HE FOUND her in her hiding-place.
If he had come with a whip to lash her he could not have felt more guilty and ashamed. Before he could say anything, while he was searching his mind for words that would destroy her hopes without causing her hurt – no such words existed in any language – she said that she would leave now and, excusing herself, slipped past him and went to Christina’s room.
He stood at the door watching her put her few belongings into a green plastic bag. She had very little: her old clothes had been burned and he noticed that she was taking none of Christina’s except those that she was presently wearing. There were two small books, with tattered covers; a ball-point pen; a small red handbag; a necklace of coral; and a handful of coloured sea shells. Packing took her less than a minute. She stood there holding the bag, ready to go. There was no self-pity on her face; no accusation; no emotion at all. If she had wept he might have known what to say or what to do. Surely he would have embraced her or taken her hand. This refusal to beg or blame made him helpless.
‘I would like to go now,’ she said.
If he would please get out of the way, she meant.
‘Where will you go?’ he asked, though he had no right to ask.
‘To Nirmala’s,’ she said, after a slight hesitation.
‘Is she your friend?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘Kampong Ayer.’
A fishing village about two miles from the College.
Since he was turning her out of his house it would have been an impertinence to ask if she was sure that Nirmala’s parents would take her into theirs.
‘What does Nirmala’s father do?’
‘He’s a fisherman.’
Like her own father. Poor therefore. With a house, a hovel, already overcrowded. A more hospitable man than Sandilands, though? And was his wife a kinder woman than Leila?
‘How will you get there?’
‘I’ll walk.’
‘No. I’ll take you in my car.’ He would want to see this place where she would find the welcome that she had not found here. He would want to speak to Nirmala’s father and offer him money.
She was shaking her head. ‘I’ll walk.’
She still would not ask him to get out of her way. She had too much dignity.
He wondered where Leila was; somewhere keeping out of sight. He felt angry and disappointed. What would the people who had voted for her think of her rejection of this child? Most would commend her, for in her place they would have done the same.
A ludicrous thought occurred to him. He would give up his job here, adopt Mary on his own, and take her to Malaya, to the Cameron Highlands, to join David Anderson.
He stepped out of her way.
She thanked him politely as she passed.
He stood on the verandah watching her go down the steps, walk with head up among the flowers and bushes to the road, and there stride along bravely, swinging her bag. She did not want anyone to think that she was afraid or unhappy.
Was she thinking of her mother?
She did not look back. Three students, girls, spoke to her. She replied but did not stop. They looked after her and then they looked towards his house. He skulked behind his orchids.
Soon Mary was gone out of his sight.
The students were debating as to whether they should come and tell him about Mary. Perhaps they thought that she was running away and he did not know.
Leila came out onto the verandah. She looked tired and unhappy. Perhaps she was remembering Christina.
‘She’s gone,’ he said, continuing to speak in Malay.
Leila chose English. ‘Gone? Gone where?’
‘To a friend’s house, in Kampong Ayer. The girl’s father is a fisherman.’
‘Was she sure that they would take her in? Had they promised?’
‘She wasn’t sure. I don’t think they’d promised.’
‘Why did you let her go then?’
‘Wasn’t I supposed to tell her to go, that she couldn’t stay here? That we wanted to get rid of her?’
She winced and turned away. ‘Not get rid of her,’ she murmured.
‘That’s what it amounts to, Leila.’
‘You could at least have offered to drive her there.’
‘I did, but she preferred to walk.’
There was a pause. Leila sighed. The beauty had gone out of his orchids.
‘We must find out where this friend of hers lives,’ said Leila.
‘Why? We’ve no right to interfere. We’ve washed our hands of it.’
‘Don’t speak like that, Andrew. I don’t like sending the child away any more than you do. She could not have stayed here. Don’t you see that? It would have been misinterpreted.’
He wondered what she meant by that but he would not ask.
‘I shall be ashamed all my life,’ he said, and was ashamed of saying it. If he had had the dignity of the little girl he would not have said it. Like her he would have kept quiet.
‘But, Andrew, we can still see to it that she’s well looked after.’
By offering money? That it would be needed and gratefully accepted would not make the offering of it any less shameful.
In the world there were many children unluckier even than Mary; at least she wouldn’t starve. To ease his conscience about those children he had sent cheques to Oxfam. With the same tainted generosity he could give money to the family looking after Mary; that was, if they were looking after her. Suppose they too were afraid that their kindness would be misinterpreted and had turned her away?
Another ludicrous thought occurred to him: why not appeal to the Sultan?