did he deserve to be trusted? He hadn’t lied about Jean but he hadn’t been entirely honest either. Nor was he being honest about the students, for he was using them as a means of getting to know Leila. Worst of all, he was being dishonest about Leila, in that, though he was sure he was in love with her, he still had reservations.
When he was leaving, shortly after eleven, with Christina and the students gone to bed, Leila went down the steps with him to his car. She stood so close that her breast nudged his shoulder. The moon shone on her face. A nightjar called. The Chinese wagered on those calls. The man who guessed the right number won. He thought, if next time it calls three times I shall kiss her goodnight. He waited. She was silent. The bird called: one note, two notes, three notes, and then it stopped. She saw the curious expression on his face. She pressed closer. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘The bird,’ he said, ‘the nightjar. Did you know the Chinese make bets on the number of calls?’
‘Yes. What of it?’
‘I thought if it calls three times I’ll kiss her goodnight.’
‘And how many times did it call?’
‘Three times.’
‘Well?’
Her face was held up, ready to be kissed.
He kissed her, on the cheek.
Then in a great hurry he got into his car and drove away.
A kiss today meant very little. Drunk or sober, he had kissed a lot of women and they had forgotten it the next day or even the next minute. But Leila was different. There was that terrifying Eastern chastity. She would kiss only the man she was going to marry. Did he want to marry her? Yes. But what about those reservations? How could he marry a woman involved in political activities that might be subversive? What if she wanted him to take part in them?
Eleven
HE WAS close to his house, on the narrow track with jungle on either side, when he heard raucous music, added to the hum of mosquitoes, the croak of frogs, and the racket of cicadas. He hoped it was coming from Saidee’s quarters, but alas, parked outside his house was a Mini, its colour lost in the moonlight. He knew it was red and belonged to Jean Hislop. She was making herself at home, though it was half-past eleven. She intended to stay the night. She must have brought the record with her. His, she complained, were either too high-class or old-fashioned.
In a panic he thought of reversing all the way to the public road and spending the night in a hotel, but there Jean was, on the verandah, giving him a wave, with a glass in her other hand. Her face and arms gleamed. She had put on cream to repel the mosquitoes. With her fair hair she had tender skin.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ she cried. ‘Not at the Shamrock, I hope.’ She laughed, coarsely.
He had often noticed that though she would parade naked in front of him she nevertheless had a curious shyness in relation to sex. She tried to disguise it with obscene words and gestures. For all her toughness she was vulnerable. If he told her what he had been rehearsing to tell her she might go to pieces.
Did he love Leila that much? More important, did Leila love him that much? She had let him kiss her and, being half-Oriental, she would never have done that if she didn’t love him; but, because she was half-Oriental, he could not confidently predict her reactions. It would be ironical indeed if he suffered the unpleasantness of telling Jean that what was between them, whatever it was, was finished, only to find that Leila had been flirting with him. After all, she was half-Occidental too.
He got out of the car and went up the steps to the verandah, slowly.
‘My, we’re all dressed up,’ cried Jean. ‘You must have been at the Shamrock, or was it Lady Mortimer’s? Same difference, eh? Lots of high-class whores there too.’
Though staunchly British, she liked joking about the stuffiness of those who frequented the Residency.
‘Let’s go inside, for God’s sake,’ she cried. ‘These little buggers are biting my boobs off. There’ll be nothing left for you.’ Again she laughed.
Was it to his advantage that she was drunk or nearly so? Should he wait till she was drunker still? She mightn’t then completely understand what he was saying to her and so her reception of it would be that much less furious or distressful.
She was wearing a thin white dress that hardly covered her thighs: just that, a brassiere, and skimpy briefs. The mixture of scent and sweat was aphrodisical. He remembered Salim’s slavish praise of her. Golf Club and Yacht Club members envied him having her soft on him. They would be incredulous, and disgusted, if they heard that he had jettisoned her in favour of a coloured woman: for they would not take into account that Leila’s mother had been white. Two days ago he would have agreed with them.
Jean poured him a whisky and handed him the glass. She replenished her own.
‘How can I sit on your lap if you don’t sit down?’ she asked.
He couldn’t bear the whining banalities of the song.
‘Would you mind turning that off?’ he said.
‘Anything to oblige.’
She did it and hurried back to him.
He didn’t want her on his lap but couldn’t very well keep standing.
He sat down on a basket chair: he sighed and it creaked.
Jean at once plumped herself on his lap. There were more sighs and creaks. She was no lightweight. Her bottom was soft, warm, and damp. How could he help feeling roused? Especially as she kept squirming and giving him whiskied kisses.
‘You’ve jaloused I’m staying the night,’ she whispered.
She knew he liked using old Scots words.
It was his opportunity to tell her she must go. He let it pass.
‘Have you heard about the new regulation?’ she asked, indignantly. ‘I just heard this evening. Only natives to get top jobs in future. So you’ll never be Principal and I’ll never be Matron. Do you know what I say? I say, go to hell; stick your jobs up your arse. If I met His Fatness I’d tell him to his face. I’ve been thinking, Andy, why don’t we pack it in and go home. Edinburgh’s a lot nicer place to live than this hot stinking midden.’
He imagined himself walking along Princes Street with her. He would be given many admiring, envious glances.
Then he imagined Leila as his companion. The glances would be admiring, yes, but perhaps not envious.
His body was intent on betraying him.
She knew it. Those squirms informed her.
‘Let’s get into bed,’ she whispered. ‘Would you like to feel how ready I am?’
She took his hand – it went with an awful willingness – and pushed it inside her briefs.
She got up then and pulled him towards the bedroom. He resisted but not so that she noticed.
Even if, he thought desperately, I have sex with her – it could hardly be called making love – it will not commit me. I’ve done it before and never felt committed. She’s the one who’s always wanted it. With her in the state she is, and me in the state she’s got me in, how can it be avoided and how can I be blamed? And need it have any more significance than the upside-down mating of those chichaks on the ceiling?
It was soon over though she did her best to prolong it.
‘Do you know something?’ she said, as they lay side by side under the net. ‘I stopped taking the pill two weeks ago. I was going to ask you to use a french letter. I brought one with me.’
He was dismayed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?
’
‘I thought if I got pregnant it would get you to make up your mind about us getting married. They all keep warning me that you’re the kind that’ll never get married. You’re a big selfish bugger satisfied with your books, your records, your orchids, and your fly visits to the Shamrock. I tell them they’re wrong. They don’t know that your grandfather was a Free Kirk minister and that your mother brought you up to hate women.’
The chichaks were making the shrill noise that had given them their name. He imagined they were being derisive.
She went on: ‘I could tell that a bit of you was thinking it was sinful, us not being married. To be absolutely honest a bit of me too. I’m Scottish as well, you know. But it will be different when we’re married, won’t it? It’ll be better too.’
That was all very well, but she had cheated by not using a contraceptive. Fair-minded people would say that that absolved him from responsibility.
Twelve
JEAN HAD to be on duty at the hospital early next morning. She got up and had her shower while he was still in bed. She prattled happily to Saidee, saying that Tuan and she were soon returning to Edinburgh where they would get married, but Saidee wasn’t to worry, they would see to it that she got a good job before they left.
In the bedroom Sandilands overheard and groaned. He was in love with Leila, he would remember her till he died, but he would have to marry Jean. He just wasn’t heroic enough or caddish enough to do otherwise.
After Jean was gone he thought of telephoning Leila to say that he was sorry but he wouldn’t be able to go with her to Government House. As far as he knew he hadn’t been included in the invitation. His presence might be resented, especially if, as Leila suspected, the appointment was really with His Highness and not with his secretary.
He had the telephone in his hand to make the call but put it down again. There were the students to consider. If his testimony could help them he ought to be prepared to give it. What he should do, therefore, was accompany her to Government House and then, whether or not their mission succeeded, let her know, as discreetly as he could, that their relationship was ended. He owed it to Jean but also, in greater measure, to Leila herself, who might well become an important person in her country, helping to bring about a democracy of sorts. Involvement with a foreigner like himself could be a handicap to her. Savu Town being a small place it was probable they would see each other again but only from a distance, and in any case were not Jean and he going to resign soon and return home to Edinburgh?
These were his thoughts as he shaved that morning, gazing into the mirror. Those were his eyes staring at him, but he did not trust them. They were assuring him that it would be easy enough to give up Leila, for wouldn’t he at the same time be giving up the probability of grievous trouble for himself? They were lying, those eyes. He would give her up but it would be the hardest and most painful thing he had ever done. When he was an old man, with grown-up grandchildren, he would remember it with anguish.
As he got dressed, jacket, trousers, and tie, and as he drove into town, he kept telling himself that he had made the right decision.
The Chinese girl looked up from her desk and smiled at him. Was her smile different from those she had given him yesterday? Did it show a more intimate interest in him? Had her employer spoken of him in affectionate terms?
The moment he saw Leila joy vanquished all doubts and scruples. Jean was forgotten. It was like the end of a race, with his boat first past the last buoy. There was the same transcendent sense of triumph, of white sails, blue sky, sunlit sea, and rainbow spray. Her sari was blue as the sky. Her earrings were blobs of white coral. Her teeth were white as shells.
‘You’re early,’ she said.
It was as if she had said, ‘I love you.’
He replied, ‘I didn’t want to be late,’ but what he was really saying was that he loved her.
Was the sari to impress His Highness?
One of her shoulders was fully exposed. It seemed a shade or two darker than he had remembered.
This was strange, this was abominable. He loved her, he wanted her, he needed her, and yet here he was ready to find fault with her. Was there something wrong with him, or did all lovers behave like this?
She picked up a black briefcase from the desk. He took it from her. Their hands touched. They smiled at each other. They were giving promises, the kind that could not be spoken, the kind that he had never given to Jean Hislop.
Going down the stairs he was aware of the stink from the drains, in spite of his companion’s perfume. Why had he not noticed it on his way up?
Jean would have cried, ‘My God, what a guff!’ and held her nose.
Leila might have been walking through a garden of roses.
‘Do you never think of moving to the New Town?’ he asked.
That was where other lawyers had their offices.
‘My clients couldn’t afford a lawyer who had an office in the New Town.’
Her father’s surgery was in the Old Town; his patients too were poor.
Sandilands’ own sympathy for the poor had always been theoretical and distant. He sent cheques to charities.
They walked along the crowded narrow street to where her car was parked. Almost everyone they passed greeted her warmly. This was a popularity that Sandilands was sure she had deserved but somehow it made him uneasy.
‘Have you ever met His Highness?’ he asked.
‘Once.’
‘At the palace?’
‘At the British Residency.’
‘Oh.’
They were then at her car, a white Saab.
‘Why don’t we walk?’ she asked. ‘It’s not far and we’ve got plenty of time.’
‘All right.’
But he wasn’t sure whether to feel pleased or embarrassed when she took his arm. The way to Government House lay through wide streets with not many people in them and those people were professional men not likely to gawk but it was still an ordeal – no, that was ridiculous, how could it be an ordeal to be seen in public arm-in-arm with the woman he loved?
Leila looked happy and carefree.
He despised himself. He was a worthless, humourless, treacherous, hypocritical bugger: how could admirable women like Jean and Leila love him? His only distinction was that he could play golf well, but what did that amount to? The ability to hit a small ball further and straighter than most other men. He was also competent and bold in sailing a small boat, but there were members of the Yacht Club more competent and bolder, and some of them were boozers and lechers.
Government House was a magnificent building, mostly of marble. A city with a population of millions would have been proud of it. For a country with fewer than half a million citizens it was pretentious and grandiose, but nonetheless impressive, with its enormous air-conditioned entrance hall that contained several fountains and real trees, its marble staircase, and its many sparkling chandeliers.
There were armed guards, in red-and-white uniforms and tall turbans. Even so they looked small. Leila was inches taller.
The chief receptionist, to whom they had to report, was dressed in morning coat and striped trousers, as if for a wedding. He was very deferential to Leila, but seemed upset by Sandilands’ presence. It indicated that the meeting was indeed with His Highness and Sandilands had not been invited.
A servant was summoned to conduct them to Room 138.
‘I’m not supposed to be here,’ said Sandilands, as he and Leila went up the grand staircase.
‘But you’ll stay with me, Andrew.’
‘Of course.’
But how could he if half a dozen of those turbaned midgets were ordered to throw him out?
Upstairs Leila stopped at a large imposing door, of mahogany, brass, and leather, evidently the entrance to an important chamber. ‘This is where the National Council meets,’ she said, scornfully, and pushed it open.
Sandilands followed her in and was astonished, although he had heard that this room w
as one of the wonders of Savu. He was reminded of the interior of the Taj Mahal; the walls here, too, glittered with semi-precious stones. It was indeed more like a tomb than a debating chamber. No voices would ever be raised here in angry debate. There was a chair like a throne, higher than all the others. It was cushioned in royal purple, the others in red. A large portrait of His Highness in resplendent military uniform – where had he got all those medals? – looked down, like a god.
Leila’s eyes were glittering too.
‘This is where our Parliament will meet one day,’ she said.
‘Isn’t it a bit grandiose?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s a show-place. Can you imagine any serious debates taking place here?’
‘Yes, I can: when we have an elected Parliament.’
That was to say, when pigs could fly.
‘A Parliament, properly elected, represents the people,’ she said. ‘It is right therefore that it should conduct its business in appropriate surroundings.’
It was like a bit out of a political speech, pompous and not very convincing.
This was a Leila he had not seen before. He should have known that she existed. He got a glimpse of her as she would be in, say, ten years’ time: dominating, self-righteous, ruthless, always on the side of what was right.
She saw the dismay on his face. Smiling, she patted his cheek. ‘Don’t forget I’m also a good cook.’
So she was able so easily to read his mind. She had more humour than he. She could laugh at herself. All his life he had found that difficult. What had his mother once said to him? ‘You’re getting more like your grandfather every day.’
They went out into the corridor where the servant was waiting glumly. He led them along what seemed half a mile of corridor that got more and more narrow, into a part of the building, remote and silent.
They came to Room 138. The servant knocked and entered. They followed. It was a small room but expensively furnished. There was no bed but a couch that could have been used as one.
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