THE CUSTOM was to wear trousers, of tropical weight, in the evenings, with a long-sleeved shirt, and a tie. If it was a formal occasion, such as a party at the British Residency, then a jacket too was necessary, even if, in spite of a dozen fans whirling overhead, the heat was such that even on the ladies’ flimsy dresses sweat marks soon appeared under the oxters. Dressing for his visit to Leila’s, Sandilands swithered whether or not to wear a jacket. When he visited Jean he did not wear one, but this visit to Leila was very different. She would not, like Jean, receive him wearing nothing but a transparent négligé. Her bosom, as splendid as Jean’s he had no doubt, would not be on display, and she would not perch herself on his lap. Jean had habits like a Shamrock whore’s.
He put on his best jacket. His tie was the Yacht Club’s, dark blue with a little gold yacht and the letters, S.Y.C., also in gold. He took with him, in its pot, his most prized and most valuable orchid, carefully wrapped in some left-over Christmas paper. It was Saidee’s favourite too.
She asked anxiously if he was intending to bring it back. He shook his head and said he was going to give it to the woman he loved. He said it in English so that Saidee only half understood. She spoke in Malay. Was he taking it to the lady with the loud voice and big feet? No, he replied, he was taking it to the lady with the quiet voice.
As for Leila’s feet he couldn’t honestly say he had noticed what size they were, but he was sure that, like the rest of her, the parts seen and the parts hidden, they would be the most delicate shade of brown. His heart missed a beat or two as he thought that, for though the delicate shade of brown was assuredly more lovely than any pinky-white, deep within him aversion lurked.
Leila’s house was on the hill opposite the harbour. He had been surprised to learn that she lived there, for it was where the rich, most of them relatives of the Sultan, had their large architect-designed houses. Even if Leila’s was one of the smallest it would still be worth a lot of money. He was pleased for her sake. After all, if she had lived in a one-roomed shack who would have heeded her? Not even the poor themselves.
These were his thoughts as he drove up the spiralling road. The whole hillside was a blaze of bougainvillea. Even the tallest houses could be seen only in glimpses. Below was the lighted town, beyond the sea with its many small islands. He had often sailed out to them, picnicking on the elysian beaches. Jean had sometimes accompanied him. She had swum naked in the lukewarm water. He had worn trunks.
He had been told the number of the house was 18, but the Chinese clerkess had added, with a giggle, that he would recognise it by the stone monkeys on the gateposts. They were orang-utans.
Orang-utans were native to Savu. They had been in danger of extinction for many had been kidnapped for zoos throughout the world. The Sultan had saved them by making their export illegal. A Parliament would have squabbled over it for months and perhaps never have come to a decision.
As he drove through the gate up the steep drive to the house he noticed that the garden had become overgrown, which happened quickly in the tropics if there was any neglect. The original owner must have employed a small army of gardeners. Leila, it seemed, had very few, if any. Perhaps she wasn’t so rich after all. Perhaps the house had been bequeathed to her by some relative. He had heard that her father’s family was distantly related to the Sultan.
The house was magnificent, with a great curved terrace and marble steps. What dilapidation there was was hardly noticeable in the lamplight.
He was glad he was going to see her in this splendid setting. She would have been out of place in a standard PWD house, such as his and Jean’s, made of wood, with four small rooms and built on stilts.
She must have been waiting for she appeared at once on the terrace and came down the steps to greet him. She was dressed in a red-and-white sarong-kebaya, with a red flower in her hair and red shoes on her feet; these, he saw with absurd satisfaction, were smaller than Jean’s. She had her little daughter by the hand.
The child seemed a good deal swarthier than her mother, but perhaps her white dress and the white ribbon in her hair accentuated her darkness. He knew, of course, that in a marriage of white or nearly white and black or nearly black the offspring usually took after the latter, often, if they were females, to their lifelong regret. In Savu, as in many other places in Asia, women prized paleness of skin. They used lotions to try and achieve it and kept out of the sun.
‘Good evening, Mr Sandilands,’ said Leila, holding out her hand.
He took it and held on to it. ‘Good evening,’ he said. He did not want to call her Mrs Azaharri.
‘This is my daughter Christina.’
The little girl must have been called after her Scottish grandmother. She was shy and pressed close to her mother.
Reluctantly letting go Leila’s hand he bent down to speak to the child. Her eyes were brown. Jean was always talking about the blue-eyed children they would have.
‘Hello, Christina,’ he said.
She hid her face against her mother. She had not instantly taken to him. He did not have the knack of talking reasonably with small children. He would have to acquire it.
He looked about him. ‘I didn’t know you lived in such a grand place. Is it yours?’
‘Yes, but not for long. It’s up for sale. It was left to me by an uncle. I couldn’t possibly afford to live here. In any case it’s not suitable for Christina. She loves playing with her bicycle and that needs flat safe roads. So I’ve bought a house near the beach at Tanjong Aru. I believe you live in that area.’
‘At the far end, yes. Plenty of flat safe roads there, and of course there’s the beach.’
Ten miles of it, with only a few dead jelly-fish as obstacles.
‘Where are the students?’ he asked.
‘Playing table-tennis.’
‘The other students came out on strike today.’
‘In sympathy?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Good for them.’
‘Does your father live with you?’ he asked.
‘No. He has a house of his own, in the town. Tell me about the strike.’
‘There’s not much to tell. They just refused to go to their classes. They went back when I told them about our meeting tomorrow at Government House.’
‘If nothing comes of it will they go on strike again?’
‘I hope not.’
‘You wouldn’t approve?’
‘I don’t think it would do any good and might get the College closed down.’
Then he remembered the orchid and went to his car for it.
The flowers were red streaked with white.
She put her hand on his arm as she admired the plant.
‘Is it for me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you very much, Andrew. Isn’t it beautiful, Christina?’
She had called him Andrew, so he could call her Leila.
The little girl was still trying to make up her mind about him. She kept giving him quick glances.
They went up the steps. Sandilands carried the plant.
They were met on the terrace by the three students. Chia and Lo held table-tennis bats.
‘Good evening, Mr Sandilands,’ they said.
They were cheerful, and why not? They were young men and their benefactress was a lovely woman. Indeed, they looked at her adoringly, so much so that Sandilands felt vaguely jealous. It wasn’t only the beauty of her face and body that enchanted them, it was also her courage and passion for justice. Seeing her through their eyes Sandilands was ashamed of his own doubts as to her motives.
‘Mr Sandilands was telling me the students went on strike today,’ she said.
To Sandilands’ surprise Lo was not pleased. ‘They should not,’ he said, frowning. ‘It is too early.’
What the hell did that mean, Sandilands wondered. That there would be a time for strikes and demonstrations, but it had not come yet? That they ought not to be spontaneous and sporadic and so ineffectual, but carefully planned and concerted?
There was something going on, he thought. Perhaps Alec Maitland wasn’t far wrong.
He soon had something much more personal to worry about. Salim, simple soul, asked him about Jean Hislop. It wasn’t done maliciously. He had no intention of embarrassing his English teacher. At the students’ dance he had danced with Jean and had never forgotten her yellow hair, blue eyes, and Western exuberance.
They were seated at table, enjoying a Malayan curry, ‘not as hot as Indian’, which the students had helped to prepare when Salim, in Malay, asked, most unexpectedly, when Mr Sandilands was going to marry Miss Hislop.
Chia and Lo, more sophisticated, and aware that there might be some degree of intimacy between their hostess and her Scottish guest, were amused; especially when they saw how put out that guest was by the ingenuous question.
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?