WHEN THEY returned to the office Jean took them aside. There were others there above her in rank but the duty had been given to her, because of her friendship with Sandilands. She didn’t find it easy, which was why she addressed Leila as Mrs Azaharri.
‘My name is Mrs Sandilands,’ said Leila, gently.
‘So it is. I’m sorry. I’ve been asked to give you a message, Mrs Sandilands.’ She hesitated. It wasn’t like her to be so nervous.
‘What message?’ asked Leila.
‘It’s from Mrs Wilkinson. She would like to see you.’
‘She’s the old lady involved in the accident?’
‘Yes.’
Sandilands’ first reaction was to scowl and shake his head.
‘Was she herself hurt?’ asked Leila.
‘Physically, only slightly. Her face was cut by broken glass. She’s terribly upset, of course. Her son and daughter-in-law have been with her all day.’
‘Are they still with her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do they think I should see her?’
‘Yes, but they said they’d understand if you didn’t want to.’
Leila turned to Sandilands. ‘What do you think, Andrew?’
He was still scowling. The Wilkinsons were among those who had condemned her for marrying him. They thought her too presumptuous. She held her head too high in the presence of white people. She might be more talented than they, more beautiful, and more cultured, but she was coloured (worse than that she was half-caste) and so inevitably inferior. That was their instinctive belief. If she refused to speak to the old woman they would accuse her of arrogance. If she went and spoke sympathetically they would be even more resentful, for her fault in that case would be condescension.
‘I think you should wait,’ he said. ‘You’ve suffered enough for one day.’
‘But so has she suffered.’
‘Very much,’ said Jean.
‘If I can help her, Andrew, should I not do so?’
Sandilands turned to her father. ‘What do you think, sir?’
The old man said, or rather whined, ‘It would be a godly act.’
Sandilands turned from him in disgust. He could not bear giving any credit to God.
‘However it happened it was an accident,’ said Leila.
‘It will give her nightmares for the rest of her life,’ said Jean.
‘What do you think it will give Leila?’ asked Sandilands, angrily.
‘Will you come with me, Andrew?’ asked Leila.
‘Yes. Yes, I’ll come with you.’
‘Don’t be angry.’
He shook his head. It would depend on how the Wilkinsons treated her.
Mrs Wilkinson was in a private room. Jean asked them to wait at the door while she went in to prepare the old woman.
Sandilands was searching his mind for words of love and support when Leila showed him how easy it could be, by kissing him. He would never have the knack. She was so much more gracious and generous than he. This ordeal she was about to undergo she would endure bravely. She would know what to say and would say it with compassion and dignity. She was, too, heartbreakingly beautiful in her dark-blue costume.
Jean came out. ‘She’s awake,’ she whispered. ‘She’s been given sedatives but she’s conscious enough.’
‘Does she still wish to see me?’
‘Oh yes. I think she’s a bit frightened but she very much wants to see you. Remember she’s seventy-five.’
‘What about her son and his wife?’ asked Sandilands.
He knew Sam Wilkinson, a big burly mechanic who worked at the oil wells. He had the reputation of being aggressive when drunk and morose when sober. Celia, his wife, was a thin nervous woman notorious for the number of amahs she had hired and fired.
‘They’re really grateful,’ said Jean, and added, ‘though they might not be able to show it.’
She opened the door for them. ‘I’ll leave you to it then. I’ll come back in, say, five minutes.’
Three would have been enough, thought Sandilands.
‘Thank you,’ said Leila, and walked in.
Sandilands followed close behind her.
How did one confront a woman who, even if by accident, had just killed your only child? Sandilands watched it being done and felt humble and inadequate and yet proud too. This tall dark-faced elegant woman who spoke so quietly and with intense feeling was his wife. Getting to know her would be a voyage of exciting discoveries. She deserved a more adventurous explorer than he.
Mrs Wilkinson’s face was yellow and shrunken. There was a dressing on her cheek. She kept licking her lips. Her white hair had recently been permed. She looked her age, though, in spite of the neat coiffure and the lipstick. Her hands, outside the bed covers, closed and opened all the time. Their backs were covered with brown spots. Sandilands counted six rings.
Leila took one of those hands in hers. The other became more agitated still. ‘How are you feeling, Mrs Wilkinson?’ she asked.
Words that anyone could have said, thought Sandilands, but very few could have said them like that.
‘I’m the one that should have died,’ whispered Mrs Wilkinson.
She did not weep. She had no weeping left.
‘Please don’t say such things,’ said Leila.
Again the words were trite, again the way they were said was very moving.
‘You must hate me.’
‘Why should I hate you, Mrs Wilkinson? It was an accident.’
Yes, thought Sandilands, feeling more than ever inadequate, let’s all leave it at that. Don’t anyone say it was God’s will.
From the background Wilkinson spoke, churlishly. ‘It wasn’t my mother’s fault. Ask Maitland. He’ll tell you.’
‘Be quiet, Sam,’ said his wife. ‘She didn’t say it was Mum’s fault. She said it was an accident.’
Sandilands noticed how both of them avoided addressing Leila directly. In spite of her magnanimity and her beauty they instinctively saw her as inferior.
‘How is little Mary Robinson?’ whispered the old woman.
Sandilands thought it time he gave his wife some help. ‘She’s still unconscious, Mrs Wilkinson,’ he said. ‘A surgeon’s being flown from Britain. He’s expected tomorrow.’
‘The Sultan sent for him,’ said Wilkinson. ‘He’s paying all the expenses.’
His mother ignored him and Sandilands too. She had eyes only for Leila. ‘I’ve seen you in church, Mrs Sandilands, you and your father.’
‘Yes, my father and I attend regularly.’
‘Do you pray?’
‘Sometimes.’ Leila smiled but she was close to weeping.
‘Will you pray for me?’
‘Yes, I’ll pray for you.’
‘And I’ll pray for you.’
Sandilands was relieved then when a knock on the door put an end to this unbearable conversation.
Jean came in, briskly professional. ‘Time to say goodnight to the patient,’ she said. ‘She needs sleep.’
Leila put her hand on the old woman’s head. There wasn’t a trace of condescension in the gesture. ‘Goodnight, Mrs Wilkinson,’ she said. ‘Try to remember happier things.’
For the first time there was a tremor in her voice. All of them noticed it.
The Wilkinsons hurried out after Leila and Sandilands. He had something to say to Leila. He could not say it graciously. ‘Thanks. Not many would have done it, the way you did. They say you’re a dangerous Red, but I’ll tell them you’re all right.’
‘We’re grateful,’ said his wife, curtly. ‘Have you got the car keys, Sam? He’s always losing them. Good night, Andrew. Let them say what they like but you’ve got a real lady for a wife.’
Sandilands and Leila watched them walk towards the hospital door. They would be back again tomorrow.
‘Take me home, Andrew,’ said Leila, at last in tears.
He held her in his arms. How could he comfort her? He did not have the resources. Besides, where was home? He still had his PWD house at the edge of the sea, and Leila had hers near the airport. They would soon be moving into the Principal’s house in the College grounds. But no place could be home without Christina.
She dried her eyes. ‘Am I a dangerous Red, Andrew?’ she asked.
‘He was being stupid.’
‘Is that really what they think of me?’
He felt bitter. ‘They’ve got a nice little apple cart here. They don’t want anyone to upset it.’