Читать книгу The Princess and the Foal - Stacy Gregg, Stacy Gregg - Страница 7

wo lions stand guard at the entrance to the Royal Palace. They stand upright on all fours, alert and ready. Their powerful, sleek bodies are golden in the afternoon sun.

If the lions turned round, just a whisker, then they would see the little girl who stalks up silently behind them. But they do not move; their eyes stay trained on the stairs below.

The girl tiptoes forward in one-two-three quick strides. She has chosen her lion and in a bold leap she vaults up his rump and on to his back. Heart racing, she reaches out with both hands and grasps his mane tight and then she digs her tiny heels into the lion’s flanks.

“Go!” she commands. “Go now!”

Leaning low over his mane, she kicks him on, the way she has seen her uncle ride his polo ponies. Just ten metres away there is a massive stone wall that borders the palace compound. If she can ride fast enough then the lion will leap the wall and they’ll keep riding out across the green lawns of the Royal Court. Then beyond the next wall until the pink limestone buildings of Amman disappear and all that is left is the bleached, sunburnt sand of the Arabian desert. A lion can travel swiftly across the sand on his padded paws, but first they must leap the wall!

She is pressing the lion on, crouching low, legs kicking and arms pumping, when she senses a tall, dark shadow looming over her.

“Your Royal Highness.”

The little girl looks up and smiles at the kindly face of Zuhair, head of the Royal Household Staff.

“Princess Haya,” Zuhair says, “Queen Alia is looking for you.”

Haya swings her leg over and then slides down the rump of the statue, landing neatly on her feet and running on ahead of Zuhair. She is three years old, with bright brown eyes and shoulder-length dark hair. Small for her age, her skinny arms are only just strong enough to push open the massive front doors of the palace that are made of heavy teak studded with brass orbs the size of her head.

In the hallway the portraits of Kings look down on her as she skips along, her feet pattering against the cool marble floor. She likes the way their eyes follow her as she runs by. Her father is King, but he is not on the wall. Whenever they have tried to hang his portrait, her Baba always says no thank you, he has no wish to stare at himself all day. He prefers photos of tanks and boats, and horses of course. Her Baba loves horses, just like Haya.

They call her father the Lion of Jordan, but Haya has never heard him roar. He is a soft-spoken man, handsome with short-cropped dark hair and a moustache. His dark eyes are bright with intelligence and his smile is gentle and kind.

But today, when Haya peeks in from the hallway through the door of his office, her Baba is not smiling. He sits at his desk, his brow furrowed deep with concern. In the centre of the office there is a large bearskin rug and her Mama is there too, standing on the bear and holding her little brother Ali on her hip.

“I have spoken to the officials in Tafilah,” the Queen says. “Conditions there grow more desperate by the hour. Refugees are pouring in. Many of them are women and children and they need food and medicine. The hospital staff are exhausted. There are no beds left. People are sleeping on floors and without blankets. They cannot wait another day. I should go there this afternoon in the helicopter and take them medicines and supplies while you meet with the foreign delegates in Aqaba.”

Prince Ali squirms on the Queen’s hip as she speaks. Only this afternoon he stood up for the first time and now he is reluctant to be restrained by his mother’s arms any longer. His sturdy little legs kick out as he wriggles in a bid for freedom.

The worried expression does not leave the King’s face at his wife’s suggestion. “Alia, we agreed at breakfast that you would take the car. It is too dangerous to fly with a storm coming.”

“If I take the helicopter then I can be home again by nightfall,” the Queen says. And then before her husband can object she adds, “Badr Zaza has offered to fly me.”

Badr Zaza is the King’s own pilot and in all of Jordan there is no one better. The King nods in agreement at his wife’s plan. “If Badr Zaza is willing to undertake the journey then I know you will be safe …”

“I want to come too.”

It is Haya. She is standing in the doorway, eyes bright with excitement.

“Haya,” her Mama cautions. “What did I say at dinner last night? I told you, if you wanted to come with me, you had to eat your steak and your Brussels sprouts.”

“Ali didn’t eat his either!” Haya offers as her defence.

“Ali is staying home too,” her Mama says, rocking Haya’s brother gently on her hip. “Grace will take care of you until I get home and next time, if you eat everything on your plate, then you may come with me, OK?”

There is a storm coming, but right now the sun still shines on the palace. On the lawn, not far from the pomegranate tree where Haya played that morning with her mother, a helicopter roosts like a sleeping dove.

“Are you going to fly away?” Haya asks her mother.

“Yes,” the Queen says, “but Grace will look after you while I am gone.”

Grace, their nanny, stands beside them on the balcony that leads to the lawn. She is holding Prince Ali in her arms. Grace is nice; she bakes biscuits.

Haya frowns. “Will you tuck me in?”

“Not tonight. Baba will be home in time to put you to bed and I will be there when you wake up in the morning.”

Grace reaches out to take Haya’s hand. It is time to say goodbye.

“Be good, Haya,” her mother whispers in her ear as she bends down and kisses her.

The Queen kisses Ali too and then sets off across the lawn towards the helicopter.

“Wait! Mama!” Haya shouts, but the helicopter engine roars to life and drowns her words. Grace’s hand is clasped firmly over hers, anchoring her to the balcony. Then suddenly Grace’s hand is empty. Haya has broken free and is running helter-skelter after her mother across the flat, green lawn.

The Queen has almost reached the helicopter by the time the little princess catches up with her.

“Mama!” Haya’s tiny hands clutch at the Queen’s trouser leg. Startled, her mother looks down and sees Haya standing there beside her. Above their heads the blades of the helicopter begin to turn. The dove is waking.

Haya has something to tell her Mama, but her voice is too light as the engines of the helicopter thrum overhead. Her words are lost the moment they leave her lips. “Don’t go!” she shouts. “Stay with me. I love you, Mama.” And then she looks up into her mother’s eyes and Haya realises that she does not need to say anything because her mother understands.

The Queen bends down and picks up her daughter, taking her in her arms and hugging her tight. She kisses her one last time, and Haya feels the softness of Mama’s skin. Then Grace is beside them and her mother is passing her over into the nanny’s arms. Grace, who is still holding Ali, manages to straddle Haya on one hip and Ali on the other as she walks back to the garden terrace.

The helicopter blades turn slowly and then faster and faster until they are a blur. The wind gets stronger and whips at Haya’s hair, flattens the flowers in the gardens below.

At first, the helicopter rocks up off the ground and bumps back down again as if it cannot make up its mind. Then, suddenly, it lifts up like a leaf caught by a gust of wind, rising straight into the air. It hovers for a moment and then arcs away, clearing the high palace walls and the tops of the trees beyond, setting a flight path towards the distant hills.

Haya tries to keep watching it, but the sun blinds her eyes. She shuts them tight, just for a moment, and when she opens them again, the helicopter is gone.

*

Haya curls herself up tightly into a ball. It is pitch-black in here, but nice and warm too, and she has her favourite toy, Doll, with the pink hat and sewn-on eyes and squishy cotton legs, with her for company.

“Shhhh,” she whispers to Doll. “I can hear them coming. Be quiet now or they will find us.”

There are voices outside and then car doors slamming. Haya feels her heart racing as the engine begins to purr. They are moving!

Uh-oh. The car has stopped again. There is the sound of voices once more and then footsteps, and suddenly the car boot is wide open and she is blinded by the glare of daylight.

“Haya! Not again!”

It is Baba. He has opened the car boot and found her!

“Haya.” The King hardly seems surprised to see his daughter in the boot of the car. “Out you hop, please. I need to go now.”

The first time Haya hid in the boot of Baba’s Mercedes she made it all the way to Aqaba. But ever since then the King has been wise to her tricks and he always checks the car before he drives off.

Haya unfurls herself slowly and reluctantly, as if stalling for time will help matters.

“Please can I come?” she asks hopefully. “I won’t be any trouble.”

The King tries to suppress a smile at her antics as he bends down and lifts her out of the boot. “Somehow I find that very hard to believe.”

Haya isn’t going anywhere and so it is up to Grace to keep her amused. That afternoon they are baking biscuits in the palace kitchen. Grace makes them with dates and almonds and it is Haya’s job to roll the mixture into little balls, dip them in sugar and then squish them down with a fork before they are put on the baking tray.

Ismail, the head chef, is grumpy that they are taking up his kitchen space. He doesn’t complain – how can he tell off the daughter of a King? But he does clatter about, making extra loud noises banging his pots and pans as he cooks. He is making mansef for dinner: a rich dish of lamb with rice and thick pungent yoghurt. Bedouin food, Ismail calls it, one meal powerful enough to sustain you for many days.

This is what Haya’s ancestors survived on during nomadic voyages across the great deserts. Her great-grandfather, King Abdullah, ate mansef with Lawrence of Arabia when he led the Bedouin army in the Arab Revolt.

Haya never met her great-grandfather, but she has seen his portrait on the wall of Kings. Baba was with him on the day that he died. He was accompanying his grandfather to pray, climbing the stairs of the mosque in Jerusalem, when an assassin opened fire. King Abdullah was shot and Haya’s father would have been killed too if he had not worn his new uniform that day, with his medal for sword-fighting pinned over his heart. The medal stopped a bullet and saved her father’s life.

Haya’s father, Hussein, has been the King since he was seventeen years old. Presidents and prime ministers, kings and queens all come to Al Nadwa to meet him. They sit and talk for hours, but they never bring their children with them to play. It is all very, very dull as far as Haya is concerned.

During these visits there are grand dinners and the kitchen becomes a flurry of activity with six cooks working at once – so Haya cannot understand why Ismail is so grouchy about sharing his kitchen today. Surely there is enough space for her and Grace to bake biscuits alongside him?

When the biscuits are ready, they eat them in the Blue Room. It is much smaller than the grand dining room and is just for family. Everything about it is very blue – blue walls, blue curtains, even blue plates and water glasses. Haya likes to pick the glasses up and look through them so her food is blue too.

No matter how busy her father is, he always eats breakfast with them, but often he does not make it home in time for dinner. Kings have a lot of work to do.

“Your father is the King of a nation,” her Mama says. “The people of Jordan are all your brothers and sisters and we must love and care for them just like we care for you.”

Haya has millions of brothers and sisters. But she mostly has Ali and there are only three places set at the dinner table that night for her and Ali and Grace because her Baba has not returned from Aqaba and Mama is still in Tafilah at the hospital. Usually at dinner everyone laughs and talks, but tonight it is quiet and Grace is acting very strangely as if she is anxious about something. Haya wonders if it has anything to do with the phone call that she took just before dinner.

There is a storm coming. Outside the windows of Haya’s bedroom the tops of the palm trees are bending and swaying in the wind. When Grace puts Haya to bed she stays with her for a long time because the noises are quite scary – even when you are brave like Haya.

“I want to stay up until Baba and Mama get home,” Haya says as Grace tucks her in. Haya’s bedroom is upstairs and her bed is right beside the window. She likes to lie there and gaze up at the aeroplanes. The palace is so close to the airport that when the planes take off Haya thinks she could actually stick her hand out and touch their bellies. She likes to stare at the lights twinkling red, green and white on the tips of their wings as they fly overhead. But tonight there are no planes to watch. The winds are too strong and the airport has been closed.

Grace strokes her hair, then tucks Doll tightly into bed beside her. “Go to sleep. I will be in the room next door with Ali.”

Haya squirms about to get comfy, wrestling with Doll beneath the blankets. She cannot sleep. The wind is howling now. Outside her window the palm trees are being shaken like rag dolls.

In the blackness of her bedroom, Haya clutches on to Doll. Fresh thunder rolls across the heavens and she is just about to call out for Grace when she hears the sound of voices, coming from downstairs. They are home!

Grasping Doll by the arm, Haya swings her legs over the side of the bed and scampers across the landing.

As she comes down the stairs, she can see her father. He is home and he has company. The King is speaking to a man in uniform, one of the Royal Staff. The man has his head bowed as he hands an object to her father, something small and shiny.

“Baba!”

Haya dashes down the staircase. The King turns to see the little princess in her pyjamas, clutching a dolly with a pink hat, and that is when Haya realises with shock that he is crying.

Haya has never seen her father cry before. He weeps openly, letting the tears run down his cheeks without trying to wipe them away.

“Haya.” Her Baba picks her up and his arms feel strong and safe around her. “It’s OK …”

Haya hugs him tight and buries her face in his chest, but as she does so, she catches a glimpse of the object that he cradles in his right hand. The small and shiny thing that the man passed to him. Haya can see now what it is.

The shattered remains of her Mama’s wristwatch.