The Weeping Desert Read online

  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.

  “Please, let me help,” said Khadija. “I have seen these machines at work in the harem. Please may I try?”

  “No, thank you. You’d probably fuse it.”

  “Let her, Mother. She might even enjoy it.”

  “My house is a clean house,” said Mrs. Cameron, hoovering the defenceless carpet with unaccustomed violence. “And I mean to keep it that way, even if it kills me.”

  “It will kill you if you don’t accept any help,” said John. “Khadija is willing.”

  Mrs. Cameron turned on him, raising her voice in order to be heard above the whine of the cleaner.

  “Have you seen her room this morning? It’s chaos, I tell you. Cornflakes all over the floor, milk soaked into the carpet, one of my best bowls smashed to pieces, clothes everywhere and the bed not made. I won’t have my house turned into a pigsty.”

  John put away all thoughts of a morning’s fishing. “Come along,” he said to Khadija with resignation. “Let’s go and clear up.”

  “I am sorry about the bowl,” said Khadija timidly. “It slipped.”

  “You could at least, have picked up the bits.”

  “I was waiting for the servant who brought my food,” said Khadija. “I thought s-she—”

  “Carol is not a servant,” said John, wondering if he was ever going to get this fact into Khadija’s head. “She is a friend. She works here for my father, but she is not a servant. She brought you your breakfast this morning out of kindness. Now do you understand?”

  Khadija stood up, her back held very straight, her chin tilted a little. “I will clear it,” she said simply.

  John felt some sympathy for her. She always displayed dignity and courage, even in situations she did not understand.

  Khadija felt in need of more than courage as she and Carol hurtled along the main road to Scunthorpe in Carol’s red Mini. Khadija had never been in such a small car. It felt like being inside a tin box, and she kept expecting her head to bounce against the roof.

  “You’ll have to learn to drive,” said Carol cheerfully.

  “Oh no! Not me,” said Khadija, appalled.

  “There’s nothing to it,” said Carol, crashing the gears. “You’d soon pick it up.”

  They had driven over the hills that sheltered Pinethorpe, and were now bowling along flat, agricultural land. The small, paint-box fields looked fussy and peculiar to an eye used to the uncluttered emptiness of the desert. So many shapes, shadows, colours and patterns made Khadija’s head ache if she looked at them for too long. And yet clearly the ground was rich. How the poor cardboard-eating goats of Shuqrat would gorge themselves on those succulent hedges! She was amazed that no animal was eating them.

  “I’m taking you first to a big chain store that sells practically everything,” Carol told her. “I’m sure there are lots of basic things that you need like bras and tights, and it’ll save time to get them all under one roof. Then afterwards we’ll go round all the smaller dress shops, and you can window shop till you see something you like.”

  “Window shop?”

  “It means just looking. By the way, I hope John remembered to give you some money.”

  Khadija’s face softened. “Oh, he is a most generous man. He has given me twenty pounds in green notes, and a piece of paper with his signature on it that I must fill in if I need more. Such consideration is so kind.”

  “That’s an open cheque. Don’t lose it. You don’t want to hand John’s savings over to some pickpocket.”

  “It is safe,” said Khadija mysteriously. “I would like to see a pickpocket. On television films, I watch many times this man.”

  Carol could see she was going to have trouble escorting Khadija safely through the crowds and preventing shop assistants from thinking Khadija was a shoplifter. She could hide a couple of fur coats under that voluminous cloak. Carol had tried to persuade Khadija to leave her mask at home, but Khadija had panicked and so she was still wearing it.

  Carol parked the Mini near Marks & Spencer’s, so that she could make a dash through the crowds with Khadija. But Khadija lingered, puzzled, by the parking meter.

  “What is this machine?” she asked.

  “It’s a parking meter. You have to pay by the hour.”

  Khadija looked amazed. “You pay to leave your own car? How very astonishing! This I must write and tell my father!”

  But Khadija’s attention did not wander once they were inside Marks & Spencer’s. The young Arab princess caught her breath with wonder, and began to walk alongside the counters, touching, exclaiming, laughing with delight.

  “Oh, but this is Aladdin’s cave of treasures,” she exclaimed happily. “Such clothes I have never seen. Such beauty.” She wandered excitedly like a child round a rail of frothy nylon nighties, touching the frills, the embroidered rose-buds, the tiny satin bows.

  “If only my sister Hatijeh were here, and the women of the harem, how their delight would exceed all raptures!” Khadija chattered merrily. “Oh, I must have this one, and this, and this one! It is so beautiful.”

  “I’ll get a shopping cart,” said Carol with resignation. She could see she was in for quite an afternoon.

  It took two assistants to carry Khadija’s purchases out to the Mini. They had to wait while Khadija went behind a rail of raincoats to retrieve the cheque from its hiding place.

  “And I will have this,” she said, coming back with a red PVC mac. Carol was about to ask how often it rained in Shuqrat, but realised that Khadija was practically intoxicated with spending and in no mood to listen.

  Carol winced as the assistant totted up the bill and handed it to Khadija. Poor John.

  “This is a marvellous way to go shopping,” said Khadija, waving the cheque. “I hope John has many of these.”

  Khadija sobered up a little as they walked round the shopping centre looking at dress shops. Now she had only the twenty pounds to spend, and she could not make up her mind. They went backwards and forwards, comparing merchandise and prices, until Carol’s legs ached and she longed for a cup of tea.

  At last Khadija decided, and Carol had to admit she had made a good choice. The box joined the stack of bags in the Mini.

  Now it was Khadija’s turn to flop. She had never walked so far in all her life. The noise and the crowded street
s with so many people pushing were so tiring. Carol steered her across the road to a small tea shop. It was quiet and select, and Khadija should be able to sit there without being stared at.

  ‘‘Why is the road painted so?” Khadija asked as they hurried across to the other pavement. “These stripes?”

  “It’s a pedestrian crossing. Where we are supposed to cross the road.”

  Khadija shook her head wonderingly. “So many laws. In Shuqrat, we can walk where we like.”

  “But not the women?” Carol pointed out dryly.

  “That is true,” admitted Khadija thoughtfully. She looked down the street: women pushing prams, women walking dogs, women driving cars, women laden with baskets, women smoking, women making phone calls and women in trousers taking money and handing out tickets. “Of course, that is the difference. Here there is the big freedom of people, and many laws in the small things. In Shuqrat, there are no laws, but no real freedom either.”

  Khadija looked enquiringly as the conductress pressed the bell smartly and the double-decker moved off.

  Carol followed her gaze. “A bus,” she explained.

  Carol ordered tea for one and a soft drink with a straw for Khadija. Khadija took it gratefully. “You are very thoughtful,” she said. “Why are you so kind to me? You do not know me.”

  “You’re John’s wife. That’s enough.”

  Khadija went quiet, sipping the drink through the straw slowly. It was not a relationship she wanted to discuss. John’s wife. For a few moments she sat in that busy Scunthorpe tea shop and thought what it might be like really to be John’s wife. The day-to-day area of shopping, travelling and family life alarmed Khadija so thoroughly that she took refuge in more fanciful day-dreams. John’s arms did not frighten her at all…

  Khadija went straight upstairs on their arrival back at Glen Craven House, leaving Carol to bring in most of the shopping and put the car away.

  “Nobody takes me shopping in Scunthorpe,” said Mrs. Cameron, eyeing the load. “I have to make do with the awful shops around here.”

  “Why doesn’t the council allow in a few new traders, then there might be a better selection, my dear,” said Dr. Cameron mildly.

  “Hmn! Chinese restaurants, you mean. And we don’t want any of those in Pinethorpe.”

  John was feeling relaxed by supper time. He had had a pleasant afternoon fishing off the breakwater, and though he had not caught anything, the lapping water had soothed his jagged nerves and the fresh sea breeze had given him an appetite. He had sat on the same rock where he had fished as a small boy using his first line and tackle with stale sandwiches for bait. His rod and tackle had changed since those days, so had the sophisticated bait and flies. But the result was the same, he thought with a grin.

  “I hope it’s not fish for supper,” he joked.

  “Don’t you like fish any more?” asked his mother.

  “You want to warn us when you’re going to make a joke,” said James. “Wave a flag or something.”

  They wandered into the dining room, talking with their father. Mrs. Cameron was bringing through the steaming dishes and putting them on the table. The polished walnut table shone under the old well-laundered linen mats laid at each person’s place. She had hem-stitched those mats herself before her marriage, but they were still as good as new. You couldn’t buy that quality these days.

  “My turn to take the tray up,” said James quickly, as he spotted the empty place.

  “There is no need,” said a voice from the doorway. “I wish to join the family of my husband, as is customary.”

  There was a hush in the room. Even Mrs. Cameron stopped clattering the plates. James let out a low whistle under his breath.

  Khadija hesitated before coming into the room. It was more awful than she had ever imagined. Somehow she had to get through it, or this wonderful English emancipation would never be hers. She forced her legs to move slowly, stiffly.

  John was lost for words. Khadija had indeed been shopping. She was wearing flared black crepe trousers, and a narrowly cut black, pink and gold Chinese-style tunic top. There were gold earrings in her ears, and she wore clusters of gold rings and bangles.

  But her face—it was bare except for her black kohl eye-liner and a translucent shine on her lips. Her skin glowed luminously, and the long dark lashes swept downwards demurely. She was more than a little afraid.

  The three men were looking at her face. Khadija felt as if she were naked. Any moment now her courage would go and she would flee upstairs and hide herself in her room.

  “My dear Khadija,” said Dr. Cameron, coming towards her. “How very nice. You look absolutely charming. Will you sit here beside me?”

  “No wonder you married her, old chap. What an eyeful,” said James crudely.

  The warmth of her skin loosened the fragrant oils in her perfume, and the room was filled with it.

  “My husband approves?” Khadija murmured, as she took her seat beside the kindly doctor.

  “I approve,” said John gravely.

  He was even more silent than Khadija throughout the meal. Khadija had never looked more beautiful, and he was content just to sit and look at her.

  Dr. Cameron drew Khadija into the conversation, and explained the dishes to her. Gradually she began to relax and she actually forgot that her face was bare.

  James was another who could not take his eyes off her. His jokes grew steadily worse, and his mother was disgusted. How silly men could get over a pretty face; she had to admit, grudgingly, that the girl was unexpectedly lovely.

  They watched television in the evening, which made Khadija feel quite at home. She discovered that Dr. Cameron was a kindred fudge addict, and she was delighted to be allowed to dip into his box of assorted sweets.

  “You must try my rose-leaf jam,” she offered gaily. “You will like it.”

  “Thank you, my dear. I think I should.”

  James was bored with the programme. He was watching Khadija instead. “The old man’s not doing so badly,” he said to John with a yawn. “You’d better watch it.”

  John took no notice of his brother’s remarks. He was glad that Khadija got on well with his father. Now perhaps he could safely go and do a bit of climbing. With Carol and his father to look after her, Khadija should not come to any harm. He’d look out his mountaineering gear tomorrow.

  But it was too wet the next morning to go climbing. The pattering of the rain on his window pane awoke John from a deep and dreamless sleep. He lay listening to the rain, warm and protected from the elements, watching the rivulets running to join each other as they skidded down the glass.

  Rain—it was a long time since he had seen any rain and he certainly hadn’t missed it. He had become accustomed to the endless days of Arabian blue skies and sunshine, despite the discomfort of the accompanying humidity and heat.

  As he gradually surfaced from sleep, John became aware of strange cries coming from the garden. For a while he ignored them, puzzled, but at last he thrust his feet out into the cold and stumbled over to the window.

  Running across the lawn was a strange figure, arms waving, shrieking with delight. It was Khadija, her long Arab dress flapping like wet washing, her hair plastered to her head as she lifted her streaming face to the heavy clouds.

  John opened his window and called out: “Khadija! Come in. You must be crazy.”

  She heard his voice, looked up to the top of the house and waved enthusiastically.

  “It’s raining, John! Look at all this beautiful rain!”

  “Come on in. You’ll catch cold.”

  “It has been raining for hours and hours! It is so lovely!”

  She danced on with bare feet in the wet grass, laughing joyously and singing a happy high-pitched Arab chant.

  Another window was flung open, and John saw his mother’s blue-netted head peep out cautiously. She did not want to spoil her set.

  “Come in at once, Khadija,” John roared. “Come in and get dry. I’ll take
you for a walk after breakfast if it’s still raining.”

  Khadija stopped running about and, smiling obediently, returned to the house, the hem of her gown straggling wetly on the ground.

  It was still raining after breakfast and John found Khadija waiting for him in the hall, wearing her red PVC raincoat and matching sou’wester hat. She had borrowed some white wellington boots from Carol, and was impatient to go.

  “It has not rained in my country for two and a half years,” she told John as they walked down the drive. “And then it was for only ten minutes. I am so astonished. It has already been raining here for several hours.” She sighed. “If only I could push these clouds across the sky to Arabia.”

  They walked down Market Hill to the sea front. It was deserted now, the rain patting out the marks in the sand. They turned and met a strong wind blowing the rain into their faces. Khadija shivered, tendrils of hair blowing across her forehead.

  “Are you cold?”

  “I shall be all right,” she replied. “Fortunately I bought many warm and beautiful soft jerseys yesterday. They are a comfort. This England is indeed a cold country. I like the rain very much indeed, but oh, I miss the sun.”

  They walked past the end of the sea front and followed the twisting path to the cliff top. John took her arm to help her, for the rain had made the path slippery. They stopped to look at the view. The bay was awash with a grey mist, and the hills were lost in a curtain of rain. Many hundreds of feet below them, a man huddled under an outcrop of rock, his collar turned up, the rain dripping off his arrogant nose. He, too, missed the sun.

  “This is the sort of day on which even the most badly made cup of coffee can taste good,” said John, guiding Khadija down the path. “Let’s go and find some. And I’ll buy you a very sweet and fattening cream cake.”

  “Good! I will like that.”

  The rain had in many ways been a blessing, for Khadija, without thinking, had taken her first walk in public without wearing a mask. There had been few people about, and they had been too busy struggling with umbrellas to notice her. Even the rain itself had provided a protective veil of moisture. But now going into the coffee bar, Khadija pulled down the brim of her hat till she could hardly see where she was going.