WHEN MARY had left, Sandilands and Leila had driven to Kampong Ayer that evening. They had stepped carefully, in lamplight, along the wooden walkways on stilts that served as streets. Children shouted out to them where Nirmala’s parents lived and followed them to it. People came to their doors to stare at these strange visitors. There were smells, of fish being cooked, of ordure, of salt water, and of engine oil. Leila had been there before, briefly, when campaigning in the election. This time her mood was subdued and she was dressed to suit in dark blue. Nevertheless she had suggested that Sandilands should leave the talking to her. These people were her compatriots. She knew them better than he ever could. His Malay might be adequate, as far as meaning went, for their vocabulary wasn’t extensive, but it could not reach their feelings. They would assume that he considered himself superior, for didn’t all white Tuans think that? Moreover, with no children of his own, why was he so interested in a Savu girl of ten? Virgins of that age not so long ago had been bought and sold, though not usually by white men, it was fair to say. So, though his intentions were honourable, if not altogether clear, even to Leila herself, these simple folk might look on him with suspicion if he offered money. Besides, they knew Leila as a leader of the People’s Party and had probably voted for her. Also she was known as the lawyer defending Mary’s mother.
All that she had said in the car.
‘All right, Leila,’ he had said, ‘just so long as you let Mary make the choice.’
‘I won’t try to dissuade her, if that’s what you mean.’
‘She’s not sure of you, Leila. You’re too grand for her.’
‘Whereas you, a white Tuan, aren’t too grand for her?’
‘She trusts me.’
‘Really, Andrew?’
‘Yes. God knows why but she does.’ So, he could have added, had Christina.
Nirmala’s father and mother, forewarned by the shrieks of children, had put on their best clothes and tidied their house. This had two rooms. They received Sandilands and Leila in the larger one, while the rest of their family, including Mary, hid away in the other.
Mr Andau was small and skinny, with rotten teeth; his wife was fat, with greasy hair. They squatted on the floor, wearing long skirts, white in his case, red in hers. His shirt was also white but grubby. Her blouse was green, with glittering buttons. There was fish cooking in a black pot on a stove. A mangy cat mewed. Children giggled behind the partition. The lamp flickered and gave poor light.
Sandilands and Leila were given rickety cane chairs. Leila sat on hers as if it were a throne. When she was unsure of herself she became haughty and grand.
Even so, they were honoured to have her, the famous daughter of Dr Abad, as their guest. Her frowns pleased them more than Sandilands’ smiles.
To be fair to Leila, and himself, it was easier for them to befriend the child. She was in the same social class as themselves. They had few possessions and few responsibilities. They had no position of importance, no reputation to preserve.
It still remained true that they would need compassion and courage to give shelter and protection to a child whose mother had committed a horrible murder and whose relations had disowned her. They had too their own superstitious fears to overcome.
Leila explained, calmly and lucidly; more like a lawyer in court, he thought, than a concerned human being.
He waited, ready to intervene.
They listened humbly to the beautiful, rich, perfumed lady.
She understood, she said, that they were poor, with their own children to feed – they had seven – so she and Tuan, her husband, were prepared to pay them thirty dollars a month if they agreed to look after Mary. She would benefit from it as well as their own children.
Mrs Andau kept glancing at Leila with sad, anxious eyes. At last she interrupted, shyly, to ask if it was true that Leila’s own daughter had been killed by a car.
Yes, said Leila, it was true.
Mrs Andau said that her little boy, aged six, had died of a disease.
There was silence then. Water slapped against the piles on which the house was built. The cat scratched itself.
‘We will give the child a home even if there is no money,’ said Mr Andau.
His wife nodded. ‘She is a good child.’
‘But we think,’ he went on, showing his bad teeth in a sad grin, ‘that it would be better for her if you were to take her to your house. Look at where we live.’ He waved his hand at the bare room. He wrinkled his nose to show that he was aware of the stinks. He patted the thin cat. ‘She told us about the wonderful house you live in.’
His wife sighed. There was little envy in it but great wonder.
Leila looked at Sandilands, begging him to tell them why it was not possible for her and him to adopt a child who would be out of place in their ‘wonderful’ house.
He shook his head dourly. He would not make it easy for her. He himself was willing to take the child, whatever the consequences.
Behind the partition the children were strangely silent.
‘What does Mary herself want?’ asked Sandilands.
Leila had her eyes closed. She seemed to be praying.
Mr Andau grinned ruefully and scratched his neck. He meant who in her right mind, even a child of ten, would prefer his hovel to their mansion.
‘Shouldn’t we ask her?’ said Sandilands.
Leila opened her eyes. ‘But, Andrew,’ she said quietly, in English, ‘won’t she feel obliged to say that she’d rather stay here with her friends. So as not to offend them, I mean.’
‘But isn’t that what you want, Leila. Wouldn’t that please you?’
She astonished him by saying, in some agitation: ‘No, it isn’t what I want.’
‘Are you saying that you want her to come back with us?’
‘Yes, that is what I’m saying.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, very sure. Don’t be angry with me, Andrew. I was wrong, very wrong.’
Was it the prayer that had changed her mind? There was so much about her that he had still to learn.
‘You tell them, Andrew?’
Did she think his Malay was adequate? He hated himself for the question, though it hadn’t been spoken.
He addressed Mr Andau, speaking slowly and carefully. ‘If Mary says that she would like to come back with us would you be offended?’
The skinny little man and his fat wife laughed at the Tuan’s foolishness. They were fond of the child. If good fortune came to her they would be pleased, not offended.
Mr Andau called her name.
As they waited Leila took Sandilands’ hand and squeezed it.
Mary came in, shy but resolute. She smiled at Sandilands and also, less hopefully, at Leila.
‘We’ve come to take you back with us,’ said Sandilands, and added, ‘This time for good.’
‘For good’ meant while he was alive, a promise stretching out for thirty or more years. Would he be able to keep such a promise? If there was any doubt should he have given it?
Leila was smiling in a way that he did not quite trust; somehow it wasn’t personal enough. She was pledged to save the whole country, not simply one little girl.
Both of them waited for Mary to answer.
It was to Sandilands she looked and spoke: would her friend Nirmala be allowed to visit her?
Yes, he replied, and any other friend she wished.