The Weeping Desert by Alexandra Thomas

pony-tail? The young woman before him was neatly slim, with brown hair curling prettily round her ears.
    “Why, Carol,” he said slowly, “this is a surprise.”
    “Not really surprising,” said Carol. “You see, I work here at the surgery now. I’m your father’s receptionist.”
    “That’s certainly an improvement,” said John. “The one before was a dragon. Even Father felt he oughtn’t to speak without permission.”
    “Poor old Miss Pierce. She’s retired now,” said Carol. “I’m the new dragon. Well, how are you? I hear I must congratulate you. How very exciting.”
    John searched her face for signs of anger or hurt. But she was simply looking interested and pleased to see him. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps Carol had never been aware of his mother’s plans for them both.
    “You tell her,” sniffed Mrs. Cameron. “I just can’t bear even to think about it any more.”
    John thrust his hands deep into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. He could see that if he kept losing his temper, he would be heading for an early ulcer.
    “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