The Weeping Desert by Alexandra Thomas Page B

There was a flicker of movement in his eyes. The man watched John striding up Market Hill and noted that he turned into Glen Craven House. John’s mind was full of other thoughts, and he was quite unaware of the silent observer.
    Evening surgery was over and a late supper had been laid in the dining room. John noticed that the best china was out and delicious smells were coming from the kitchen.
    His mother came in with a bowl of flowers for the centre of the table. She looked faintly harrassed and wisps of silver grey hair were escaping from her careful coiffure.
    “Doing one of your special suppers,” he said, lightly kissing her cheek as she passed him.
    “No,” she lied. “I’m not putting myself out for any Arab miss. She’ll have to take potluck with us. And if she doesn’t like it, she can go hungry. You’d better fetch her. I don’t want it all spoiled.”
    John knocked on Khadija’s door and she opened it timidly. The bedroom was chaos. She had opened all her cases and taken everything out. Jars of rose-leaf jam stood on piles of dresses. Bottles of perfume lay on the floor among scattered shoes. The sandalwood box was open, and the Italian lacquered box was spilling trinkets over the bed. It would take hours to sort and put away.
    “You’re hopeless,” said John bluntly. “Don’t you know how to do anything?” He put the box from the boutique on the bed.
    “Is-if—” Khadija began.
    “You’d better leave it now. Supper is ready and mother will be annoyed if we let it spoil.”
    “Do we eat together?” Khadija asked in surprise. “Men and women together?”
    “Of course!” said John. “You’re not in the harem now.”
    Mrs. Cameron had been to a lot of trouble over the meal, despite what she said. But she grew more annoyed as Khadija refused dish after dish, and merely pushed her roll round her side plate and crumbled it into uneatable fragments.
    John watched her closely. She could not bring herself to eat in front of men, after her years of seclusion with women alone, and the mask was a practical difficulty. John remembered stories in Shuqrat of local women refusing to remove their masks even to be anaesthetised for an operation in hospital. He remembered, too, that Khadija had not eaten on the plane, but had made several mysterious journeys to the toilet with a carrier bag.
    “I think perhaps our visitor is tired,” said Dr. Cameron, who had also been observing Khadija’s reluctance to eat. “Perhaps a tray in her room would be more acceptable,” he suggested.
    Mrs. Cameron’s face tightened, but she did not say anything.
    Khadija rose gracefully. She stood in the doorway and bowed low. “Good-night,” she said. “May the hours of darkness bring peace and tranquillity to your mind and healing to your flesh.”
    “Good Lord,” said James, sitting back.
    Mrs. Cameron’s mouth snapped open. “I’m not starting trays upstairs. She’s not ill. I’ve enough to do.”
    To save any argument, John took some food upstairs and left it outside her bedroom door. Later, when he went to his room in the attic, he noticed that it had gone.
    He was glad to roll into bed and stretch out on the familiar mattress. He was tired and his body was only just beginning to catch up on the time lapse between the Middle East and England.
    He lay with his hands folded under his head. He liked his room. He liked the sloping eaves, the trophies on the wall, all the memories of schooldays and youth… His eyes began to close.
    He heard a slight rustle and his door opened. He blinked at the fluttering light of a candle flame. Someone came in and closed the door, the flame darting like a moth in the darkness.
    “What the—” he began.
    The figure came nearer, slender and diaphanous. His eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Layers of pink nylon lace, small pink silk rosebuds; something stirred in his sleepy mind—his gift to Khadija!
    “What are you doing here?” He sat bolt upright and stared at