Leila

by Robin Jenkins

  There was the problem of Mary. Would she after all be left with the Andaus?

  But first Leila had to be rescued from her own folly.

  He felt a spasm of anger. Her ambition had gained nothing and ruined everything.

  Moments later a surge of self-contempt swept that anger away. She had said his Malay was inadequate; so too, it seemed, was his love. She was in great danger and all he could do was blame her. He was fit to be a nurse’s husband, not a revolutionary’s.

  Baker was feeling more and more uneasy. He wasn’t really a friend of Sandilands’, who was too righteous and correct for his taste, but he realised that the big Scotsman was heading straight for tragedy.

  He wasn’t sure how to convey his somewhat qualified sympathy.

  ‘What’ll you do if she refuses to come with you?’ he asked, as they approached Government House.

  The Savu flag flew over it.

  He was pretty sure that she would refuse. She was the kind of woman who would die, and cause other people to die, for principle. A heroine, some would say. A pain in the arse, Baker himself said. Sandilands, stubborn bugger, would stay on in Savu while she was arrested, tried, and maybe hanged. That was to say, if they let him; which they probably wouldn’t.

  Sandilands was no hero but that was the part he had been given.

  They left the car and walked the last hundred yards. There was little to show that a short time ago hundreds of angry men had been here. No damage had been done to trees and bushes; no litter dropped; no graffiti scribbled on walls; no beer cans thrown among the flowers. In so orderly and well-behaved a country how could there be public hangings?

  On the steps of Government House a number of youths stood guard. They had pistols in their belts. Two had automatic rifles. Most of them were nervously smoking. They looked dedicated and ridiculous: an explosive mixture, thought Baker. He was sorry for Sandilands. Now he became sorry for himself as well. An agitated jerk of a forefinger and he was a dead man.

  ‘Bloody young fools,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t they know they’re going to be shot to pieces. But for Christ’s sake, don’t step on their tails.’

  Among them were Chia and Lo and also Jerome Dusing.

  Lo seemed to be the leader. He wasn’t smoking. That was a weakness he spurned. He confronted Sandilands, with his rifle ready. Did he know how to use it? Sandilands wondered.

  ‘You should not be here, Mr Sandilands,’ he said, sternly. ‘This is not your business.’

  ‘I believe my wife is inside,’ said Sandilands. ‘I would like to speak to her.’

  ‘She is not here as your wife. She is here as the leader of the People’s Revolutionary Party.’

  ‘When did it change its name? Yesterday it was the People’s Party.’

  ‘It has not changed its name. For us it has always been the Revolutionary Party. For Madam Azaharri too.’

  ‘Her name is Mrs Sandilands. Does Dr Abad approve?’

  ‘Dr Abad has given up the leadership. He is an old man. Madam Azaharri is now our leader.’

  ‘Will you please let my wife, Mrs Sandilands, know that I am here and wish to speak to her?’

  ‘You cannot speak to her. She is with the other candidates who won the elections. They are in the Council Chamber, forming the new government of Savu.’

  ‘You must know this is madness, Albert. Troops will be sent for.’

  ‘British troops, Mr Sandilands? Scottish troops?’

  It was more than likely. Scottish troops had often been used by the English to build up their empire and then defend it.

  ‘Whoever they are you will stand no chance against them.’

  ‘If they kill us the whole world will hear of it.’

  Baker forgot his own advice not to step on their tails.

  ‘The whole world won’t give a mosquito’s fart,’ he said. ‘Want some advice, Lo? Throw away those guns and get the hell out of the country. Hijack a boat to take you to the Philippines. If you stay here sure as Christ you’ll either be shot or hanged.’ Or both, he added, to himself. What was to prevent wounded men from being strung up, just to make sure?

  ‘We are not afraid to die in a noble cause.’

  ‘Jesus, save us from martyrs. He knew all about it. What were they doing when He got nailed to the Cross? Dicing in the taverns. Fucking in the brothels. The world doesn’t weep, Chia. It yawns.’

  ‘In Australia, Mr Baker, if the people were cheated as we have been what would they do?’

  ‘Laugh into their beer. They’d think it a bloody good joke. What they wouldn’t do would be to get killed.’

  ‘You have a grievance, Albert,’ said Sandilands, ‘but this isn’t the way to set it right.’

  ‘What is the way, Mr Sandilands?’

  Sandilands had no answer ready. ‘Patience,’ he said, at last. ‘If you had waited you would have got your democracy in the end.’

  ‘How long should we have waited?’

  ‘As long as was necessary. At least it would have been better than killing or being killed.’

  ‘Is cowardly submission to tyranny better than being killed?’

  ‘It would get my vote,’ said Baker.

  ‘You had better go now,’ said Lo.

  Baker thought it a good idea. He didn’t want to get mixed up in this any more than he already was.

  ‘I won’t go until I’ve seen my wife,’ said Sandilands.

  ‘She doesn’t want to see you. Do you not understand? She is your wife no longer.’

  Baker thought Sandilands was going to grab the insolent young bastard by the throat and strangle him. Instead Sandilands said, quietly: ‘She’ll have to tell me that herself.’

  Lo called one of the youths over to him. After a whispered consultation the youth went inside.

  ‘I heard there was a man shot this morning,’ said Sandilands. ‘Was he badly hurt?’

  Lo shook his head. He would have preferred the victim to be dead. It would have made better propaganda.

  Sandilands felt a little relieved. If there were no serious casualties it was possible that these amateurish revolutionaries might be amnestied. Surely the British Government would advise clemency. And His Highness wasn’t a blood-thirsty man.

  ‘It’s bloody serious, I know,’ said Baker, ‘but it’s laughable too. I remember Lo telling me that his favourite character in history was Chairman Mao. I never knew Mao was a democrat. Given the chance this lot would set up a worse tyranny than the Sultan’s.’

  Sandilands shook his head. ‘Not Leila,’ he said.

  Baker wasn’t so sure. He had caught a glimpse of fanaticism on that lovely face.

  Chia’s messenger came out.

  Sandilands could hardly breathe. If she refused to see him now he might never see her again.

  Lo scowled as he reluctantly passed on the message.

  ‘Madam Azaharri will see you,’ he said, ‘for five minutes.’

  ‘Young prick,’ muttered Baker. ‘I’ll wait here. Good luck.’

  Sandilands went into the building. The officials and clerks who worked there had been sent away. It was now in the hands of the People’s Revolutionary Party. They stood about in the vast entrance hall, about thirty of them, most of them unarmed. They were silent, not knowing what to say to one another. They were not zealots like Lo or visionaries like Leila. They had made their gesture. They wanted to be given permission to go home. They stared at Sandilands with what struck him as envy. He was free to come and go as he pleased. They did not know why he was there. He was part of their confusion.

  Leila was waiting for him at the top of the magnificent marble staircase. She looked tired and impatient. She was wearing the same kebaya and sarong in which she had left the house just a few hours ago. He thought he saw blood on it. Was it hers, or Maitland’s, or Major Simbin’s, or the wounded man’s?

  ‘You should not have come,’ she said.

  She looked at him as if, he thought, she was Madam Azaharri and not Mrs Sandilands. He was a st
ranger to this woman.

  There was a guard outside the Council Chamber door. He had a pistol in his belt. A quick dash, a snatch, a blow, and the gun would be in Sandilands’ hand. With it he could fight his way down the stairs and into the street. He would shoot anyone who tried to stop them.

  There were two flaws in that plan: he was no cinema hero and Leila would not have come with him.

  ‘I’ve come to take you away, Leila,’ he said. Even to himself it sounded feeble.

  ‘Do you know what we are doing here?’ she asked. ‘We are forming a new government for Savu. Already we have passed a law abolishing the death penalty.’

  It was, as Baker had said, laughable. Did she think that such a law would safeguard their lives? On the contrary, it made their executions for treason all the more likely.

  ‘The people will see what we would have done for them.’

  ‘The people won’t know anything about it, Leila. They won’t want to know.’

  ‘They’ll remember us.’

  So they would but as what? Martyrs? Heroes? Fools?

  ‘There’s still time, Leila. We could find a boat that would take us to the Philippines. Your father could come with us.’

  ‘My father will never desert his people. Neither will I.’

  She turned then and walked away.

  ‘What about Mary?’ he cried.

  She hesitated and then walked on. The man at the door saluted her and opened it for her.

  Sandilands watched her disappear behind the big leather-padded silver-studded door, the person he loved most in the world. Yes, but what did that amount to? Whether it was his upbringing to blame, or his nature, or a selfishness that he had all his life jealously cultivated, he had never been able to love with all his heart. In spite of his teasing of the students he had something of Mr Collins in him. To love Leila as she deserved called for qualities he did not have. He would have been happier, safer, and duller, with Jean Hislop. Leila had shown him how limited and timorous he was; Jean had made it her purpose to praise and flatter him. With his hands grasping the onyx balustrade, as if to prevent him from being dragged away, he was not hoping that Leila would come back to him, for he knew she would not, but he was wishing that he still had Jean to give him courage.

  Baker had got into the building and was looking up at Sandilands. He wasn’t in time to see Leila but he saw Sandilands and ran up the stairs to him.

  ‘Where is she?’ he cried. ‘Did you see her? What did she say? She’s not coming, is she? Then for fuck’s sake let’s get out of here.’

  He caught Sandilands by the arm and pulled him away. They stumbled together down the stairs.

  One of the revolutionaries, a grey-haired man with unhappy eyes, came forward and patted Sandilands on the shoulder. ‘It is God’s will,’ he said, in Malay. ‘We must all die sometime.’

  Outside Lo marched up to Sandilands. He wasn’t gloating. He was too high-minded for that. ‘She has not come with you, Mr Sandilands. Go home. Go home to Scotland. Forget Savu.’

  Shall I, thought Sandilands, as he went along the street towards his car, with Baker still holding him by the arm, ever forget Savu? Yes, he might in time forget the cheerful students, the splendid College, the golf matches with the Sultan, the sails to the islands, and the trips into the jungle in search of orchids, but he would surely never forget Leila. No, but when he was an old man, would he boast to his grandchildren that he had known her?

  ‘Don’t blame yourself,’ said Baker. ‘You’ve done all you could. Let’s get back to the College.’

  That was what he himself wanted. A shower, a change of clothes, a cold beer, with Mona his amah seated on his lap.

  ‘No, I want to speak to Maitland,’ said Sandilands.

  Twenty-Three

  TO BAKER’S astonishment the gates of the big police compound were wide open. Everything looked normal and peaceful. In the shade of a big flame-of-the-forest tree a motorist was undergoing a test for a driving licence. He was trying to reverse his car into a square formed by four moveable poles. If he touched one he would fail, but he was given three attempts. His last succeeded. The policeman conducting the test was full of goodwill and was delighted.

  In another part of the compound several policemen in white shorts and singlets were playing a leisurely game of volleyball.

  ‘Those stupid bastards in Government House,’ said Baker, ‘think they’ve got authority terrified. It doesn’t look like it. Why didn’t they try to take over this place?’

  ‘Because they didn’t want bloodshed,’ said Sandilands.

  ‘You could be right. You know what, Sandilands, it would be bloody easy now, at this very minute, to slip out of the country. Christ, you could buy an air ticket to Hong Kong. There’s a flight about four, isn’t there? If I was you I’d try to get Leila on it.’

  Sandilands shook his head. ‘She wouldn’t come.’

  ‘A pity. It almost looks as if they’re being given a chance to escape. It would certainly save a lot of trouble for everybody.’

  Sandilands got out of the car.

  ‘I’ll stay here if you don’t mind,’ said Baker. ‘I don’t like police stations.’

  In the air-conditioned reception hall the sergeant in charge at the desk was in shirt sleeves. Above him was a large portrait of the Sultan in military uniform, with many decorations from various foreign States.

  Sandilands approached the desk. ‘I’d like to see Mr Maitland, the Deputy Commissioner,’ he said, in Malay. ‘My name’s Sandilands. I’m Principal of the Teachers’ Training College.’

  The sergeant smiled. ‘I know who you are, Mr Sandilands. My brother Salim was a student at your College.’

  Salim, the jolly traitor.

  Did the sergeant also know that Sandilands was the husband of the now notorious rebel Dr Abad’s daughter?

  Other policemen came and went, all smiling, all looking relieved. They were like men from whom a painful and dangerous duty had been taken. They had been given orders to carry on as usual until the soldiers arrived. It would be the soldiers, strangers, who would do the killing or the dying. It could well be that some of the police had relatives or friends among the rebels.

  ‘Mr Maitland’s been trying to reach you all morning,’ said the sergeant. ‘He will be pleased to see you.’

  Maitland’s office was upstairs. It would have made every Chief Constable in Britain covetous: air-conditioned, spacious, luxuriously carpeted, a huge desk of teak, leather armchairs, a portrait of the Sultan in an ornate frame, paintings on the walls of Savu scenes.

  Maitland rose from his desk to greet Sandilands. Being Scotsmen they did not shake hands.

  ‘Glad to see you, Andrew. I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’

  ‘Why? What have you to tell me?’

  ‘Sit down. This is a hell of a business, isn’t it?’

  There was a faint bruise above Maitland’s right eye. The hat that had been knocked off hung on a peg, quite undamaged.

  ‘I believe you’ve just come from Government House,’ he said. ‘What’s going on there? Did you see your wife?’

  ‘Yes, I saw her.’ Sandilands could not keep bitterness out of his voice.

  Maitland noticed it. On the desk was a photograph of his own wife, with his two daughters.

  ‘I expect you asked her to give it up and come home.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she refused?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Too bad. Anyway it would have been too late. They’re in too deep, Andrew. Armed rebellion. Treason. Unlawful assembly. There will be executions.’

  ‘Have troops been sent for?’

  ‘They’re on their way. They should arrive during the night. From a Scottish regiment, I believe. You know, I thought Leila was an intelligent woman.’

  ‘She is an intelligent woman.’

  ‘Then why the hell has she got mixed up in this imbecile caper?’

  ‘She doesn’t think it’s an imbecile caper. She t
hinks, they all think, that they’re fighting for their rights.’

  ‘Their rights? What’s that got to do with anything? I happen to believe they were badly cheated. I wouldn’t be surprised if His Mightiness up there would admit it in private. But that doesn’t alter the fact that they’re taking part in an armed rebellion, and the penalty for that in this country is death. I warned you about that at the Residency, if you remember. But leave that aside. What I want to tell you, Andrew, is that as I sit here I don’t know what my orders are. It looks as if the Sultan and his councillors don’t know either. So in the meantime I’ve got nobody watching the airport or the harbour. I wanted you to tell Leila that. Go back to her now, Andrew, and tell her, while there’s still time. Just her. Not the others. If I get my orders, and they could come at any time, I’ll have to carry them out.’

  Sandilands shook his head. ‘She wouldn’t come.’ Especially if the others, including her father, were to be left behind.

  ‘I didn’t think she would. So far nobody’s been badly hurt. I want to keep it that way.’

  ‘What about Major Simbin?’

  ‘That damned fool. He’s all right. A badly swollen nose. Not a hospital case. Just as well. They’ve taken over the hospital. Some revolutionaries! They leave this place and the airport alone and take over the hospital.’

  ‘Is Jean all right?’

  ‘Jean’s in her element. She’s got them working for her. Just what she needed, she said: a gang of hard-working scrubbers. The hospital’s never been so clean. She’s anxious about you. We all are. You’re absolutely sure Leila won’t leave?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I spoke to Abad on the telephone earlier. Perhaps I exceeded my authority but I’ll be leaving soon and I’d like to go with a reasonably clear conscience.’

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘I think I promised to do what I could to help if they gave themselves up.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Some nonsense about never deserting his people. Are they his people? I understood he was born in Malaya and he married a Scotswoman, didn’t he? Leila’s half-Scottish, isn’t she? It’s one hell of a mess. I feel partly responsible. I shouldn’t have tried to arrest the old man. I’m afraid I lost my temper.’