The Weeping Desert (11 page)

“I’m not going to spend my entire leave telling everyone I meet the whole improbable story,” he said. “I am not married. But Khadija believes she is. That’s all there is to it. One day, when I am an old man with several hours to spare, I will tell you how it all came about.”

Carol looked, uncertainly from him to his mother, but she assessed the situation quickly and shot John a brief smile.

“That’s all right with me,” she said. “It’s your own business. None of mine. I’ll try to contain my curiosity until you have those few hours to spare.”

John was about to thank Carol when his ears caught a strange, high sound. It was screaming—a woman screaming. It was such an unexpected sound for Pinethorpe that for several seconds they stared at each other in disbelief.

There were the screams again, nearer.

“Khadija!”

John flung open the door and tore down the steps. Khadija was running up the hill, her cloak flapping like great batwings. Chasing after her were a gang of small boys, throwing stones and shouting at her.

“Witch! Witch! Get on your broomstick, you old witch,” they yelled rudely.

“John!” Khadija shrieked as she caught sight of his tall figure. “Save me.”

She threw herself into John’s arms. “They are going to kill me!” she gasped.

“No, they’re not,” he said. “They’re only small boys. Go inside the house and I’ll deal with them.”

“Don’t leave me!”

“Go inside.”

As soon as they saw John, the small boys dropped their stones and fled. But he caught the two smallest and carried them, struggling and squirming, back to Glen Craven House. He hauled them, one under each arm, into the lounge and dumped them onto the carpet.

He straightened up and pushed the door shut with his back. They were sturdy boys and no light weight. His legs were sore and bruised where their heels had kicked him.

Khadija was sitting in a chair, sipping a drink that Carol had brought her. She still looked frightened and her eyes were full of tears.

“These are two of your tormentors,” said John. “Stand up you two. What are your names? How old are you?”

The boys got up, sheepish and a little afraid to be in the doctor’s house.

“Terry Morgan, sir. I’m eight.”

“And you?”

“I’m his brother,” came a small voice. “I’m seven.”

“What’s your name?”

“Shorty.”

“I know you two,” said Carol. “And I know your mother.”

“I’m ashamed of you both,” said John, “terrifying this young lady in that barbarous way. Throwing stones. Shouting at her. What made you do it?”

“We fought she wuz a witch,” Terry sniffed.

Shorty nodded vigorously but didn’t say anything.

“She looks like an old witch, sir,” said Terry.

“I fought she wuz a black eagle,” added Shorty in a whisper. “Come down to gobble me up.” He looked at Khadija distrustfully.

“But I don’t doubt that the bigger boys knew better, and you were just behaving in a thoroughly rude and thoughtless way to a visitor to this country,” said John.

“A lot of hooligans,” said Carol.

John turned the two boys round to face Khadija.

“Now I want you to meet each other, so that none of you will be frightened by appearances again,” said John. “This is Khadija. She is nineteen—not so very old, you see. And she is an Arab princess and a visitor who will have a very poor impression of English boys if you always behave in that way.”

Khadija softened. She could see now that the two boys were just as scared of her as she had been of them. She held out her slim brown hands to them.

“Hello,” she said. “Come to me. I am not a black eagle or a witch. Though perhaps I did come to England on a broomstick. A silver one with wings that flew high in the sky.”

“That’s an aeroplane,” explained Shorty, helpfully.

“Just because Khadija wears her own native dress does not mean that she is any different from other girls. In fact, she’s a lot cleverer than most girls. Do you know, she speaks four languages,” said John, with an unconscious touch of pride. “English, French, Arabic and Italian.”

“Only a little Italian,” Khadija murmured.

John let the boys go home and Khadija asked to go to her room. She had lost a sandal whilst running, and her foot was cut. Someone would have to bathe it. Perhaps this girl in the white overall was a servant; but John had said that English people did not have servants—it was very confusing.

“We shall have to get Khadija some English clothes,” Carol was saying. “Something like this will happen every time she goes out. People will stare at her or make remarks. She will enjoy her stay much more if she looks like an ordinary English girl. I’m not doing anything tomorrow afternoon. I could drive her into Scunthorpe to do some shopping,” she suggested.

Khadija smiled behind her mask. “I should like that very much,” she said. “I would like to do some shopping.”

John groaned inwardly at the thought of Khadija let loose in the shops, but he could see that Carol was right. And he did not want to discourage anyone who looked like becoming an ally.

John went out when Khadija retired to her room. He was tired. He walked round the old haunts of his childhood and then along the sea front, on to the beach. It had turned cooler and there were few people about. Some boys were throwing sticks for a wet and shaggy dog to retrieve. A couple were braving the weather, wrapped up in woollies and mackintoshes.

He felt sorry for Khadija. Her first two days in England had not been a success. First, she’d had to leave half of her possessions at the airport, then his mother had not exactly laid out a mat of welcome, and now these boys, throwing stones. Poor kid. After the quiet seclusion of the harem, it must all seem a nightmare.

The sea air had blown away the cobwebs and John felt better as he strolled back through the town. The shops were beginning to put up their shutters, and he suddenly thought of the promise he had made to himself to buy Khadija something nice to make up for having to leave her things behind.

He saw that a new boutique had opened where the old fish shop used to be. It was full of trendy clothes and accessories and he felt sure he would find a gift for her in there. Twenty minutes later, he came out with a gift he was certain would please any woman. It had cost a lot of money, but for once he did not begrudge the expenditure on Khadija. The fear in her eyes as she ran to him through a hail of stones—John wanted to erase that experience from her memory.

As John walked away with the gaily wrapped box under his arm, he did not notice a man’s figure in the shadow of a doorway on the opposite side of the road. He was wearing a thick navy reefer coat fastened across the neck as if he were cold, and his face was hidden in the shadows. There was a flicker of movement in his eyes. The man watched John striding up Market Hill and noted that he turned into Glen Craven House. John’s mind was full of other thoughts, and he was quite unaware of the silent observer.

Evening surgery was over and a late supper had been laid in the dining room. John noticed that the best china was out and delicious smells were coming from the kitchen.

His mother came in with a bowl of flowers for the centre of the table. She looked faintly harrassed and wisps of silver grey hair were escaping from her careful coiffure.

“Doing one of your special suppers,” he said, lightly kissing her cheek as she passed him.

“No,” she lied. “I’m not putting myself out for any Arab miss. She’ll have to take potluck with us. And if she doesn’t like it, she can go hungry. You’d better fetch her. I don’t want it all spoiled.”

John knocked on Khadija’s door and she opened it timidly. The bedroom was chaos. She had opened all her cases and taken everything out. Jars of rose-leaf jam stood on piles of dresses. Bottles of perfume lay on the floor among scattered shoes. The sandalwood box was open, and the Italian lacquered box was spilling trinkets over the bed. It would take hours to sort and put away.

“You’re hopeless,” said John bluntly. “Don’t you know how to do anything?” He put the box from the boutique on the bed.

“Is-if—” Khadija began.

“You’d better leave it now. Supper is ready and mother will be annoyed if we let it spoil.”

“Do we eat together?” Khadija asked in surprise. “Men and women together?”

“Of course!” said John. “You’re not in the harem now.”

Mrs. Cameron
had
been to a lot of trouble over the meal, despite what she said. But she grew more annoyed as Khadija refused dish after dish, and merely pushed her roll round her side plate and crumbled it into uneatable fragments.

John watched her closely. She could not bring herself to eat in front of men, after her years of seclusion with women alone, and the mask was a practical difficulty. John remembered stories in Shuqrat of local women refusing to remove their masks even to be anaesthetised for an operation in hospital. He remembered, too, that Khadija had not eaten on the plane, but had made several mysterious journeys to the toilet with a carrier bag.

“I think perhaps our visitor is tired,” said Dr. Cameron, who had also been observing Khadija’s reluctance to eat. “Perhaps a tray in her room would be more acceptable,” he suggested.

Mrs. Cameron’s face tightened, but she did not say anything.

Khadija rose gracefully. She stood in the doorway and bowed low. “Good-night,” she said. “May the hours of darkness bring peace and tranquillity to your mind and healing to your flesh.”

“Good Lord,” said James, sitting back.

Mrs. Cameron’s mouth snapped open. “I’m not starting trays upstairs. She’s not ill. I’ve enough to do.”

To save any argument, John took some food upstairs and left it outside her bedroom door. Later, when he went to his room in the attic, he noticed that it had gone.

He was glad to roll into bed and stretch out on the familiar mattress. He was tired and his body was only just beginning to catch up on the time lapse between the Middle East and England.

He lay with his hands folded under his head. He liked his room. He liked the sloping eaves, the trophies on the wall, all the memories of schooldays and youth… His eyes began to close.

He heard a slight rustle and his door opened. He blinked at the fluttering light of a candle flame. Someone came in and closed the door, the flame darting like a moth in the darkness.

“What the—” he began.

The figure came nearer, slender and diaphanous. His eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Layers of pink nylon lace, small pink silk rosebuds; something stirred in his sleepy mind—his gift to Khadija!

“What are you doing here?” He sat bolt upright and stared at her. Her long dark hair was loose and gleaming round her bare shoulders. Her face was maskless, the olive skin glowed like satin, her lips rosy and moist.

“I am clothed according to my husband’s instructions,” she said softly. “I come. I am here, and I will obey.”

Chapter Six

It took John three tense minutes to persuade Khadija that the thought behind his gift had been quite innocent. Even though the room was cold, he began to perspire. Khadija stood looking at him with her fathomless dark eyes hurt and bewildered.

“I do not understand,” she said pathetically. “In American films, a négligée is a gift of love.”

“Forget American films,” said John. “You can forget every American film you ever saw. I bought that negligee because I thought it was pretty, and you had had a tough time.”

Khadija touched the layers of delicate pink lace on her bare shoulders, but it did not seem to bring her any comfort.

“Yes, it is very pretty,” she said with a sigh, and turned away. “Thank you.”

John made sure that Khadija reached her room safely, relieved that they did not meet his mother, or brother James, on the stairs. He was in no mood for any further explanations.

“Good-night, Khadija. Sleep well.”

He did not like meeting her eyes, for they looked like an injured animal’s. He went back to his refuge in the attic. The situation was getting out of hand. If he ever laid a finger on that girl, the world would consider the marriage valid and all hope of regaining his bachelor freedom would have gone. Perhaps that is what Khadija had in mind—but he could not really believe it of her. The unhappiness in her eyes had been genuine.

It seemed stupid to lock his door like some nervous spinster. In the end John reached a compromise by leaning a heavy chair against the door handle so that he would be awaken by an almighty crash if he had another nocturnal visit.

But Khadija was all quiet dignity when he saw her the next morning. She was reading the newspapers and waiting for Carol to finish surgery, before going with her into Scunthorpe to go shopping.

She bowed to John and spoke a greeting in Arabic, which was a sure sign that she was back to being a princess. He inclined his head gravely and answered in Arabic as well as he could.

“Now what are you talking about?” Mrs. Cameron came bustling into the room with the vacuum cleaner. “I don’t want any of that foreign gibberish here, John. You speak English so that I know what you are saying.” She bent stiffly to put the plug in the wall socket.