THE CHINESE clerk at the reception desk looked grave as he handed Sandilands the key. Was he trying to disguise his amusement at the honeymooners hurrying back for an afternoon of blissful consummation? But Sandilands hadn’t been in the room two minutes before the clerk, his voice also grave, telephoned, asking him to come to the desk at once. ‘By yourself, please.’
‘Why, what’s the matter?’
‘Come at once, please.’
‘All right.’ Had the police come looking for Leila?
She was in the bathroom. He called to her that he would be back in a minute.
The clerk did not smile on seeing him. ‘Please come into the office, Mr Sandilands.’
Sandilands was sure that in the office there would be policemen. Therefore he went in truculently. But the office was empty.
‘I must explain,’ said the clerk. ‘About an hour ago there was a telephone call for you, from Savu, from Dr Abad, who is, I believe, your wife’s father.’
‘Yes, that’s right. What was it about? What did he say?’
‘He said I was to tell you when your wife was not present.’
Sandilands was more mystified than alarmed. ‘Tell me what?’
‘That you were to telephone this number immediately.’
The clerk showed it written on a piece of paper. Sandilands recognised it, it was the number of Savu Hospital. He had used it often enough when telephoning Jean.
He was alarmed now. Had something happened to Jean?
‘I shall leave you alone, Mr Sandilands,’ said the clerk, and went out.
Sandilands sat down by the telephone. It might take a while to get through and besides, his legs had turned unsteady.
He dialled the number. Strange sea-like noises were heard: Savu was an ocean away. He tried again. This time there was a shrill whistling. But the third time was lucky, though he had a feeling now that lucky was not an appropriate word.
He asked for Dr Abad.
Then he was listening to a quiet tired voice saying something that turned his blood cold.
‘Is Leila with you, Andrew?’
‘No.’
‘I have bad news, very bad news. Christina is dead. She has been killed in an accident on her bicycle at the roundabout near the airport. The child Mary Robinson is here in hospital. She is very badly injured. The old lady who was driving the car, Mrs Wilkinson, is also in hospital, suffering from shock.’
Sandilands was stunned. He could say nothing.
‘Do you know her, Mrs Wilkinson?’
Yes, he knew her. She was at least seventy-five. She wasn’t fit to drive a car. They laughed at how slowly she drove.
‘You will come home immediately, Andrew.’
‘I can’t believe it.’ He would never all his life be able to believe it.
The old man was weeping. ‘I cannot believe it either, and I have seen her. Poor Leila. It will break her heart. But here is Nurse Hislop wishing to speak to you.’
Jean was close to tears. ‘Oh Andrew, I’m so sorry. Everyone is. She was such a bright happy little girl. They both were.’
‘How is Mary?’
‘Badly hurt, I’m afraid. They’re operating on her now, but they don’t think she’ll make it. Her parents are here. It’s awful. Mrs Wilkinson’s here too. She’s in a terrible state. It was her car that ran into them.’
If he had been able to weep or rage against the senselessness of the child’s death it would in the end have given him some relief, but he would remain outwardly calm and it would destroy him.
‘Your poor wife. Does she know yet?’
‘No.’
‘Poor Andrew.’
She meant that he didn’t have the resources to cope with this situation. He had been selfish too long.
She herself was practical and helpful. ‘There’s a plane leaving Singapore for Savu at half past four. You could get that. I’d phone now and book seats.’
It was now twenty minutes to one.
‘Yes, I’ll do that. Thanks, Jean.’
He telephoned the Cathay Pacific office. There were seats available.
He had then to go back to his room. He went slowly. People were seated in the shade at tables in the grassy compound, having pre-lunch drinks. There was a family with small children. There were shrieks of laughter.
He stood in the sunshine, utterly desolate. Nothing mattered any more. The joy that he had found in Christina was gone for good. He remembered the missing fingers of the old man. He remembered the Japanese tourists laughing. He felt bitter and revengeful when he should have been feeling only pity.
Jean was right. He had been selfish too long.
They were gazing at him curiously. A woman with white hair smiled in puzzled sympathy. He tried to smile back, reassuring her, letting her know that it was all right, the child he had loved was dead and he was about to go and tell her mother.
Leila was relaxing on the bed. She had taken her shoes off. The big fan whirred overhead.
‘Where were you?’ she said. ‘It was a long minute.’
He sat on the bed. All those years of looking after himself and of committing himself to no one had him by the throat. Even if he had known what to say he could not have said it then, not even to this woman whom he had married and whom he was supposed to love.
She sat up. ‘What’s the matter, Andrew? Why are you looking like that? Is it the police? Have they come?’
So she had been thinking of the threat from the police. The blow, a far more vicious one, had come from another quarter.
‘Leila, I’ve just been talking to your father on the telephone.’ His voice was so hoarse she could hardly make him out.
Her eyes went wide with wonder and then with fear. She said nothing but waited.
‘There’s been an accident.’
She still waited.
‘Christina and Mary. On their bicycles. A car ran into them.’
‘Were they hurt?’
If she loved him surely she would understand that his apparent calm was an indication of how deep his despair was. Despair was silent, sullen, and useless.
He should have been thinking only of her and here he was again thinking of himself. That it was largely self-disgust was no excuse.
‘Christina was killed. Mary’s badly injured. They think she will die too.’
‘Dear God.’
At least she had her faith in God to sustain her. If he had been a believer he would have wanted an explanation as to why God, who oversaw everything, had seen fit to arrange death and serious injury for two happy harmless children. He would not, though, say it to Leila, not now or ever. Let her find what comfort she could in her belief in God’s wisdom and love.
‘I’ve booked seats on the half past four flight to Savu,’ he said.
‘Andrew, if it is true, I don’t think I can bear it.’
It was true and he would not be much use in helping her to bear it. He felt utterly disqualified.
There was a long pause.
‘Who was driving the car?’ she asked, at last. There was no anger or bitterness in her voice. ‘Did my father say?’
‘An old woman called Wilkinson. She’s in hospital suffering from shock.’
‘Poor woman.’
Yes, he supposed Mrs Wilkinson deserved pity but she also deserved censure. She ought not to have been driving the car. She had known that she was not a capable, and therefore not a safe, driver.
He thought, with abysmal stupidity, that when they got to Savu he and Christina together would comfort her mother. He could not bring himself to accept that the little girl was dead.
Leila got up. She had not yet wept. ‘I think I would like to speak to my father. Will he be at the hospital?’
‘I think so.’
He got through for her. It took ten minutes. Dr Abad had left to visit patients.
She spoke to the senior doctor, McAllister. He confirmed that it was true. He hinted, sadly, that it might be better if the other little girl died too. If she lived she might have permanent brain damage.
Sandilands, close to the telephone, heard.
When such things happened, what did it matter whether you lived in a democracy or a dictatorship?