HIS HIGHNESS sent a car for him, a white Rolls Royce with royal flags on the bonnet. Students watched it from the verandahs of the classroom block. Previously they would have cheered and waved, pleased that their Principal was being honoured by their Sultan. This morning, however, they were silent. He knew what they were thinking: he was being disloyal to his wife, their heroine. They obeyed his order that politics were not to be discussed in College, but of course he did not know what they said in their dormitories. He had no spies or clypes. There was little irony in them, but some of them must be remembering how he used to taunt them because of their lack of youthful idealism, just as he himself remembered how, though they had seemed to like him well enough, they had always stopped short of confiding in him. Whatever his private qualities he was a man from the deceitful West. Albert Lo and Richard Chia, now exiles in the interior, wrote to Leila regularly and sometimes telephoned, telling her of their experiences and asking her for advice; to him they sent polite regards.
From what he himself had observed and overheard, and from hints dropped by members of his staff, he had become aware that the students, though some of them had attended the wedding, did not approve of his marriage. They thought he had done Leila a great wrong by marrying her. So he had, but for profounder reasons than they would ever know.
His Highness was waiting for him, practising putting with his gold-headed putter. He looked very much at ease. The elections were less of a worry to him than his missing a two-foot putt.
He greeted Sandilands cheerfully and proudly showed him a new set of clubs specially made for him in America. They had shafts made of a new alloy, guaranteed to enable him to hit the ball an extra thirty or so yards.
‘But can there be such a guarantee, Andrew?’ he asked, wistfully. ‘It’s not the clubs that matter so much as the way they are used. Is that not so?’
‘Yes, but I suppose good clubs do make a difference.’
‘But they cannot make a poor player into a good one?’
‘No, I don’t think they can do that.’
‘But they might help a fairly good player to become a better one?’
‘Yes, they might do that.’
Sandilands was invited to take a few swings with the new clubs. They were certainly a pleasure to use. They must have cost thousands of pounds.
‘You swing beautifully, Andrew, but then so do I, when I am only practising. It is when I have a ball at my feet that my swing becomes – shall we say, erratic?’
That, reflected Sandilands, was the case with millions of golfers.
‘They were made specially for me, Andrew, so they do not quite suit you. You are much taller than I.’
And stronger. And more athletic. And not so fat. But it was the small, stout plump-faced man that these soldiers were guarding. If he gave the word they would shoot anyone on the spot, Sandilands included. In that country he was God, even if he did miss two-foot putts.
‘Well, shall we start?’ he asked. ‘Your honour, Andrew. You won last time.’ He laughed. ‘But then you always win. Tell me, are you never tempted to let me win, once in a while?’
‘You would know it, Your Highness, and be insulted.’
‘Yes, so I would. If you had ever played badly to let me win I would never have played with you again. Victory must be honourably won. It cannot be given or bought.’
Did he think, Sandilands wondered, that that applied to politics too?
‘Perhaps I should give you more strokes, Your Highness,’ he said.
‘Certainly not. I get the strokes I am entitled to, according to our respective handicaps.’
Sandilands’ drive had the usual satisfactory result.
‘Fine shot,’ said His Highness. ‘You make it look so easy.’
Whether it was because of the new clubs or because he had been practising a good deal, he hit the ball more confidently than usual and had the satisfaction of seeing it alight in the middle of the fairway, not so very far behind Sandilands’.
Every golfer who has hit a good shot feels virtuous and magnanimous.
‘I have been hearing good reports about the College since you took over,’ said His Highness, as they walked along the fairways towards their balls.
On either side were flame-of-the-forest trees, bougainvilleas, frangipanis, and magnolias. The air was warm and perfumed. Butterflies as big as birds and birds as bright as butterflies flew past. The sky was deep blue.
This was how golf in heaven would be played, though perhaps the air would be a little less hot and the players would have in their minds only benign thoughts.
They spoke in Malay, a gentle language fit for the mouths of angels.
‘Mr Anderson of course was old,’ said His Highness, dabbing his brow with a silk handkerchief, ‘and too soft-hearted. Students, and staff, took advantage.’
‘He was very well liked,’ said Sandilands. ‘Not many took advantage.’
‘Odd how he never forgave the Japanese. But then they did put out his eye. My father never forgave them either. They killed many of his people.’
The Sultan’s father himself had been safe in New York.
‘Still, I’m sure we agree, Andrew, that a college should have firm but fair control. It’s the same with a country.’ His Highness laughed. ‘But I do not think you and I are tyrants, Andrew.’
The Sultan, then, reaching his ball, prepared to strike it. He swung slowly, as he should. The ball flew far and straight, almost reaching the green. He had never hit a better shot. He gazed in awe. If Sandilands then had asked him for a million dollars he might have got them.
They walked on towards Sandilands’ ball.
‘How is the lovely Leila?’ asked His Highness.
‘Very tired. She still misses her daughter.’
‘Yes. It was a terrible thing that happened to her daughter. But she should not over-exert herself. Why is she defending this creature who has committed murder?’
Then His Highness was silent as Sandilands prepared to hit his ball.
He hit it very well. The ball landed on the green, only a yard or two from the hole.
He must have been thinking only of his shot, as golfers were advised to do. Did it mean that golf mattered more to him than his wife?
‘Magnificent,’ cried His Highness. ‘We both seem to be in good form. By the way, I have a message for Leila. I shall tell you about it later, after the game.’
From then on the conversation was about various subjects. Politics wasn’t among them. His Highness showed an interest in and knowledge of orchids. He talked about a visit he had paid to Saudi Arabia. He spoke nostalgically of Edinburgh where he had been made to feel at home; not because he was the son and heir of the richest man in the world but because the Scots were a hospitable, warm-hearted, and fair-minded people.
At last the game was over. Sandilands had again won the dollar but not so easily as before. His Highness had played well. He was very pleased with himself.
Before stepping into his car he turned to Sandilands. ‘The message for Leila. It is this. After the elections I would like her to accept a position in my government. Why not Minister for Women’s Affairs? It is time we had a woman and none could be more competent than she. Please tell her that I have no ill feelings towards her and her father. They are doing what they think is right. They will accept the verdict of the people. You would have no objection to your wife becoming one of my Ministers?’
I would have objections, thought Sandilands, but I would try to keep them to myself. Leila was ambitious, like all politicians. Their marriage was already in danger. It would be destroyed if he stood in her way.
‘We must move forward in Savu, Andrew, but not too fast. That is the advice that Sir Hugo keeps pressing on me.’
Laughing, he got into his car and it drove off, closely followed by the two Land Rovers carrying the caddies and bodyguards.
Sandilands’ own driver dared not look up at him. This Tuan was too great a man to be stared at or even smiled at by a mere chauffeur. Had he not played golf with His Highness and had not His Highness spoken to him like a friend?