Leila

by Robin Jenkins

  Leila came back from the mission to the Residency trembling with anger.

  ‘We are to do nothing,’ she cried, with passion. ‘We are to suffer in silence one of the most iniquitous injustices ever perpetrated.’

  Sandilands could not help smiling at such hyperbole. ‘What else can you do?’ he asked. ‘It’s the law.’

  ‘You will see what we can do.’

  He didn’t, not then, feel alarmed. This was Savu, whose people were renowned for their good nature and complacency. They would grumble but they would laugh as they grumbled. All that bother about elections, just to have them cancelled. They would make jokes about it. The white expatriates would chuckle. His Highness, they would say, had certainly dished them.

  One expatriate, though, was not amused. At the Yacht Club Alec Maitland spoke angrily to Sandilands. ‘I like to be in the right if there’s trouble.’

  Still, if ordered to use force to quell protestors he would obey, that being his duty. That they were in the right and he in the wrong would vex but not hinder him.

  At last the suspense was ended. The Sultan had made up his mind. One morning in the two Savu newspapers, with appropriately bold headlines, he announced his decision. The recent elections were declared null and void, because of irregularities; these, though, were not specified. He expressed regret and disappointment. Perhaps in the future, when the people were more mature in their political opinions and understood better the responsibilities of democracy another attempt might be made. In the meantime the people were to go about their business as before. Public demonstrations of dissent would not be tolerated.

  Leila was indignant with Sandilands because he took it so coolly.

  ‘But, Leila,’ he said, ‘it was always likely. I’m surprised that you’re all surprised.’

  ‘We are not surprised. We suspected this would happen, but we like to trust people, even despots. He gave his word. He gave it often.’ She had documentary proof in her hand.

  ‘Put not your trust in princes.’

  ‘Don’t laugh at me, Andrew. If I had been attacked or raped would you laugh? Well that is how I feel. I feel violated.’

  Openly he sympathised, but was he, deep in his mind, relieved that there was to be no new government, with her a prominent member of it? She would now reject the Sultan’s offer of a post in his Government. Probably it had been withdrawn. He would have her to himself.

  There was still the matter of the trial of Mary’s mother. He had hoped that she would hand over the case to another lawyer. She would have done so if the People’s Party had formed the new government. She would have been too busy with other duties.

  The matter of Mary herself had been quickly settled.

  Nineteen

  WHEN MARY had left, Sandilands and Leila had driven to Kampong Ayer that evening. They had stepped carefully, in lamplight, along the wooden walkways on stilts that served as streets. Children shouted out to them where Nirmala’s parents lived and followed them to it. People came to their doors to stare at these strange visitors. There were smells, of fish being cooked, of ordure, of salt water, and of engine oil. Leila had been there before, briefly, when campaigning in the election. This time her mood was subdued and she was dressed to suit in dark blue. Nevertheless she had suggested that Sandilands should leave the talking to her. These people were her compatriots. She knew them better than he ever could. His Malay might be adequate, as far as meaning went, for their vocabulary wasn’t extensive, but it could not reach their feelings. They would assume that he considered himself superior, for didn’t all white Tuans think that? Moreover, with no children of his own, why was he so interested in a Savu girl of ten? Virgins of that age not so long ago had been bought and sold, though not usually by white men, it was fair to say. So, though his intentions were honourable, if not altogether clear, even to Leila herself, these simple folk might look on him with suspicion if he offered money. Besides, they knew Leila as a leader of the People’s Party and had probably voted for her. Also she was known as the lawyer defending Mary’s mother.

  All that she had said in the car.

  ‘All right, Leila,’ he had said, ‘just so long as you let Mary make the choice.’

  ‘I won’t try to dissuade her, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘She’s not sure of you, Leila. You’re too grand for her.’

  ‘Whereas you, a white Tuan, aren’t too grand for her?’

  ‘She trusts me.’

  ‘Really, Andrew?’

  ‘Yes. God knows why but she does.’ So, he could have added, had Christina.

  Nirmala’s father and mother, forewarned by the shrieks of children, had put on their best clothes and tidied their house. This had two rooms. They received Sandilands and Leila in the larger one, while the rest of their family, including Mary, hid away in the other.

  Mr Andau was small and skinny, with rotten teeth; his wife was fat, with greasy hair. They squatted on the floor, wearing long skirts, white in his case, red in hers. His shirt was also white but grubby. Her blouse was green, with glittering buttons. There was fish cooking in a black pot on a stove. A mangy cat mewed. Children giggled behind the partition. The lamp flickered and gave poor light.

  Sandilands and Leila were given rickety cane chairs. Leila sat on hers as if it were a throne. When she was unsure of herself she became haughty and grand.

  Even so, they were honoured to have her, the famous daughter of Dr Abad, as their guest. Her frowns pleased them more than Sandilands’ smiles.

  To be fair to Leila, and himself, it was easier for them to befriend the child. She was in the same social class as themselves. They had few possessions and few responsibilities. They had no position of importance, no reputation to preserve.

  It still remained true that they would need compassion and courage to give shelter and protection to a child whose mother had committed a horrible murder and whose relations had disowned her. They had too their own superstitious fears to overcome.

  Leila explained, calmly and lucidly; more like a lawyer in court, he thought, than a concerned human being.

  He waited, ready to intervene.

  They listened humbly to the beautiful, rich, perfumed lady.

  She understood, she said, that they were poor, with their own children to feed – they had seven – so she and Tuan, her husband, were prepared to pay them thirty dollars a month if they agreed to look after Mary. She would benefit from it as well as their own children.

  Mrs Andau kept glancing at Leila with sad, anxious eyes. At last she interrupted, shyly, to ask if it was true that Leila’s own daughter had been killed by a car.

  Yes, said Leila, it was true.

  Mrs Andau said that her little boy, aged six, had died of a disease.

  There was silence then. Water slapped against the piles on which the house was built. The cat scratched itself.

  ‘We will give the child a home even if there is no money,’ said Mr Andau.

  His wife nodded. ‘She is a good child.’

  ‘But we think,’ he went on, showing his bad teeth in a sad grin, ‘that it would be better for her if you were to take her to your house. Look at where we live.’ He waved his hand at the bare room. He wrinkled his nose to show that he was aware of the stinks. He patted the thin cat. ‘She told us about the wonderful house you live in.’

  His wife sighed. There was little envy in it but great wonder.

  Leila looked at Sandilands, begging him to tell them why it was not possible for her and him to adopt a child who would be out of place in their ‘wonderful’ house.

  He shook his head dourly. He would not make it easy for her. He himself was willing to take the child, whatever the consequences.

  Behind the partition the children were strangely silent.

  ‘What does Mary herself want?’ asked Sandilands.

  Leila had her eyes closed. She seemed to be praying.

  Mr Andau grinned ruefully and scratched his neck. He meant who in her right mind, even a c
hild of ten, would prefer his hovel to their mansion.

  ‘Shouldn’t we ask her?’ said Sandilands.

  Leila opened her eyes. ‘But, Andrew,’ she said quietly, in English, ‘won’t she feel obliged to say that she’d rather stay here with her friends. So as not to offend them, I mean.’

  ‘But isn’t that what you want, Leila. Wouldn’t that please you?’

  She astonished him by saying, in some agitation: ‘No, it isn’t what I want.’

  ‘Are you saying that you want her to come back with us?’

  ‘Yes, that is what I’m saying.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, very sure. Don’t be angry with me, Andrew. I was wrong, very wrong.’

  Was it the prayer that had changed her mind? There was so much about her that he had still to learn.

  ‘You tell them, Andrew?’

  Did she think his Malay was adequate? He hated himself for the question, though it hadn’t been spoken.

  He addressed Mr Andau, speaking slowly and carefully. ‘If Mary says that she would like to come back with us would you be offended?’

  The skinny little man and his fat wife laughed at the Tuan’s foolishness. They were fond of the child. If good fortune came to her they would be pleased, not offended.

  Mr Andau called her name.

  As they waited Leila took Sandilands’ hand and squeezed it.

  Mary came in, shy but resolute. She smiled at Sandilands and also, less hopefully, at Leila.

  ‘We’ve come to take you back with us,’ said Sandilands, and added, ‘This time for good.’

  ‘For good’ meant while he was alive, a promise stretching out for thirty or more years. Would he be able to keep such a promise? If there was any doubt should he have given it?

  Leila was smiling in a way that he did not quite trust; somehow it wasn’t personal enough. She was pledged to save the whole country, not simply one little girl.

  Both of them waited for Mary to answer.

  It was to Sandilands she looked and spoke: would her friend Nirmala be allowed to visit her?

  Yes, he replied, and any other friend she wished.

  Twenty

  ONE EVENING, after Mary had gone to bed, Leila looked up from some papers she was studying which had to do with the forthcoming trial, and said, with a smile, that there were to be demonstrations next Tuesday, to protest against the annulment of the election results. They would take place all over the country but naturally that in Savu Town would be by far the largest: hundreds would take part. They would gather on the padang besar and then march to Government House where a petition signed by thousands of people would be handed in by her father, to be forwarded to His Highness.

  Sandilands was surprised and a little dismayed. He had thought, had hoped, that they had put behind them their anger and disappointment. Her forecast of hundreds, he felt sure, would prove to be a great exaggeration, but he kept his cynicism to himself. As her husband, though, he had to voice his concern for her safety.

  ‘Aren’t public demonstrations against the law?’ he asked.

  ‘Against a dictatorial decree.’

  ‘But still the law. There could be arrests.’

  ‘It will be a peaceful demonstration but we are prepared for arrests.’

  Arrests would make good publicity; if, that was, anywhere in the world anyone was interested.

  ‘Will you be taking part?’ he asked.

  ‘I shall be at the front,’ she said, proudly.

  ‘Will there be other women?’

  ‘Are you suggesting that because I am a woman I should stay at home?’

  ‘I would certainly prefer you to stay at home. I don’t want you arrested. I don’t want you hurt. I love you.’

  ‘Could you go on loving me if I sat at home like a coward and left my friends to face the danger?’

  ‘So you admit there might be danger?’

  ‘There’s always danger, but don’t worry. There will be laughter, not anger.’

  If so it wouldn’t be very effective as a protest.

  ‘If there is trouble,’ she said, ‘it won’t be us who will cause it.’

  ‘I’d like to go with you.’

  ‘No, Andrew. This isn’t your struggle.’

  ‘If it’s yours then it’s mine too.’

  If he forbade her would she obey him? She had once said that she was bound to, by her marriage vows.

  ‘There’s one favour I’d like to ask you, Andrew. Please don’t forbid your students to take part.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have any right to do that. They’re not children and this is their country.’

  ‘Thank you, Andrew. Don’t look so glum. It will be all right. We might even succeed. His Highness might change his mind again when he sees so many of his people pleading with him.’

  It was possible. The Sultan was a golfer. Golfers were accustomed to accept their mistakes and try again. But the demonstrators would have to be peaceful: no insults, no threats, no blows. It was as well that Savuans were pacifists. Even the headhunters of the past had borne no ill-will towards those whose heads they had cut off.

  Next day in his office Sandilands had a telephone call from the Deputy Commissioner.

  Maitland’s voice was gloomy. ‘Hello, Andrew. Maitland here. You’ll have heard about the demonstration arranged for next Tuesday.’

  ‘Yes. A peaceful demonstration.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt Abad and your wife intend it to be peaceful, but there could be others with different ideas. Anyway, even if it’s peaceful it will be breaking the law.’

  ‘Not much of a law, Alec.’

  ‘Maybe not, but the law just the same. They’ve been warned that the leaders will be arrested.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that provoke trouble?’

  ‘I’m a policeman. I don’t make laws. I uphold them. That’s what I’m paid for. Anyone arrested could be in jail for years. The reason I’ve telephoned is to advise you to keep your wife at home. This is serious, Andrew.’

  ‘How can I keep her at home?’

  ‘Order her to. You’re her husband. She’ll obey you.’

  ‘Not in this matter. Anyway, I think they’ve got a right to demonstrate.’

  ‘I hope to Christ you’re not so stupid as to take part yourself.’

  ‘I’d like to but Leila says it’s none of my business.’

  ‘Good for her. I like her. I respect her. You know that. If I was you I’d lock her in a room next Tuesday.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Never more so in my life. It could all go wrong. Keep her at home, Andrew.’

  Then he hung up.

  Sandilands told Leila of the conversation. All she said was: ‘If he was given an order to shoot unarmed people would he feel obliged to obey it?’

  Twenty-One

  IF IT had been Scotland, Tuesday would probably have been a day of wind, rain, and cold, and the demonstration would either have been called off or attended by a handful of shivering disgruntled diehards. Since it was tropical Savu, the day like all other days was brilliant and warm. There could well be hundreds assembled on the padang besar. It would have this advantage, demonstrators and police alike would be in tolerant holiday mood. Sandilands saw it for himself when his students, carrying large banners, set off from the College, cheering and singing. They had not asked his permission and he had not gratuitously given it. He regretted the banners as being provocative, though the inscriptions on them were unobjectionable or should have been: WE DEMAND JUSTICE, in English and Malay. They were in high spirits like students everywhere escaping from their classes and taking to the streets to reform the world.

  Leila dressed in national costume, kebaya and sarong, in the national colours, red, black, and green. She was excited and laughed at his misgivings. This was going to be a historic day for Savu. He would be proud of her.

  A car called for her early. In it were Chia and Lo. The driver, a Malay, was unknown to Sandilands. All three were polite to S
andilands but made it clear that as a foreigner he was of no account on this occasion. They looked upon Leila with devotion. Like her they seemed to think that they were about to venture upon a glorious exploit, not a mere amble through the streets of the town. They did not carry weapons, as far as he could see, but these of course could easily be picked up. He was greatly tempted to beg her for the last time not to go, but contented himself with kissing her, anxiously. She waved to Mary who had come out onto the verandah in her nightgown.

  The car, a blue Ford Granada, roared off. He did not know to whom it belonged. This, a trivial thing surely, increased his anxiety and foreboding.

  Mary came over to him.

  ‘Where is she going?’ she asked.

  They had yet to decide what the child should call them.

  ‘To meet some friends.’

  ‘Do you not want to meet them?’

  ‘They’re her friends, not mine.’ That, he realised, was true. There was still a distance between them.

  ‘Is it to do with my mother?’