LEILA’S FRIEND, Mariam Muji, lived in Tawau, a village six miles from Savu Town. A tarred road led to it but ended there; beyond, it became a jungle track. His Highness had spent years as a child in Tawau, in one of his father’s palaces, now disused. He had told Sandilands that he had once thought of making a golf course there but had given up the idea because, Tawau being several miles from the sea, there were no cooling breezes as there were in Savu Town. No white expatriates lived there but they often drove to it on Sundays, to picnic.
Mariam Muji was Headmistress of the school. This was unusual, for the other three teachers were men. Sandilands had heard, though not from Leila, that she owed her preferment to services rendered to the Sultan in bed when he and she were young but, according to Leila, she had been promoted on merit, being cleverer than most men. She had been trained in Malaya and had taught for some years in England where she had learned modern methods of teaching, now, though she refused to admit it, out of date. Sandilands’ students did not do any of their teaching practice at her school. Therefore he had never met her.
‘Do you think it’s true she and the Sultan had an affair?’ he asked, in the car.
‘They say I had an affair with him. That is not true either.’
‘But wouldn’t it be a great honour to have an affair with His Highness?’
‘Some women might think so. Mariam Muji would not.’
‘Why did she never get married? Did His Highness forbid it?’
‘She does not have a high opinion of men. You should know why. You have been in Asia long enough to know that men here consider women to be inferior creatures.’
Not only in Asia, he could have said; all over the world; among Eskimos too, no doubt.
‘Why doesn’t she adopt this child herself?’
‘As an unmarried woman she would not be allowed to.’
‘I see.’ It was, he thought, a convenient get-out.
They drove into Tawau under a banner exhorting the people to vote for the Sultan, whom Allah favoured.
It was a peaceful prosperous little place. The school was indeed like a temple, with a domed roof. People were going in and coming out, like worshippers, as Mr Srinavasan had sneered. Every one of them, Sandilands was sure, would vote for the Sultan. They had no more idea of democracy than the headhunters who had once lived here. They might be able to buy electric toasters in the shops but they still had their innocence.
The Headmistress’s house was next to the school. Brilliantly coloured parrots sat on the roof.
‘Is she a member of your Party?’ he asked.
‘I cannot answer that, Andrew.’
He knew why. After the results were declared, with His Highness safely triumphant, he might well wish to punish all those in his employment suspected of voting against him.
Mariam appeared on the verandah. Years ago she must have been voluptuous; now she was just fat. Unfortunately she was wearing her kebaya and sarong much too tight, emphasising the fatness of her breasts and buttocks, and too gaudy, giving her a resemblance to the birds on her roof. She jingled and glittered with jewellery. She stared hostilely at Sandilands, as if she would have liked to punch him on the nose with her fist massive with rings like knuckle-dusters.
They sat on basket chairs on the verandah, drinking cold lemonade. It was very hot. She explained that the child was playing with friends in an adjacent house.
‘So she has friends?’ said Sandilands.
The conversation was in Malay and therefore courteous, though sharp things might be said.
‘Why should she not have friends? She is a human being, among other human beings.’
‘Do they know about her mother?’
‘No. Not yet, so far as I know.’
‘If they did know would they still be her friends?’
‘Yes, until their parents poisoned their minds. Children acquire prejudices from their parents.’
True, but also from their human nature.
‘Surely, Andrew,’ said Leila, ‘most people are fair-minded enough not to blame the child.’
‘I would like to believe that, Leila.’
It gave no pleasure seeing humanity as stupid and unjust, though it might be true.
‘She’s seen Andrew before,’ said Leila, ‘when he visited her school.’
‘Yes, so she has said. She seems to have good memories of you, Mr Sandilands. Of you, Leila, I am sorry to say, not so good.’
Leila was hurt and disappointed. ‘I have tried to be kind to her.’
‘Yes, but look at you, Leila, beautifully dressed as always, rich (by her standards at any rate), a lawyer, a woman of importance. How can you expect a child brought up as she has been not to be overawed by you? You know my opinion. Have you discussed it with Mr Sandilands? I am sure he agrees with me.’
‘What is your opinion?’ he asked.
‘That it would be foolish for you and Leila to adopt this child. Pay some respectable family to take her. Pay them well. Not here in Savu. In Malaya perhaps, far enough away for them never to know about her mother. I have connections there and could help to arrange it. What do you say, Mr Sandilands?’
He wanted to say that it made good sense. The child would suffer, in a distant place, among strangers, but then nothing could ever be done that would save her from suffering.
‘Have you spoken to her about it?’ he asked.
‘No. Why bother? She will do what she is told to do, she will go where she is told to go. What else can she do?’
They heard children’s voices. There was laughter.
But the child on the steps, coming up slowly, gazed at them with utmost seriousness.
She was about the same size as Christina but with coarser darker features. She was wearing white; dress, socks, and ribbon.
She had been dreading this interview but was going to confront it bravely: so much so that Sandilands found his heart missing a beat or two. This was a child he could learn to admire and even love.
But there were difficulties. He did not know if he had the courage to overcome them.
Suddenly she smiled at him. Then she glanced at Leila anxiously and, it seemed, with some distrust.
He smiled back.
She went over and stood by his chair. God help her, he thought, she trusts me. I am the kind gentleman who came to her school and made them all laugh.
‘She remembers you, Andrew,’ said Leila, in English. She put out her hand. The girl took it, hesitantly.
‘Be honest with her,’ said Mariam, sharply, also in English, ‘and with yourself.’
Holding Leila’s hand, the child was not at ease. Was she remembering the scene in the prison cell when she, her mother, and Leila had wept together? How genuine had been Leila’s tears?
‘Make no decision now,’ said Mariam. ‘Give her, and yourselves, time.’
Yes, but he did not want to leave it to Leila to explain. He too did not altogether trust her. He could not have said why.
‘This lady is my wife,’ he said, in Malay.
The girl nodded. She was intelligent. She knew what was going on. She was even more aware of the difficulties than he.
‘We would like you to come and live with us,’ he said.
‘For a little while,’ added Mariam.
‘Would you like that?’ he asked.
She looked neither at him nor at Leila but at the sky. What she saw in her mind God knew, but it must have been painful. Her mouth moved as if she was about to cry but she did not cry. She closed her eyes but opened them again immediately. This terrible situation had to be faced.
He wanted to help her face it but he could not. His help would have to come later.
Then, freeing her hand from Leila’s, she went back to him. He put his hand on her head.
‘Either she’s very sly,’ said Mariam, in English, ‘or she’s taken a liking to you, Mr Sandilands. But of course it could be both.’
‘I wouldn’t call it slyness,’ he said. ‘I’d call it a brave acceptance of circumstances.’