EXPATRIATES, ESPECIALLY the British, looked on the elections as an entertainment: a chichak taking on a water buffalo. Dr Abad might be a competent enough doctor – though none of them would have let him treat their dog – but as a political leader he was simply pathetic. Some of them, out of mischievous curiosity, stopped to listen to him making a speech in public. They didn’t understand a word for it was all in Malay but they could tell by the reactions of the crowd that he was not being taken seriously. Hecklers, no doubt in the pay of his rivals, shouted questions at him that he tried to answer at length, getting himself into a tangle, so that his audience, though they didn’t want to hurt his feelings, had to laugh.
Except for his daughter, his colleagues were no more successful. They were Malays and therefore soft-spoken and easily rebuffed. The Chinese members of the People’s Party, more aggressive and resolute, had the sense to keep in the background. In the past few weeks quite a number of them had been discreetly deported to Singapore and Hong Kong: a sensible move of His Highness’s. No Chinese was to be trusted. In their hearts they all supported Red China.
Abad’s daughter, though now, God help her, Mrs Sandilands, was not to be laughed at. The crowds at her meetings were large and enthusiastic. That could have been because she looked splendid in her brightly coloured saris and kebayas and sarongs, but, according to Malay friends, she was a passionate and persuasive orator. The expatriates were not sure what to make of her. They knew about her magnanimous treatment of old Mrs Wilkinson and had to give her credit for it. Of course she was
half-Malay, and the Malays as a race, bless them, were good-natured and, to be honest, pretty indolent. They found it much easier to smile than to scowl, to forgive than to seek revenge. They were like their country’s climate: black clouds, torrents of rain, and then, minutes later, warm pleasant sunshine. That part of Mrs Sandilands – might as well give her her legal name, though it did sound odd – had been uppermost in her behaviour towards the old lady. It was the other part, the Scottish part, that was actuating her as a politician. Everyone knew that the Scots were a contentious, discontented lot. What about Red Clydeside?
But, as was asked in the Golf Club and Yacht Club, what the hell did the woman want that she didn’t already have? She was a relative of His Highness and therefore an aristocrat. She was good-looking: even expatriate women granted her that – in some cases with qualifications: wasn’t she just a shade on the dark side, and wasn’t her backside more than ample? She was clever. George Heddle, the Englishman who was Chief Justice of Savu, had said he admired her skill as a lawyer, though he couldn’t understand why she took only cases that paid skimpy fees or none at all.
Whether she was fortunate in having got a white man to marry her was a matter much debated. Sandilands was dour and thrawn (to use his own Scots words) but he was big and handsome, with a good job and a house damned near as big and well appointed as the Resident’s. He was an excellent golfer, too, and a golfing pal of His Highness’s. It was said the silly bugger refused to give His Nibs two-foot putts, but he got on well with him and would probably end up running the Education Department. There was ribaldry as to how he and his dusky bride got on in bed. According to Jean Hislop – who could blame poor Jean for being a little spiteful? – he wasn’t wholehearted in his performance, though there was nothing wrong with his visible equipment. Apparently it had to do with his upbringing. His grandfather had been a minister of the Free Kirk of Scotland, a bunch of bigots who regarded knitting on the Sabbath as sinful. Well, with his Calvinist hang-up and her Oriental coyness it wasn’t likely to be a joyous romp, was it?
Would they nevertheless produce a child to replace the one killed? She would want to, but would he want to be a father? It was said he had been devastated by the death of the little girl, though she had really been nothing to him, but then the people who had said it, the Robinsons, had themselves been devastated at the time and therefore not reliable judges. They had since cancelled their contract and returned home.
Many of the expatriates couldn’t understand what the fuss was about. They had served, happily and lucratively, in countries run by dictators with reputations for brutality. It had been their experience that those imprisoned and tortured – though perhaps torture was going a bit too far – had brought it upon themselves. Those who gave no trouble were left in peace, more or less. But in Savu it wasn’t like that at all. It was rumoured that underneath the magnificent palace were well-equipped dungeons, with blood on the walls; and the penalty for rebellion was hanging, but so it bloody well ought to be. The Ministers of State, most of them relatives of His Highness, weren’t what you would call diligent and efficient, but they didn’t have to be, their work was done for them by top-class civil servants, most of them British, and behind the throne was the Resident, offering advice that was always heeded. This was surely the best set-up for a small rich country with envious neighbours, like Savu. It was reassuring to see, every Sunday, on the padang besar, the big grassy square at the heart of the town, the Gurkha pipe band playing Scottish tunes. Also, if they were ever needed, reinforcements were only a day’s flight away.
Perhaps a little more of the Sultan’s vast wealth could be spent on the poorer natives, but as it was there were no better equipped schools or hospitals or more palatial government offices in all Asia, or in all Europe for that matter. Savu was damned near a paradise. Trust a woman to want to spoil it.