WHILE THEY were waiting the Principal took an envelope from a drawer in his desk. It had ‘Confidential’ stamped on it in large red letters.
‘Here’s something I think you should see,’ he said. ‘It came yesterday.’
The letter itself had another ‘Confidential’ stamped on it. It was from the Chief Minister’s office and stated that in future all posts of seniority were to be filled by native-born Savuans. This would apply to the post of Principal of the College. Moreover, from the beginning of next year, the language of instruction in all schools would be changed from English to Malay.
‘I’m sorry, Andrew,’ said the Principal.
What alarmed Sandilands wasn’t so much that he might soon be out of a job as that he might have to leave Savu and so never see Leila again.
‘Did you know this was going to happen?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think anyone did. It’s probably one of His Highness’s brainwaves.’
‘I suppose it’s fair enough. It’s their country, after all.’
It was Leila’s country, not his.
‘Would you carry on here, under a Malay?’
‘I might not get the chance.’
‘Your Malay’s good enough, and you could always appeal to His Highness.’
‘I wouldn’t want to do that. Who’s likely to get your job, David. Have you heard?’
‘No. Some relative of some Minister, I expect.’
There was a quiet knock on the door and the three students came in, smiling. They seemed to think they had been summoned to be commended or given some special task. Whatever it was they were prepared to carry it out as best they could.
As always they were neatly dressed in black trousers, white shirts, and black ties. Their hair was carefully brushed and, in Salim’s case, scented. Their shoes were polished. Their teeth were white and healthy, especially Salim’s. His smile was the widest and, in the present circumstances, either the most innocent or the most disingenuous. As a revolutionary, thought Sandilands, he would walk, not run. If handed a flag he would soon drop it. The two others, though, looked as if they would grip it tightly and hold it high.
‘Would you like to tell them, Mr Sandilands?’ said the Principal.
There were, Sandilands saw, tears in that one eye.
His own eyes were dry. But then, as Jean Hislop had often told him, he was good at hardening his heart, if it was necessary.
It was necessary now.
‘We’ve just had a visit from the Deputy Commissioner of Police,’ he said.
They nodded. ‘We saw his Land Rover,’ said Chia, cheerfully.
None of them looked furtive or apprehensive.
‘He came to make an accusation against you three.’
Their surprise seemed genuine.
‘He accused you of meeting with others in the back room of Mr Cheng’s bookshop to read and discuss books that advocate revolution.’
That was a mouthful. No wonder they looked puzzled, though they kept smiling.
‘Do you understand?’ asked Sandilands.
Lo chose his words carefully. ‘We have met in Mr Cheng’s shop and talked about democracy.’
Yes, but in a country like Savu wouldn’t talk of democracy amount to sedition?
‘What books did you discuss?’ he asked.
‘Animal Farm by Mr George Orwell,’ said Chia.
‘The Rights Of Man by Mr Thomas Paine,’ said Lo.
Salim just grinned.
As their English teacher, thought Sandilands, I should be applauding their reading of books not on the list of those prescribed.
‘Who suggested you should read those books?’ he asked.
Lo replied without hesitation. ‘Madam Azaharri, sir. She is the daughter of Dr Abad. We are members of the People’s Party. It is a legitimate organisation.’
All Sandilands could say or rather mumble was: ‘You shouldn’t be involved in politics. Not while you are still students.’
He was more worried about Leila. She couldn’t be deported like Cheng. Was she at that moment in prison? Had there been a crack-down on the People’s Party?
It was unbearable to see the students gazing at him with trust and hope. He was their esteemed teacher. If they were in trouble he would help them.
Self-disgust made him speak harshly. ‘The Deputy Commissioner came to say that you are to be expelled from the College.’
‘Expelled, sir?’ Lo turned to the Principal but found that one benign eye shut.
‘When have we to leave?’
‘Today.’
Salim was still smiling broadly.
An injustice was being done. All that these youths were guilty of was naivety. They did not deserve to have their careers ruined. Someone ought to speak up for them.
It should be me, thought Sandilands. As their teacher I have tried to encourage them to think for themselves, so I am partly to blame for their predicament. But I have troubles of my own. The post of Principal that should have been mine will go to some feckless little Malay with dubious qualifications. I shall have to decide whether to swallow my pride and stay on or to resign. If I resign do I do it with dignity or with my hand held out for as big a golden handshake as I can wheedle out of them? Do I ask Jean to come with me? Do we buy that semi-detached villa in Morningside, where I shall spend the rest of my life haunted by the memory of Leila Azaharri?
I’m not worthy of her, he thought. She would despise me for letting these young men down. Jean, on the other hand, would approve of my not getting into trouble for their sakes.
‘Can you not help us, Mr Sandilands?’ said Chia.
‘I’m sorry. No, I’m afraid I can’t.’
‘In your country, Mr Sandilands,’ said Lo, ‘would this injustice be permitted?’
Yes, it would, but there was a good chance that hundreds of students would demonstrate on behalf of their colleagues. Here there would be only some timid whisperings.
When they had gone to collect their belongings, Sandilands and the Principal couldn’t bear to look at each other.
He’s an old man, thought Sandilands, he’s not well, he could be dead within a year, and he lost heart when his wife died. There are excuses for him. What excuse is there for me? Why am I not lifting that telephone and asking to speak to the British Resident or His Highness himself? Why am I not threatening to let the outside world know what a despotic and unjust State Suva has become. In Britain those who have heard of the place think it is a quaint little kingdom luckily enriched by oil. Shouldn’t I make it my business to show it up as being as tyrannical as any Communist State, though it is under the protection of Britain?
But who would care? At best it would merit a small paragraph in the Guardian. The rest of the world’s press would ignore it. He would have sacrificed his own career for nothing. Better to keep his head down and go on enjoying what benefits were left.
‘In the Japanese camp,’ said the Principal, with rare bitterness, ‘we learned to keep our mouths shut.’