Читать книгу The Princess and the Foal - Stacy Gregg, Stacy Gregg - Страница 11

aya knew she should never have let Ali play in her room. Little brothers always stick their noses into your stuff.

“Hey, what is this?” Ali asks as he crawls out from beneath the bed with the golden shoebox grasped in his hands.

“It’s nothing,” Haya insists. But before she can stop him Ali has taken off the lid and has put on Mama’s sunglasses.

“No!” Haya snatches the glasses back from him. “You’ll break them!”

She tries to wrestle the box off him too, but Ali won’t let go. “Leave it! It’s private!”

“I’m just looking,” Ali says as he continues to rifle through the contents. “What is this stuff anyway?”

“Treasure,” Haya says.

Ali digs to the bottom of the box and holds up a photograph. It is black and white and the edges are worn from being held so often. A beautiful woman wearing the sunglasses that Ali has just tried on is smiling at the camera and holding a bright-eyed, dark-haired baby in her arms.

“Is that you or me?” Ali asks.

“It’s me,” Haya says quietly. “You weren’t born, I don’t think.”

Ali looks at the picture in silence, as if he is trying to place himself in it, even though Haya has just told him he was never there.

“Are there any pictures with me too?” Ali asks.

“Not in here.” Haya shakes her head.

Ali gazes at the photograph wistfully. “You had Mama for longer than me,” he says.

Haya’s eyes well with tears. Does that make her the lucky one, she wonders? Ali can hardly remember life when Mama was here. But Haya can, and it only makes her absence so much more awful.

“Are these real?” Ali asks, his eyes diverted like a magpie that has spotted something sparkly. He picks up the tiny metal casings and examines them, peering inside each one. Haya complains that she wants her treasure box back, that it makes her anxious to have its contents spread out like this. What if Frances came in and found them?

“Frances is a meany,” Ali confirms.

*

That afternoon, as usual, Frances has a lesson plan of mathematics and English, followed by violin, piano and dance. It hardly leaves any time to visit Amina.

Amina’s belly is enormous and tight like a drum now. Each day Haya is surprised to see that the mare has grown even bigger than the day before. She is too heavily in foal to be ridden any more, but it is good to stretch her legs sometimes. After Haya has finished brushing her, she takes the mare out of her box for a walk. Sometimes Haya leads Amina down the driveway, letting the mare pause at her leisure to take a pick of the flowers at its border.

Today Haya endures her afternoon of lessons and when she arrives at the stables she finds Santi with Amina in her loose box. He is crouched down, peering beneath the mare’s belly.

“Come here, Titch,” Santi beckons her. “You see how the udders are swollen with milk? It means the foal is very close. It is due any day now.”

“Why is she sniffing herself?” Haya asks as she watches Amina turning to snuffle at her distended belly.

“That is another sign,” Santi says. “The foal will come soon, I think.”

Haya sits down quietly in Amina’s loose box to wait for her to have the baby. She waits and waits. It is late in the afternoon when she sticks her head round the corner of Santi’s office. “Nothing is happening,” Haya tells him.

“A watched pot never boils,” Santi says. “I am sure her foal will come this evening.”

“Can I come and help like you said I could?” Haya asks.

Santi nods. “I’ll send the driver back for your things. You can stay here tonight with me and Ursula at the house and wait for the foal to come.”

Frances makes a fuss of course. His Majesty is away on business and she makes it clear that she is not at all happy about this new arrangement, but eventually the driver arrives at the stables to drop off the bag and Haya makes her way up the hill to Santi’s little house surrounded by a grove of olive trees.

Santi’s wife Ursula is blonde and has blue eyes and laughs a lot, but not in a fake way like Happy Frances. Ursula is always in jodhpurs, even when she is not riding, and she is still dressed in them that evening as she chops the vegetables while Santi prepares the roast chicken with olives and preserved lemons. After they have eaten, Haya doesn’t want to go to bed, but Ursula is firm. “You need to get some sleep so that you can be useful when the foal comes,” she reasons.

“Promise to wake me,” Haya insists as Ursula tucks her in.

It is almost three in the morning when Ursula comes back in and rocks Haya gently on the shoulder to rouse her.

“Haya,” she whispers. “Get dressed. It has begun.”

Haya is glad that she has a torch; it’s really dark on the path from the house to the stables. The beam of light ahead of her wobbles as her hands shake with excitement.

Santi is already in the loose box when she arrives. He is leaning against the wall, watching Amina as she paces her stall, pawing at the straw bedding on the floor.

Eventually Amina gives a grunt and drops to her knees, lying down on her side. The mare is covered in sweat and her body is shiny and damp. She lies down for a while, raising her head from time to time to sniff her belly.

“This is it,” Santi says expectantly. But Amina heaves herself to her feet and stands up again.

“What’s going on?” Haya asks. “Is she OK?”

“She’s fine,” Santi reassures her. “Amina is getting ready. The foal will come soon.”

But the foal does not come. The minutes tick by and Amina lies down and stands up again many times. She is sweating so much that a white froth has formed on her neck. Santi has beads of perspiration on his forehead as he grabs hold of Amina by the halter and urges the mare back to her feet.

He rolls his sleeves up. “Ursula,” he says, “take hold of her head for me.”

Ursula frowns. “You think something’s wrong?”

Santi washes his hands in the soapy water bucket and then applies grease from a tub in the medicine kit along his right arm. He steps round behind Amina and lifts up the mare’s tail.

“The mare is taking too long,” he says. “I am going to check on the position of the foal.”

Carefully, gently, Santi extends his arm to reach inside the mare, to find where the foal is. Haya stands next to Ursula and strokes Amina on her hot, wet neck, murmuring the whole time, telling the mare it is going to be OK.

When Santi withdraws his arm, his face is grim. “Ursula,” he says, “go and fetch the vet. Now.”

As they wait for Ursula and the vet, Haya helps to rub the mare down all over with a soft, dry towel. Amina is shivering and when Haya strokes the mare’s face she can see the whites of her eyes. “Don’t be afraid,” she whispers. “The vet will be here soon.” It has only been a few minutes since Ursula left, but it feels like forever. When the mare tries to lie down again, Santi asks Haya if she is strong enough to hold the halter while he moves around the mare and pushes her to keep her upright.

“I think Amina’s foal is breech,” Santi explains. “Foals are supposed to come out front first, but this one’s head is in the wrong place. We need the vet to come and help get the foal out.”

There is nothing more they can do but wait. Haya holds Amina’s head in her arms. The mare is trembling and Haya whispers to her. “Not much longer, Amina. He’s coming, I promise.”

The lights come on in the courtyard as Ursula returns with the vet. Amina is drenched with sweat, shivering and exhausted. She does not even turn her head to look when the vet greases his arm and begins to search inside for the foal.

“It’s a breech,” he confirms. “I’ll try to turn it.”

Santi nods and takes the mare’s head as the vet moves back to the tail once more.

Haya stands beside Amina’s shoulder and watches the vet as he works. He is taking forever and all the time Amina looks weaker and more miserable. “Don’t be scared,” Haya murmurs. But now she is afraid for Amina. The vet is taking too long.

Finally the vet pulls his arm back out and shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, “the foal can’t be turned.”

He says nothing more, but that is enough. Santi understands what must happen next.

“Ursula,” Santi says, “please take Titch back home to Al Nadwa.”

Haya is bewildered. Amina’s foal is still stuck! The mare needs help and suddenly Santi is sending her away?

“Please, no,” Haya says. “I want to see the foal being born. I won’t get in the way, I promise. I’ll stay back in the corner of the box, I can help …”

Next to Amina the vet begins to unpack the contents of his bag. The syringes, scalpels and instruments are laid out in a row on a dark green cloth spread out on the straw.

“What is he doing?”

“He is going to save the mare if he can,” Santi says. He cannot meet Haya’s eyes. “Ursula, take the Princess home.”

*

As they pull up to the entrance of the palace, Haya emerges from the car trembling and exhausted. Her clothes are caked with dust and horse sweat and her cheeks are stained with tears. If only Mama were here to take her in her arms and hold her tight and never let go. But at the top of the stairs, waiting with arms folded, is Frances.

“Oh, Haya …” There is something about the look that Frances gives her that makes Haya’s eyes brim with tears all over again. She wants comfort so desperately. She swallows her pride and runs up the stairs towards the governess.

Frances shakes her head. “Look at the state of you! Your boots are covered in mud. And your fingernails! My heavens, child, you are utterly filthy and you positively reek—”

That is it. Haya doesn’t listen to any more. She pushes past Frances, choking on her tears, and runs in muddy boots past the row of Kings, bounding upstairs. The slam of her bedroom door echoes throughout the palace.

In the darkness, Haya drops to the floor and drags herself beneath the bed until she reaches her treasure box. She shimmies back out again with the box and lies panting on the floor. Her hands are shaking so much that she cannot open the lid. Instead, she just clutches it to her chest, holding it close to her heart as she shudders and cries, her sobs wracking her body as she weeps and weeps until she has no more tears.