The Weeping Desert Page 6

  He ran up the steps to board the gleaming aircraft. The hostess stood at the top, holding on to her smart hat with one hand and trying to control her boarding list with the other.

  “Mr. Cameron? Mr. John Cameron. You are the last. Welcome aboard.” John followed the hostess into the aircraft, ducking his head as he went through the cabin doorway.

  The cabin door clanged shut behind him. They were wasting no more time. The notices NO SMOKING and FASTEN YOUR SAFETY BELTS had already flickered on, green and red.

  “Your seat is reserved for you, Mr. Cameron,” the hostess went on, indicating an empty aisle seat. An Arab woman was sitting in the other seat, heavily robed and veiled. A slender hand was timidly holding the window curtain aside. The Arab woman turned, and John found himself looking into the unmistakable dark eyes of Khadija.

  Chapter Four

  “Khadija!” There was rising anger in his voice. “What are you doing here?”

  “I journey to London with you, my husband,” said Khadija, as meek as a mouse.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” said John curtly. “I’m not standing for any more of your harem tricks. You’re getting off this plane this instant!”

  He lurched up the aisle, aware that the aircraft was moving, slowly taxiing to the head of the runway for take-off. The air hostess was settling herself into a seat at the back, clasping the safety belt round her neat waist.

  “Can you stop the plane?” John shouted. “This woman has got to get off.”

  The air hostess looked up in alarm. “Please, sir! Will you get back to your seat and fasten your safety belt. We are just about to take off.”

  “We can’t take off,” John insisted. “There has been a terrible mistake.”

  But the rest of his words were lost in the roar of the powerful engines as they thrust into life. With immense quickness of mind, the air hostess pulled John down into the empty seat beside her and flung the safety belt round his middle, snapping it into place just as the plane began gathering speed.

  “Surely you don’t want to start your leave with a dislocated neck,” she said, trying to regain her composure.

  “Thanks,” said John, aware that she must have hurt herself straining against her own strapping. “But it is an emergency.”

  “Only life or death is an emergency, Mr. Cameron,” she replied. “If there has been a mistake, then the passenger can alight at Kuwait and fly back to Shuqrat.”

  The plane soared into the air, climbing fast at a steep angle. John looked over the heads of the passengers. The black robed figure of Khadija looked unnaturally limp and huddled.

  “Can I go forward?” John asked. “I think there’s a young lady in distress.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, stay where you are. You’ve done enough already.”

  “Please re-fasten your safety belt until the notice goes off. We are still climbing.”

  John hurried along the aisle, swaying, finding it difficult to counteract the angle of the climb.

  Khadija was slumped over her belt like a rag doll. He lifted her back so that her head lolled against the starched white headrest. Her forehead was ashen under the olive pigment, beads of perspiration running down under her mask. He loosened the neck fastening of her robe and explored the curious paraphernalia of the mask. The cloak slipped off her dark glossy hair, and John was able to remove the mask. Her skin was flawless; not a trace of the ugly purple-black juice used to dye the masks. The dye had not yet marred her skin, as it had many Arab women’s.

  John turned the air vent towards her so that a cooling stream of air played on her face. He wiped the sweat off with his handkerchief and, despite his annoyance, he could not help admiring the perfection of her features.

  Khadija moaned a little, her lashes fluttering like moths on a dark summer’s night. She opened her eyes, and John saw in their dark depths a torrent of terror and fear.

  “Are we going to die?” she whimpered.

  “You are quite safe,” said John, surprised at the gentleness in his voice. “The plane has made a perfect take off. Look, now you can unfasten your seat belt. You’ll feel more comfortable without that tight strap round your middle.”

  She clutched his arm desperately. “Don’t leave me,” she cried. “I am so afraid.”

  “I only have a limited amount of sympathy for you, young lady,” said John. “This is entirely your own doing. I don’t know what you are planning, but one thing is sure. You are getting off at Kuwait.”

  “Please,” Khadija began, “my father insist I go with my husband—”

  “Nonsense,” said John curtly. “He was only too pleased to see the back of me.”

  “It is not true. He says a wife’s place is beside her husband. It is good Arab law. You should know that my father, the sheikh, had plans for me, his favourite daughter. At the age of seven I was betrothed to my cousin Ahmed Karim, heir to Shuqrat if my father does not have a son. But I told my father that you are a most important person in the oil company and have a great deal of money and a fine palace in England, and he was comforted, for it is important to be in good relations with the oil company.”

  John choked. He doubted if the colossal Anglo-American firm he worked for would be much impressed by his new status. Being son-in-law of the sheikh was no guarantee to a ticket to the boardroom. He was more likely to get the sack for violating some anti-fraternising rule in the terms of his contract.

  “You are getting off at Kuwait,” he repeated firmly.

  “Oh, do not make me.” She turned to John, pleading, her eyes filling with tears. “Please listen to me. You are a kind man, I know it. Have a little compassion.” She faltered slightly on the long word and moistened her lips. “I am nineteen years old. I have lived in Oman Said all my life. If you send me back, I will never have a chance to see this other world, this outside world, these places I have seen in magazines and people who talk on television, women walking in the street and shopping in the daylight.” Her face lit up as she thought of what she knew of Western freedom.

  “Please let me see a little of this life, just a few weeks. I will be no trouble to you,” she said softly. “I promise.”

  John felt himself weakening. Harem life was probably cruel, mentally and physically. If he sent her back, it was like committing her to life imprisonment. No doubt security at the royal palace would be tightened now, and Khadija’s outings even more strictly supervised by the gaunt elder sister, Hatijeh. Perhaps even that cool refuge, her summer kiosk, was out of bounds.

  She was nineteen; just a kid. She was entitled to some life of her own. John thought of Sheila and her unquestioned freedom to train for the career of her choice, to live and work where she pleased, to look straight into the eyes of any man as his equal.

  “All right,” said John reluctantly. “Just for a few weeks. But you’re not to faint every time you see a bus.”

  Khadija’s face broke into a radiant smile. “Please,” she giggled. “What is a bus?”

  John sighed and sat back in his seat. He had been looking forward to a nice quiet leave—a little golf, perhaps some climbing in Scotland, a few days’ fishing with some pals. Now he was landed with an Arab princess, all fainting and fluttering, who would probably need escorting to a pillar box to post a letter.

  “Would you like a drink?” he asked, resigned.

  “Yes, please. If you would ask the servant.”

  John swallowed. He was obviously going to have to start at square one.

  “The young lady is not a servant,” he explained. “She is an air hostess. There are not many servants as you know the meaning of the word in Europe. People are equal, although they may bring you food or serve you in some way.”

  The air hostess appeared at John’s side, with a tray of drinks. “Is the lady feeling better? I’ve brought some sal volatile. Or would she like some fruit juice?”

  He took a glass of lemonade for Khadija. “And remember, you are not my wife. You are just a friend.�
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  Khadija bowed her head demurely. “As my husband wishes,” she demurred.

  “Get this straight, Khadija,” said John. “That ceremony or whatever it was means nothing to me. I do not consider that we are married.”

  “Please do not call me Katie-jar. What is this Katie-jar? My name is Khadija,” she pronounced the Arabic name softly, sibilantly, the consonants disappearing like a sigh.

  “Katie is an English name. I’ll try not to call you Katie-jar. You must call me John.”

  “John…John…” Khadija said the name over to herself. “Yes, I like.”

  Indeed she did like. A small bubble of excitement was beginning inside her, now that the fear of flying was subsiding. It was all a marvel to her that she was up in the air like a bird, and yet still alive and breathing. She began to look around cautiously, with the curiosity of a child. Inside the aeroplane was such a funny place with people sitting in rows so solemnly. She was still a little afraid but the calm presence of John comforted her.

  She glanced sideways at him, hoping that he was not still angry with her. His mouth was set in a firm line but it was not a cruel mouth. He spoke very little to her, and Khadija silenced all the questions she wanted to ask him. She would try to be no more trouble to him.

  Khadija endured the rest of the journey stoically, although it was a long time before she let go of John’s arm. She insisted on wearing her mask, and John did not try to dissuade her. It would take some time for her to become accustomed to leaving her face bare. She slept much of the time, like a child weary with new sights and experiences. Once she awoke with fright as the plane descended at Rome, and she clung to John, trembling like a rabbit.

  “I have fastened your belt. Don’t be afraid,” he soothed her. “Take some deep breaths. Look out of the window. See how pretty it is, with all the lights.”

  She looked obediently, and was soon fascinated by all the lights twinkling down below.

  It was early morning as they flew over the Alps, and dawn was touching the ice caps with a pink paint brush. Khadija was enchanted. She forgot her fear and gazed at the giant mountain ridges as if she could hardly believe she was still in the same world as her empty desert wastes.

  “Shall I see Paris?” she asked wistfully.

  “No. We are flying too high. But it’s there. It’s down there all right.”

  “I would like to see the Paris of my mother,” she said. “My father spoke of this during our farewell. He loved my mother greatly and it was some consolation to him that I might now visit the city of her birth.”

  “You made the airport in good time.”

  “Arab farewells are brief,” she said simply. “My luggage was packed. A car was waiting and the airline informed of my arrival. My father accepted that as your wife I should join your flight immediately. I had already been bathed and anointed with perfumes for the ceremony.”

  John made no further comment. The less he was reminded of the ceremony the better. He opened a paperback and pretended to read.

  John could see her nervousness returning as the plane began its slow descent to London’s Heathrow airport. Khadija adjusted her mask a dozen times, and she had her safety belt fastened long before the notice switched on. John felt sorry for her. To be transported in the space of hours from years of seclusion in the royal harem to a first flight in a long-distance jet, was enough to give any woman an attack of nerves.

  The plane began to circle Heathrow, waiting for its final instructions from air control. John looked over Khadija’s shoulder at the small patchwork fields and the rows of suburban houses, and was glad to be home.

  As he held Khadija’s hand for the last few minutes, he wondered with a start what on earth his mother would think. It was such a foreign-looking hand—dark and slim, the palms dyed with henna, though the nails were varnished a silver-pink in Western style. It certainly was not going to be easy to explain Khadija to Councillor Mrs. Edith Cameron.

  The plane landed safely and taxied to where an airport bus was waiting to take them to customs. For the first time John realised that Khadija seemed to have a lot of hand luggage. She produced a large plastic handbag with a gilt handle, and indicated that an expensive pig-skin case on the overhead rack was hers, also a hastily wrapped brown paper parcel that looked as if it had come straight out of the souk. It looked as if Khadija had packed in a hurry and had thrown a few things together—just a toothbrush and a change of mask. Did Arabs clean their teeth, John wondered.

  He was still smiling as they reached the customs hall. He was so busy locating his own two modest suitcases that he was not aware of the stares in Khadija’s direction. She kept her eyes down, absolutely overwhelmed by the size of the building and the hundreds of people who seemed to be stampeding all round her. She kept glued to John’s side as if he were the only sane thing in an utterly alien world.

  “Mr. Cameron?” A British Airways official hovered at John’s side. “Ah, Mrs. Cameron’s luggage is being brought off on a special trolley. Our senior customs officer will clear it for you. You need not wait in the queue, if you will kindly come this way.”

  John followed the official, not fully understanding, but with tremors of apprehension; a special trolley? Then he saw it, waiting at the end of the hall, and stopped full in his tracks.

  He saw a mountain of suitcases, all shapes and sizes, from dusty black cabin trunks that must have been stored in the palace attics since the Edwardian era, to a graduated set of luxury pig-skin cases still with their price tickets swinging from the handles. There was even a wicker basket perched on top.

  John was appalled. “Is this all yours?” he asked Khadija helplessly. She nodded.

  “Must have been quite a bill for excess luggage, sir,” said the official sympathetically and with some respect. John hoped it went on the sheikh’s account.

  “Will it all have to be opened?” John saw a long, weary wait ahead of them as the customs officer went through Khadija’s belongings.

  “Probably, sir. Some of these foreign ladies, if you’ll pardon the expression, have some weird ideas of what they are allowed to bring into the country. Of course, if it is all clothes, then there is no problem.”

  John must have looked as gloomy as he felt, for someone brought him a chair and another for Khadija. His heart sank lower as the contents of Khadija’s cases came to light. Khadija hid her head in the folds of her cloak in embarrassment as the customs official turned over her clothes.

  Apart from a vast quantity of unidentifiable garments, Khadija had brought with her: two dressing-table sets, one in carved ivory, the other in rare jade; three ink horns; a set of Chinese porcelain figures; a heavy Italian lacquered box full of trinkets; a sandalwood box of spices; pieces of ambergris; and an exquisite silver coffee set that could only be a rare antique.

  The pile of duty-payable goods grew: two half-pint bottles of Dior’s Diorling; eleven bottles of Cologne and assorted perfumes; three brand-new watches; a movie camera still in its plastic wrapping; a large collection of sweet-smelling jars which had the customs officer’s nose twitching till he discovered the jars held an assortment of sweetmeats, syrups and rose-leaf jam.

  “Jam!” John stifled a groan.

  “I like rose-leaf jam,” came a small, defiant voice from the black bundle at his side.

  “I’m afraid the duty on this lot is quite considerable,” said the officer, totting it up. “Some of these items are very valuable.”

  “Could some of the goods be left here, under seal,” asked John, trying to keep his voice controlled. “The young lady doesn’t really need them. She’s only here for a short holiday. The coffee set, for instance?”

  “That’s a distinct possibility. It would certainly cut your bill. The Chinese porcelain and the jade?”

  “I must have my own coffee set,” insisted Khadija, emerging from the depths of her cloak. “I will drink from no other.”

  “Then you go without,” said John firmly, nodding to the officer to remove
it from the pile. He heard a whimper, but the line had to be drawn somewhere.

  Even with some ruthless pruning, the duty was more than a month’s salary. John managed to write the cheque with a steady hand, but he felt sorely tempted to send her straight back to, Shuqrat on the next plane.

  “There’s this, sir.” It was the wicker basket. “Would you be good enough to sign this quarantine form?”

  Khadija gave a small cry of delight and ran to the basket. She unfastened the lid and lifted out a beautiful pale brown Siamese cat, its haughty blue eyes at this moment looking extremely wicked and annoyed.

  “Yasmine,” purred Khadija, and began murmuring endearments in Arabic into the cat’s ear.

  “This is most unorthodox,” said the officer, beginning to feel uncomfortably hot. “This animal should have been declared at Oman Said.”

  John drew Khadija aside. “You must say good-bye to your cat,” he said, more kindly. “There are rules in England about bringing animals into the country. She’ll be well looked after at a cats’ home.”

  “Yasmine goes everywhere with me,” said Khadija, clinging to the cat. Yasmine glared malevolently at John, the customs officer, the airline official, the porter and everyone else in sight.

  “Not here, she doesn’t,” said John, firmly removing the cat from her arms. At this, the cat went wild, biting and scratching, and it took all three men to get her back into the basket, where she continued to yell and swear and spit.

  “Now will you please decide which of these cases can be stored? I have no intention of travelling to Pinethorpe with seventeen pieces of your luggage, plus my two cases. What about those two cabin trunks, for a start?”

  Khadija’s dark eyes glinted stubbornly. “No.”

  “If you don’t choose, then I will,” said John, equally determined.

  “No!”

  John bent down and hissed into her ear: “You will do as your husband says.”

  He knew he was not being fair. But he was not going to spend all day arguing with an irresponsible Arab girl about a mountain of clothes.