The Weeping Desert Page 10

  He chose a table by the window so that Khadija could still watch the rain. When he returned with two glasses of hot frothy coffee and a cream cake, she was drawing patterns on the steamy glass. She turned to him, her eyes radiant.

  “I have enjoyed myself so much this morning,” she said. “I am grateful to you for this wonderful happiness.”

  John smiled back but felt ashamed. He stirred his coffee unnecessarily. So much gratitude for so little: a walk in the rain, some conversation and a cream cake. And strangely, he had enjoyed it too. He had forgotten she was a princess. It had been an agreeable tramp with a beautiful girl for company. And she did look very beautiful under the shiny red brim, the droplets running off it like liquid diamonds.

  It was noticeable in the house that Khadija had quickly become very attached to Dr. Cameron. She waited on both men, much to John’s embarrassment, but his father seemed to enjoy it. She brought him his slippers and the evening paper, fetched his favourite pipe, and was always ready in the hall with his coat and case when the doctor was called out.

  “I’m beginning to like this harem idea,” he chuckled, as Khadija helped him into his overcoat. “Perhaps there is something to it after all.” Then Dr. Cameron caught his wife’s eye and added hastily, “Only joking, m’dear.”

  But John did not like Khadija padding round after him, ready to anticipate what he wanted. It got on his nerves. He found himself speaking to her harshly.

  “If you want something to do, go and tidy your room,” he said unkindly. “But for goodness sake, leave me alone.”

  “If she wants something to do, she can cook your supper,” said Mrs. Cameron waspishly. “I’ve a council meeting tonight, and I shall only leave you something cold.”

  Khadija folded her hands demurely. “I shall be pleased to do this,” she murmured.

  Mrs. Cameron smiled to herself. She wondered just how much an Arab princess would know about cooking. It would do her husband good to have a taste of burnt hash for a change. It might make him appreciate her own good, nourishing meals.

  “I’ll leave it to you then,” said Mrs. Cameron, searching for her notes for the meeting. “Do what you like.”

  Khadija slipped out of the house after lunch with a shopping basket and some of John’s money. She had taken to wearing huge saucer-sized tinted sun-glasses whatever the weather. They had become a substitute for the mask. She felt that she could not be seen behind them.

  She went round the shops, looking for what she needed. There were some ingredients that she could not find at all, and she startled several shop assistants with her strange requests.

  Then she disappeared into Mrs. Cameron’s spotless kitchen and was relieved to find that the cooking was done on twin hot plates of a Rayburn cooker and oven. She would not have known how to work a gas or electric cooker, for despite the millions of pounds worth of gas burning daily in the gas flare, the palace kitchens were equipped as they had been for years, with huge old paraffin stoves and a wood burning oven and spit.

  Though Khadija had been surrounded all her life by servants, she was not without some knowledge of cooking. Every Arab girl is taught the rudiments of cooking at an early age in preparation for the day when she shall marry, in case she should not marry well or, as happened to the surplus women, they should not marry at all. Unmarried women were often given the position of running the kitchens if the sheikh’s own mother was dead or too old to take charge.

  First Khadija’s mother, and then her sister Hatijeh, had seen to it that she had some knowledge of cooking, but this was the first time she had had to put this knowledge to use.

  The pile of washing up grew in the sink, and Mrs. Cameron’s supply of bowls, dishes and saucepans gradually emptied out of the cupboards. The kitchen began to fill with steam, and strange aromas crept out into the hall.

  Mrs. Cameron went to have her hair done. John also vanished for the afternoon, hoping Khadija knew how to use a tin opener.

  By nine o’clock, the three men were becoming restless and hungry. John went to investigate, but before he could get near the kitchen, Khadija rushed passed him into the dining room, pink-faced and flustered, and he thought it better not to upset her.

  At twenty past nine, she appeared and said simply: “Please to come.”

  “Well, I hope you’ve made us something nice, young lady,” said Dr. Cameron, following Khadija into the dining room.

  The table and chairs had been pushed away against the wall. On the carpet were spread twenty dishes of steaming food, many brimming with succulent sauces, hot-smelling and spicy with aromatic herbs. There were baked meats, curries, scampi in butter, roasted chicken, vegetables in thick tomato sauce, boiled rice, fried rice, saffron-coloured rice and, of course, the inevitable bowls of tinned fruit salad. A feast of bountiful Arab hospitality.

  The Cameron menfolk were astounded. John recovered first. “A mutton-grab,” he said. “Well, here’s your chance to eat Arab style. Sit on the floor, Father, and eat with your fingers.”

  “Are we expecting company?” asked James, gingerly lowering himself onto the carpet. “We shan’t even make a dent in this lot.”

  “Arab style again,” explained John, digging his fingers into a large piece of baked meat. “The sheikhs eat first. Then when they’ve finished, the servants are allowed to polish it off. If there is still any left, then the poor are invited in, or it’s thrown out to them.”

  “I don’t think your mother would approve of left-over rice piled upon her front door step,” said Dr. Cameron, pulling off a leg of chicken.

  “Good heavens, what on earth’s this?” James asked, poking at a huge steaming joint, laid out on a bed of rice and vegetables. “Half a sheep?” he joked.

  “That’s exactly what it is,” said John. “A side of lamb by the look of it, and delicious too.” He caught sight of Khadija, slipping away. “Come back,” he called out. “Sit down and eat with us. You’re not in Shuqrat now.”

  Khadija sat gracefully on the floor, legs tucked neatly under her, and dug her slender fingers into the meat. The steam curled out and upwards, joining the other eddies of steam.

  Dr. Cameron wiped the perspiration off his forehead and grease off his chin. “Excellent, m’dear,” he said, with his mouth full. “Excellent.”

  They were all so busy eating that they did not hear the front door open, nor voices in the hall as Mrs. Cameron and three of her fellow councillors came in. She showed them into the lounge and then went into the kitchen to make some coffee.

  They did, however, hear an agonised cry as Mrs. Cameron stumbled out of the chaotic kitchen and burst into the dining room. Her wail rose into a shriek of horror. Her three friends peered anxiously from the doorway.

  Mrs. Cameron’s eyes swept over the littered room, the scattering of rice grains, the splashes of sauce, the gnawed bones, and the three men, now heavy with food, sprawled on their sides, still picking off tidbits.

  “Savages! Heathens!” she howled, choking with fury. “And my kitchen! The mess—it’s all her fault! She’s a savage!”

  “Why not come and join us?” said James amiably to the three eye-popping councillors. “There’s masses of food left.”

  Later, when Dr. Cameron had ushered Edith Cameron to bed with a sedative, and the three councillors had gone galloping home to tell their wives, John and his father started on the mammoth task of clearing up the kitchen. Dr. Cameron tied an apron round his waist and started piling the saucepans and bowls into some sort of order, so that he could fill the sink with water.

  “I don’t blame the girl,” said Dr. Cameron, still chuckling. “She did the only thing she knew how to do. And you must admit she must have worked extremely hard.”

  “Yes, but why make enough for twenty people?” said John grimly. “We shall be eating this stuff for days.” He slammed the refrigerator door shut. Rice was almost coming out of the hinges.

  “Did you ever tell her that we don’t give our leftovers to the poor? No. Well, then, h
ow was she to know?”

  John thought the washing and drying up would never come to an end. At last it was finished and he hung up his wet tea-towel with the others and stretched wearily. The house was quiet. It was late, and he supposed everyone else had gone to bed. He could see a soft light coming from the lounge. Someone had left a lamp on. He went in to switch it off, but stopped short in the shadow of the doorway.

  There were two figures by the window. James had his arms tightly round Khadija.

  “Kiss me, you little witch,” he was saying recklessly. “Kiss me.”

  Chapter Seven

  A dark rage exploded in John at the sight of Khadija and his brother James in each other’s arms. For a moment he was oblivious to all reasonable thought or action.

  Somehow he managed to control his violence and channel it into words. “What the hell’s going on?” he thundered.

  James released Khadija abruptly, and John heard her gasp. She hung back in the shadows, rubbing her left arm. John snapped on the main light and he caught a glint of tears in her eyes.

  “What have you been doing to her?” he demanded.

  “Hello, old chap,” said James, recovering fast. “Didn’t expect you to pop in.”

  “I can see I was not expected. That stands out a mile. What are you up to?”

  “Well, it’s obvious,” said James easily. “She’s out of a harem, isn’t she? She’s used to this sort of thing. We could share her, couldn’t we?”

  “You ignorant fool,” said John, advancing. “You don’t know the first thing about the way Arabs look after their women. And sharing them, as you so nastily put it, is not one of their habits.”

  James did not like the look of cold fury of John’s face. He had rarely seen his brother so angry. Retreat and caution were indicated. He backed away and dodged behind a heavy sofa. There was a four-inch difference in their heights, and though John was slim, it was all muscle, as taut as whip-cord. Two years of yawning through medical lectures had not exactly toughened James.

  Khadija rushed between them and caught at John’s raised fists. Her slim fingers gripped his tightly.

  “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 countrys
ide.”

  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.”