The Weeping Desert (14 page)

“No,” she cried. “I will not be the cause of brothers fighting! I implore you to stop.”

“Keep out of this,” said John grimly.

“It is my fault,” said Khadija wildly. “I did not understand. I did not know. I did not know if it was a custom of your country. I could say nothing.”

John glared over her head at his brother. “You took advantage of her ignorance!”

“I don’t know what you’re getting so het up for,” said James. “I think it is all rather amusing.”

Khadija faced him gravely, her back straightening into the now familiar, dignified poise of an Arab princess. John let his hands drop, but he was still conscious of the pressure of her fingers on them.

He was surprised at his strength of feeling. He suddenly felt immensely possessive towards Khadija, and yet she meant nothing to him. She was just a visitor, and a nuisance at that.

And yet…he looked at her now, remembering the cool touch of her fingers, the glint of tears in her beautiful eyes. If she were an ordinary English girl, he might be falling in love with her.

“It is amusing for you to trick a stranger in your country. In my land, all strangers are greeted with great hospitality and kindness. You laugh at the word harem, without knowing its real meaning,” said Khadija. “This word also means holy, protected, sacred and forbidden. It has come to mean that part of a Muslim house where the women and their children and servants live, because it is their sanctuary.

“I have seen films on television,” Khadija added a little sadly, “of harems filled with dancing girls in flimsy veils. No one shows pictures of the schoolrooms for the children; the cool, quiet rooms for the sick, for needlework, for laundry; and the small government of this world of women which is done not by a man but by a woman. It is the sheikh’s most respected mother who rules with great strictness, or if she is dead, then his first wife.

“As my father’s new wife is so young, my elder sister, Hatijeh, is in authority,” said Khadija. Then a mischevious thought crossed her mind. “I would like very much for you to meet Hatijeh.”

James bowed in a most gallant manner, and taking her hand, he kissed the tips of her fingers lightly.

“My most humble apologies, princess,” he said. “I am contrite. It was all the most dreadful misunderstanding. Am I forgiven? I am ready to believe that you are the most devoted and faithful of wives.”

“I forgive you,” said Khadija. “But does John?”

James looked askance at his brother. “How about a weekend climbing?” he offered affably.

“I’d be tempted to cut the rope,” said John, but the savagery had gone out of his voice.

“I’ll risk it,” said James, going out of the room.

John felt immensely weary. The large meal, all the clearing up, and now this. He just wanted to sleep.

“Good-night, Khadija,” he said, turning from her.

He felt a small touch on his sleeve, but it was enough to make his spine prickle. He quelled a wild desire to crush this slender brown girl in his arms.

“Please, John. You believe me?”

John looked at her luminous face. “You had better start wearing your mask again,” he said. “It would be safer.”

The two brothers decided to bury their differences and go up to Scotland for a long climbing weekend. Khadija watched apprehensively as they collected their equipment together. She had been brought up not to interfere in the ways of men, so she said nothing. But Mrs. Cameron’s volume of warnings and advice did not dissipate until the doctor’s car set out for the station with the two men and their gear.

John left Khadija with the briefest of good-byes, and she tried not to show that she was hurt. She kept her face quietly composed, her eyes cast downwards.

“Allah go with you,” she said. “May wisdom and caution be your friends.”

Left alone to wander round the empty house, Khadija felt pangs of home-sickness. She suddenly longed for her own sunny room in the summer kiosk, the chatter of the women of the harem and the pretty sound of the fountains in the palace gardens. And she longed for the warmth of the sun. This was a cold, cheerless land, and even the little sun she had seen during her stay held no warmth in it; the rays had been thin and weak.

Mrs. Cameron went out, which was just as well, for the older woman’s hostility upset Khadija. Carol was nowhere around.

Khadija went into the kitchen and made a cup of tea. She had now learned how to make an English cup of tea, although she did not like it so much as the clear, aromatic minty tea of her homeland. But there were many English foods and drinks that she did like, such as hot chocolate and milk shakes and Mrs. Cameron’s wholesome fresh salads. She thought some dishes amusing, and could not stop laughing when she was first served fish fingers, and again Yorkshire pudding had her completely mystified. She would have preferred to eat it with some of her own syrups, or rose-leaf jam.

It was not long before Khadija heard the doctor’s car returning, and she got out another cup and saucer for him.

“All alone?” he asked, taking the tea with a grateful smile. “We can’t have that. Would you like to come on my rounds with me? I’m afraid it may be a little boring, but I’ve one or two outlying farms to go to.”

“Thank you,” nodded Khadija. “I would like that. I will fetch my coat.”

Dr. Cameron repressed a sigh as Khadija ran down the porch steps and sat herself gracefully in his car. She was so warm and vividly beautiful in her new red trouser suit and long dark hair coiled away from her smooth and perfect face. Her skin was indeed like tawny satin, and her own style of exotic make-up emphasised her great dark eyes and wide mouth. John was a fool. The girl was one in a million.

“We have the whole afternoon to ourselves,” he said, reluctantly turning his attention to the road. “And I can show you some of our lovely English countryside.”

The gardens were full blown with summer flowers, and Khadija could not help exclaiming with delight at the riot of colours and varieties of blossom. A woman from a cottage came out to talk to Khadija while the doctor visited her bedridden mother. While they talked, hesitantly at first, for they were both wary of one another, the woman picked a great bunch of marigolds and tea roses, forget-me-nots and candytuft.

“And this one, please?” asked Khadija, touching the delicate blue petals. “What is it called?”

“That’s love-in-a-mist, miss. You can dry the seedpods and they’re very nice in the winter in a vase.”

“I’ll be round again to see your mother, Mrs. Armitage,” said the doctor coming out of the cottage. “She seems very well and cheerful. How are your daughter and the new baby coming along?”

“Oh splendid, doctor. He’s a real bonny baby.”

“I don’t suppose your daughter needs reminding to take him along to the baby clinic every week.”

“No, doctor. She’s very regular. A very good mother.”

They drove away. Khadija waved. The woman had pushed the flowers through the open car window, and Khadija had them on her knees to admire and smell.

“What is this baby clinic?” Khadija asked.

Dr. Cameron explained the functions and services of the health centre in the town and Khadija listened carefully. She was most impressed. She thought sadly of the many Arab babies who died through ignorant treatment of small illnesses, and from faulty feeding by their young mothers.

“My father has built for his people the most magnificent hospital in Shuqrat,” said Khadija. “It has been open only six months, but already many things are broken, and it is misused by the people. Because it is there, they come now, waiting perhaps a whole day, with a cut they could bind themselves, or a thorn they could pull out with their teeth. The wards are overcrowded, and whole families move in with a patient. And if a sheikh goes into hospital, then he takes with him his own guards, his servants and his cook.”

“Good heavens,” said Dr. Cameron. “It must be chaos. You shall come and see our hospital. It’s not perfect, and it could do with a few of your father’s thousands injected into it. But despite that, it’s extremely efficient and friendly.”

“And can you also take me to see this baby clinic?” asked Khadija eagerly. “I am anxious to tell my father about this. He would agree with me that there is a great need for such a service, and it would not cost much.”

How fortunate to be in a position to spend money so freely, thought the doctor. A clinic here, a hospital there. At Pinethorpe Hospital they had to think twice before increasing their indent for cottonwool.

“It would be a pleasure,” he said, turning onto the hill road. Soon they were climbing, and when they reached the beginning of the moors, Khadija’s over-confused eyes found rest in the great rolling wastes of gorse and heather.

“A green desert,” she said softly. “How beautiful.”

They stopped on a high knoll, and Khadija wound down the car window and listened to the wind moaning through the dry grass.

“The air has even the same song,” she went on, turning her head towards the wind and closing her eyes as if to conjure up the empty sands of her deserts.

“You must ask John to bring you up here for a tramp,” said Dr. Cameron. “It’s a wonderful place for a long walk. And John knows his way all over it. He seemed to spend all his boyhood hiking and camping and climbing. Made him very tough and self-sufficient, I suppose.”

“Yes.” Khadija hesitated. “He is self-sufficient. He is a man on his own. He has no need of other people.”

Dr. Cameron made several more calls and then drove homewards. He found himself driving slowly, in order to prolong the pleasure of Khadija’s company. He could not understand John going off and leaving her—to go climbing!

“Tuesday is the clinic afternoon,” he said, as they turned into Market Hill, “and I’ll take you to see our hospital tomorrow. You’ll find plenty to write to your father about.”

“Thank you,” said Khadija, turning and smiling at him.

But her smile froze as she looked over the doctor’s shoulder, across the road, to a figure lighting a cigarette in the shelter of a doorway. The man straightened, the match still burning in his fingers. Their eyes met, his dark and penetrating, and for a few cauterised seconds they were locked.

Dr. Cameron swung the car into the driveway of Glen Craven House. He turned to say something pleasant to her, but stopped.

“Whatever’s the matter, my dear? You look as if you have seen a ghost. Are you all right?”

He braked quickly and switched off the engine.

“I’m all right,” said Khadija slowly, trying to control the panic which constricted her throat. Her hands were damp with terror and she hid the palms face downwards from the kindly doctor. “It’s nothing, nothing.”

“It’s certainly not nothing,” he said, helping her out of the car. “Perhaps some fresh air will help. It’s not exactly a luxury ride in my old banger. The fumes may have affected you.”

They met Mrs. Cameron in the hall. She was busy laying the table for supper, and clutched a handful of knives and forks.

“Had time to go gallivanting, have you?” she said sharply. “You’d better hurry. It’s nearly time for evening surgery.”

“Khadija isn’t feeling too well,” he began.

“Then she’d better go and lie down,” said Mrs. Cameron without wasting any sympathy on the girl. “Very convenient when it’s time to get supper ready.”

“I’m all right now,” said Khadija, taking off her coat. “Please I would like to help. I am wanting to learn English ways.”

“Oh, very well. Come along with me.”

Khadija clung like a limpet to Mrs. Cameron’s side all evening. At first the older woman was irritated, but as Khadija was quiet and dutiful and did not intrude, the annoyance lessened. Her desire to learn certainly seemed genuine. Mrs. Cameron did not know that Khadija was staying near her for protection. The handful of knives and her curt manner had given Khadija a feeling of safety.

It took Khadija a long time to get to sleep that night. She thought of John and of the dark face she had seen that afternoon in town, and her spine crept with foreboding. She had never, for one moment, thought she would be followed.

The next day she stayed close to Mrs. Cameron or the doctor. She went with him to the local hospital, and here at least she forgot her fear in her interest in the patients and the hospital administration.

She spent a long time in the children’s ward, where the small patients were fascinated by her long glossy hair and henna’d hands. She told them about her home, where there was so much sand that every child could have a beach to himself if he wanted it, and the sand was real sand. Soft and white and powdery, not like the grey grit of Pinethorpe.

“I think we could easily find you a job here,” said Dr. Cameron when it was time to leave.

“In Shuqrat, I would not be allowed to work,” she began. Then she shivered and her face clouded. “Let us go quickly,” she said. “I am cold.”

For once she did not look at the greenness of the garden, but hurried into Glen Craven House as if its four walls were a safe refuge. Mrs. Cameron had some tea ready for them in the lounge, and she showed a guarded interest in their afternoon’s activities.

“A parcel arrived for you, Khadija,” she said. “It came by hand. It’s on the hall table.”