IN THE evening he went with her to the Town Hall for the counting of the votes.
All that day she had been more gracious than kind to Mary, who seemed to understand the difference. Once the child came close to Sandilands and in a whisper asked him whose house it was. When he replied that it was his, she looked relieved. She was willing to be beholden to him but not to Leila. Later she asked him when she was to leave.
‘Don’t worry about that now,’ he said.
‘Wouldn’t it be better if I left now?’
‘Where would you go?’
None of her relatives wanted her. She represented disgrace and bad luck.
Perhaps that family in far-off Malaya would have to be found. They would want to be well paid. Even so, the child would be treated by them as a servant, not as part of the family. She would have a miserable life.
‘We’ll talk about it later,’ he said.
When he and Leila were setting out for the Town Hall Mary watched them from the verandah, from behind the orchids.
‘Why is she always spying on us?’ asked Leila, irritably.
‘She’s not spying. She’s interested in us, that’s all.’
‘Interested in you, you mean. I’ve seen her whispering to you. I hope you’ve not been giving her false hopes.’
He felt a great fear then that their marriage would not succeed.
Cities with populations of millions did not have town halls as grand as Savu’s. The ceiling, lofty, was a magnificence of colour, cornices, and chandeliers. The floor was of marble, as were the huge columns, which reminded Sandilands of those in St Peter’s in Rome. This evening it was laid out with seats, all gilt and red plush, as if a coronation was about to take place. There was a platform bedecked with Savu flags, red, green, and black; above it a large portrait of His Highness in military uniform. Alongside him was the screen onto which the results were to be flashed. In front of the platform was a long table on which were boxes, solid and secure enough to contain a pirate’s treasure; what they contained were the voting papers. Some of the counters were senior students from Sandilands’ college. Others had been flown in from Malaya.
The Sultan’s wish for a splendid end to his elections was being carried out.
Food and drink, non-alcoholic, was set out on other tables. As the building was air-conditioned, there were no flies or mosquitoes. Perhaps an odd cockroach could have been spotted, by anyone on the look-out for one.
But who would have looked for cockroaches when on display were such self-important persons as the Chief Minister and his colleagues, all of them in European evening dress, for there was to be a party in the palace afterwards, to celebrate?
Also to be seen, for the first time together in public, were the candidates and officials of the People’s Party, gathered round their leader, Dr Abad. His daughter, in kebaya and sarong, in the Savu colours, was the person most looked at and most talked about. She was in a brilliant mood, laughing and gesturing to friends.
She did not gesture to Sandilands who was seated well apart, nor did he to her.
It was rumoured that His Highness might appear briefly, to thank the voters.
Alec Maitland was there, in uniform, keeping an eye on his numerous policemen, small men in khaki uniforms, with big pistols in their holsters.
He came and sat beside Sandilands, in the front row.
‘Not expecting trouble, are you, Alec?’
‘You never can tell.’
‘I haven’t seen anyone with a parang or blowpipe.’
‘Now you mention it, Andrew, neither have I.’
‘Nor with a stolen gun.’
Maitland grinned.
‘I’m told you have the building surrounded.’
‘Lots of bigwigs here tonight.’
‘Is it true His Highness is thinking of showing up?’
‘We’ve been warned he might.’
‘It all seems well arranged. What do you think’s going to go wrong? Will the air-conditioning break down?’
Maitland laughed.
Savuans themselves jested that they never quite got everything right. But they didn’t morosely seek out someone to blame. They just smiled and let it go. Why fuss? Partial success was good enough for mortals.
‘They’re the best forgivers I’ve ever come across,’ said Maitland.
Yes, but they would not forgive Mary’s mother.
‘Your wife’s the belle of the ball.’
‘Yes.’
‘From what I hear she’s going to come off all right, whatever happens. Hasn’t she been offered a job in the Government?’
‘She hasn’t accepted it yet.’
‘Well, she couldn’t, till the elections were over. But she should. She’d do very well and it’s time they had a woman.’
The seats were now all occupied. Some white expatriates had sneaked in. Behind Sandilands sat Sam Wilkinson and his wife.
The mood of the audience was festive.
‘They’re so bloody good-natured,’ said Maitland.
‘Yes.’
‘Is it the heat, as some say? Too hot to be bothered?’
‘It doesn’t seem to affect us whites that way,’ said Sandilands. ‘Have you ever been at an enquiry after a yacht race?’
Maitland laughed. ‘Just the same I’ll miss those enquiries.’
‘When is it you’re off?’
‘In three months.’
‘Home to Perth?’
‘By the silvery Tay.’
‘Among the sullen Scots?’
‘You, I take it, are here for good.’ Maitland spoke lightly but his glance at Sandilands was shrewd.
‘Who can tell?’ said Sandilands, also lightly.
‘My God, Andrew, they’re all saying you’re the luckiest man in the kingdom. Students who just want to work hard and succeed. A golf handicap of two. Handy in a boat. A pal of His Highness’s. A house as handsome as the Resident’s. And a wife as remarkable as any woman in the world.’
Yes, I’m lucky, thought Sandilands. Should I let little Mary spoil it? As an experienced sailor shouldn’t I just jettison her?
Maitland looked at his wrist watch. ‘Five to seven. They should be opening the boxes shortly. I’ll have to be on hand, to see that there’s no pochling.’
Sandilands smiled at the use of the Scots word.
Maitland’s place was taken immediately by the Guardian journalist.
‘You’re Sandilands?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘I hope you don’t mind my saying I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful woman than your wife.’
Sandilands felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Sam Wilkinson grinning at him.
‘We mentioned her name,’ said Wilkinson. ‘She came and got us in. We wanted to come and wish her luck.’
‘She deserves it,’ said Mrs Wilkinson.
‘My mother mentions her in every letter,’ said Wilkinson.
‘She’s a lady,’ said Mrs Wilkinson. ‘I haven’t met all that many but she’s one. You should be proud of her.’
Sandilands remembered Leila weeping on the island. He wanted then to rush off to her, but to do what? To tell her he loved her? To say that it didn’t matter about little Mary?
The counting had begun. It would not take long. There had been a large turn-out of voters, over ninety per cent, but they did not amount to a large number. Some of the constituencies in the interior had only a hundred or so voters. Their results would be declared soon.
‘A crafty move on the Sultan’s part,’ said the Guardian man. ‘He gets the credit of introducing democracy but still holds on to power.’
Sandilands then saw Leila giving him a wave. His heart broke.
‘But aren’t they well-off as they are?’ asked the Guardian man. ‘I was shown through the hospital. More up to date than most hospitals at home. I paid a visit to your College too.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘I was told you were too busy. A very pleasant place. Lovely grounds. Magnificently equipped classrooms. I had a chat with some of your students. Charming young people. They sang your praises, Sandilands, but – I know you won’t mind – they sang your wife’s more enthusiastically. She’s their heroine. I’m not surprised. If I was a student here she’d be mine.’
There was consternation among some of the counters. The Chief Minister was talking to them. He looked angry.
‘It looks like a result he can’t believe,’ said the Guardian man.
Not only Tun Mustapha couldn’t believe it, neither could the majority of the people in the hall, when it was flashed up on the screen.
In the constituency of Labuan, where, as it happened, Albert Lo was a teacher, the People’s Party had got ninety-five votes and the Patriots only sixteen.
‘Labuan?’ said the Guardian man. ‘That’s in the jungle, isn’t it? We were flown over it in a helicopter. Savu flags were flying from every longhouse. So what’s happened?’
‘I’ll tell you,’ said Sam Wilkinson. ‘They’ve voted for the buffalo, not for the tiger. You can eat buffalo, you can’t eat tiger. I’ve said all along His Highness was making a mistake taking a tiger for his symbol. Didn’t I?’
‘You did, Sam.’
Leila and her colleagues were congratulating the successful candidate. He was a Murut, that was to say, of the same race as those who lived in the longhouses.
Soon more results, from similar small constituencies, were declared: all victories for the People’s Party.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ asked the Guardian man.
Most of the audience were on their feet, shouting. They were like a football crowd, whose team, bottom of the league, playing the champions, had just scored a goal.
Dr Abad was being congratulated by his followers. They knew it was still early, defeat was still possible, but it was not going to be a rout and a humiliation.
At least not for the People’s Party. It was, though, for their opponents. Every seat, except one, went to the People’s Party. Even the Chief Minister lost his. Dr Abad and Leila had huge majorities.
The counters looked frightened. They were blameless but they might be blamed. Democracy would seem to have triumphed but there were still those dungeons under the palace.
The Chief Minister and his henchmen were conferring frantically. One kept slipping out, no doubt to telephone the results to the palace.
Sandilands noticed the Editor of the Savu Times hurrying away. Tomorrow morning there would be the biggest and blackest headlines in the paper’s history. He might be hanged for it but he would dangle happily.
‘Extraordinary,’ said the Guardian man.
‘Worth a paragraph in the News in Brief column?’ asked Sandilands.
Maitland came up to them, looking bemused. He had been talking to the Chief Minister. ‘They’re blaming me, would you believe it?’ he said, indignantly. ‘I should have arrested the whole bloody lot of them, I’ve just been told.’
‘Shouldn’t you be putting a guard on Dr Abad?’ asked Sandilands. ‘He’s the new Prime Minister.’
‘He’s not Prime Minister yet. If I was you, Andrew, I’d get my wife home as soon as possible.’
‘Why? What do you think’s going to happen?’
‘Don’t ask me. This is a boat that’s capsized. We’re all in danger of drowning.’
Leila was pushing her way through the crowd to Sandilands.
She embraced him. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ she cried.
He had never seen her happier.
‘We’re going to my father’s house to celebrate.’
They were all abstainers. They would toast their victory in lemon tea.
‘Will you come, Andrew?’
‘No. I’d better continue to look neutral. But I’ll go home and drink the champagne.’
‘But you’re glad we won?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Was he? As the wife of a mere teacher, as a lawyer, as a private citizen, as a Christian, Leila might have been persuaded to adopt the daughter of a murderess, but hardly as a Minister of the Government, especially if her ministry was that of Justice.