by Jane Jackson
‘Yes. So?’
‘So they will do what we are doing, gather fuel for their cooking fire to make what they are carrying last longer.’
‘What is worrying you, Caseley?’
‘We have just gathered an armful. It can’t have been here long or other people would already have picked it up.’
Realisation softened his expression. ‘You believe there may have been a recent flood?’
She nodded.
‘If that is so, then surely the chance of another one occurring any time soon must be very small?’
Caseley smiled, shaking her head as she relaxed. ‘You’re right. I should have thought of that. It’s just –’ Suddenly her throat closed on a choking lump. She dare not speak; afraid her voice might betray her. She lifted one shoulder and turned away, pretending to look for more wood.
‘Everything is so different?’
She nodded. It was easier to agree. It was also true. But wearing strange clothes, riding a camel, eating with her fingers and sleeping on the ground were nothing compared to the upheaval inside her when she was with him.
A shot rang out, making her jump as it echoed off the rocky heights. She whirled to meet his sombre gaze.
He smiled, but she could see it cost him effort.
‘That’s probably Sheikh Imad with dinner. We had better go back.’
A few minutes after they arrived and Jago dropped the wood beside the fire, the Sheikh returned, with one of his guards carrying the carcass of a small gazelle over his shoulder.
While the servants skinned, gutted and butchered the carcass, stones were heated in the fire. The joints were wrapped in date palm leaves, then placed on the stones and covered with hot embers. Soon the smell of roasting meat drifted over their camp and Caseley felt her stomach cramp.
For months she had eaten at Rosina’s insistence. On the boat she ate because after her collapse she needed to regain her strength and, after their arrival in Alexandria, to maintain it. Hunger felt strange.
She sat on her saddle blanket beside Sabra. ‘Sheikha, how should I greet the women in whose tent we’ll be staying? Mr Pawlyn taught me to say as-salaamu-aleikoum, and to respond to anyone who greets me with wa-aleikum as-salaam. I know please is min fadlak, and thank you is shukran.’
Sabra patted her hand. ‘That will do very well. Few English take the trouble to learn. Miss Collingwood and Mr Pawlyn are unusual.’
Antonia beamed at the compliment and sent Caseley a triumphant look that said I told you so.
The meat was tender and delicious. They ended the meal with mint tea and dates.
‘I do like these,’ Caseley said, taking another.
‘The date palm is a truly miraculous tree,’ Sabra said. ‘As well as being tasty and nutritious, dates can be used as medicine.’
‘How?’ Caseley asked.
‘Dates, figs, raisins and hibiscus are boiled in water. When the liquid is strained and cooled it is drunk as a remedy for congestion in the chest. Empty fruit bunches are dried and used as brooms. The leaves can be used as fences or woven into baskets, and the beaten stalks are turned into rope.’
‘It was branches from the date palm that Christians placed on the roadway when Christ entered Jerusalem,’ Antonia announced to Caseley’s surprise.
‘On Easter Sunday we were given crosses made out of dried palm leaves,’ Caseley said. ‘But I never knew they were from date palms.’
That night, in spite of the hard ground, she slept deeply. But waking soon after sunrise, with a dull headache, she felt grimy and unsettled. The servants were up, moving quietly about, tending the camels and rekindling the fire.
Seeing one returning from the well with two water pots, Caseley pushed her arms through the slits in her heavy cloak, grabbed her soap, facecloth and comb from the striped bag, and hurried to intercept him.
‘Min fadlak?’ she pointed to one of the pots, speaking softly, anxious not to disturb the others. ‘I won’t use much.’ He shook his head and shrugged, clearly not understanding. So Caseley held up her hand showing her forefinger and thumb with an inch between them. ‘Only a little,’ she repeated in French.
Shaking his head again he passed her the pot, bowed, and left. She crossed to the rocks. The air was still chilly.
Removing her cloak, headband and scarf she washed her face and neck. As she shivered, she reminded herself of the heat that would beat down on them as the sun climbed higher.
Aware that Sabra or Antonia might appear at any moment, she pulled her arms free of her sleeves and, still covered by the loose black garment, washed as much as she could reach. Goosepimples rose on her skin and she clenched her teeth to stop them chattering.
Quickly combing her hair, she repinned the coil then replaced her scarf and tucked one end into the headband. With her soap and facecloth wrapped in the towel, she returned to the camp. Her headache banished by the cold water, she felt calmer. She would get through this one hour at a time.
‘Where have you been?’ Antonia demanded.
‘To the rocks. I took some water with me and had a wash.’
‘Sabra’s over there somewhere. Weren’t you cold?’ Antonia hunched her shoulders.
‘Yes, but it was worth it. I’ll just go and refill the pot.’
‘That’s what the servants are for.’
‘They have enough to do and I don’t mind.’
‘Really, Caseley –’
She walked away, aware it was rude – but her fragile balance could not bear any more of Antonia’s criticisms or complaints. Glancing across, she saw Jago rolling up his thick coat as he talked to Robert Pawlyn.
Breakfast was fresh bread and dates. Offered coffee, she smiled and shook her head.
‘Don’t you like it?’ Sabra asked.
‘I love the smell. But –’ One hand went to her tender stomach. ‘For me it is too strong.’
Sabra beckoned one of the servants over and murmured to him. Bowing, he left.
Caseley looked across and saw Jago watching her. Seated between him and Sheikh Imad, Pawlyn said something and he turned away to respond.
The servant returned and offered her a glass of milk. It was warm and frothy.
‘All Bedouin drink camel’s milk,’ Sabra said. ‘It is very good for the digestion.’
From the corner of her eye Caseley saw Antonia’s nose wrinkle. She raised the glass and sipped. ‘It tastes – different, but very pleasant.’ She emptied the glass in a few swallows and saw Sabra nod approval. Better still, her stomach, so tender on waking, now felt soothed.
Twenty minutes later, water jars refilled, dung collected in bags to be dried for fuel, and camels re-saddled, they set off. Caseley looked back at the remains of their fire, the only sign they had been there.
It was late morning when, to her great relief, they stopped for a comfort break.
‘What kind of arrangements will there be at the camp?’ Antonia asked as she, Sabra and Caseley returned to their camels.
‘At some bayts women dig a pit a little way from the tent and screen it with a blanket of woven palm leaves. Men find privacy among the rocks. They do this away from women, so you need not fear embarrassment.’
The horror on Antonia’s face made Caseley glad she was familiar with Cygnet’s bucket-and-chuck-it simplicity.
‘I didn’t expect it to be quite so – basic,’ Antonia whispered as Sabra left them to speak briefly to Sheikh Imad.
What did you expect at a temporary camp in the desert? Caseley knew better than to ask. ‘It’s only for a few days.’
‘I daresay you will be quite content,’ Antonia sniffed. ‘But I am used to modern conveniences. Our apartment in the Consulate had piped water and flushing lavatories.’
Caseley had heard Robert Pawlyn telling Jago that Khedive Ismail had employed an army of civil engineers to install piped water, gas and a sewer system in the European quarters of Alexandria and Cairo. But for the vast majority of Egyptians in both cities there were no such luxuries.
‘Then you will appreciate them even more when you return home,’ Caseley said lightly, and walked away to her camel.
Two hours later, after picking their way down a path through a rocky canyon, they emerged onto a flat, gravelly plain. A third of it was already covered by a sprawl of brown tents.
Caseley’s first impression was of heat, dust, noise, and the combined smells of dung fires, coffee, roasting meat and animals.
On the far side in a gully, a clump of date palms and women carrying pots indicated a spring or well.
She started as half a dozen grubby, dust-streaked children burst from a gap between two tents, shouting and laughing as they vanished behind another. She saw older boys carrying fodder or armfuls of wood and scrub. Slim girls carried water pots or babies on their hips. One swung a toddler who shrieked with delight.
Her vision splintered and the wrenching pain in her chest stopped her breath. She had been so focused on Jago’s mission she had forgotten this would be a gathering of families. She blinked hard, wiped her eyes with the end of her scarf, and sat straighter on her camel.
‘What’s the matter?’ Antonia whispered.
‘Nothing. It’s just the dust.’ She must not embarrass Jago.
Their arrival had been noticed. As Sabra moved her camel so she was behind Sheikh Imad and his bodyguards, women quickly covered their noses and mouths with their scarves. Those whose hands were full turned their heads away.
‘That’s hardly a warm welcome.’
At Antonia’s peevish remark, Caseley sucked in a breath. ‘I think it’s because we’re strangers,’ she whispered back. She had insisted on coming. Now she must cope.
Sheikh Imad and his entourage preceded Jago and Pawlyn across the space, heading towards a large tent at the front, where men sat on rugs in a semi-circle around a fire with two brass coffee pots.
Stopping a short distance away they made the camels kneel, then dismounted. The men rose to their feet as the Sheikh approached.
Sabra halted further back and as Caseley slid down and surreptitiously flexed her back and shoulders, she saw Imad greeted with bows and a kiss on each cheek from the men. The Sheikh introduced Jago and Pawlyn. When the elders offered their hands to be shaken, Caseley released the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.
The Sheikh indicated the waiting women. As the elders looked across, Sabra bowed her head politely. Caseley quickly did the same. The man to whom Imad had been speaking gave a brief nod, and Sabra turned away.
‘Come.’
‘Where are we going?’ Antonia asked.
‘To meet our hostess.’ Two young men ran to take their camels and Sabra led Caseley and Antonia round the side of the tent.
Raised on numerous poles braced with ropes, and high enough even for Jago to stand upright, the tent was made of strips of woven camel hair. Inside, a wall of heavier fabric separated the men’s area at the front from this part. More hangings with zigzag patterns divided the women’s quarters into separate rooms. Some of the hangings were pinned back to allow free passage of air and Caseley glimpsed rugs, small chests, folded blankets and decorated cushions.
An awning, formed from one tent wall propped on two poles, offered welcome shade for several women seated near a fire burning in a shallow pit. Amid the embers stood three large stones, on which rested a large flat metal plate. Beside them were water pots, pewter mugs, a long-necked brass coffee pot, a large bowl and several small sacks.
The women looked up. Seeing strangers they immediately covered their faces. But as Sabra greeted the older woman in the centre, Caseley saw recognition then pleasure. Quickly on her feet, with the others following, the woman greeted Sabra with delight and kisses. Aware she was being studied, Caseley smiled and nodded politely as they murmured among themselves.
Beckoning Caseley and Antonia forward, Sabra introduced them. Antonia gave the Arabic greeting and received the response. Caseley knew her own attempt sounded clumsy and didn’t mind the half-smiles when the women responded.
Their dusty black robes had red cross-stitching like hers. Like her, they wore the folded headband with one end of their scarves tucked into the top. Wide sleeves were rolled halfway up brown forearms, and two had a length of fabric tied around their waists like a sash.
The woman who had greeted Sabra jabbered away in Arabic. Sabra thanked her. She turned to Caseley and Antonia. ‘I have to go and visit other bayts. You may come if you wish.’
Caseley appreciated Sabra’s invitation, but did not want to intrude. ‘May I stay here? I would like to help if that would be permitted?’
Sabra’s brows climbed. ‘You’re sure you want to?’
‘Oh yes. As we will be eating here it seems only fair to contribute in some way. If they don’t mind.’
Sabra spoke to the woman, who looked from her to Caseley and back.
‘Caseley, we are guests,’ Antonia hissed in English.
‘Yes we are, and Bedouin laws of hospitality guarantee us food and a place to sleep. But we’re not family. Nor were we expected.’
Caseley turned and saw Sabra watching. ‘Did I do wrong?’ she asked in French. ‘I didn’t intend any offence.’
‘None is taken,’ Sabra said. ‘In fact, you could not have acted more wisely.’
Sitting down again, the woman gestured to the space beside her. Caseley sat on the woven cloth and folded her sleeves back. Tearing a piece of dough from the large lump in a metal bowl, the woman swiftly and expertly flipped it between her palms into a flat oval then slapped it onto the hot metal plate.
‘Sheikha, will you ask her if I may wash first?’ Caseley lifted her grubby hands.
Sabra pointed. ‘Take it from the pot. But only use a little.’
Aware of being watched as she tipped water into her palm, Caseley rubbed her hands, used a little more to rinse then, having no towel, dried her hands on her skirt.
‘Honestly, Caseley,’ Antonia sighed. ‘Is this how you live at home?’
Forcing a smile, Caseley replied in English. ‘We’re a long way from the city, Antonia. Surely you realised life out here would be different from what you’re used to?’
‘I certainly didn’t expect this. You can play housewife if you wish. I must go and fetch my camera.’
Sabra spoke to their hostess who glanced at Antonia and shook her head. Sabra asked something else. Caseley didn’t need to understand the language to recognise the answer as a definite no.
The woman indicated the flour sack and waited for Caseley to dip her fingers in and spread a little over her palms. Tearing off two more pieces of dough, she gave one to Caseley and kept the other for herself.
Copying the woman’s quick hand movements, Caseley achieved a flattened ragged circle. The woman nodded, smiled, and pointed to the metal plate.
‘Bravo,’ Sabra smiled. Leaving the tent, she called to Antonia who had stopped to look for someone. Sheikh Imad. Caseley watched them for a moment then was nudged and returned her attention to the dough.
She was glad to have something to do. The women were bound to talk among themselves. Perhaps her willingness to make herself useful would filter back, make the elders better disposed towards Jago. She mocked her presumption.
Antonia clearly disapproved of her offer. Why couldn’t she see that English conventions didn’t apply here? Had she been willing to spend an hour or two helping prepare food, the woman might have responded to her differently.
Offering help, which had been readily accepted, generated goodwill that might benefit them in other ways. She’d have expected Antonia to recognise that. How ironic that her focus on her photography had blinded her to the wider picture.
As she concentrated, gaining confidence and speed, the pile of cooked flatbreads grew. When the woman glanced at her, nodding approval, Caseley wondered why Sabra had not told her their names. She pointed to herself with a floury forefinger.
‘Caseley.’
The woman shrugged and shook her head.
/> Caseley tapped her chest, leaving a floury fingerprint. ‘Caseley.’ Then she indicated to the woman and raised her eyebrows.
‘Ah,’ the woman’s frown cleared. Nodding, she pointed at herself. ‘Fayruz.’
‘Fayruz,’ Caseley repeated and won a smile.
Fayruz spoke to the others then told Caseley their names. Caseley thanked her, looking at each woman as she repeated, ‘Rashida, Zainab, Noor.’
Sabra returned with Antonia. Behind them, the servants put down her camera boxes and tripod then disappeared. As the women stood, in recognition of the Sheikha’s rank, Caseley scrambled to her feet.
‘How are you getting on?’
‘Very well. I have learned how to make and cook flatbread and we now know each other’s names, though I’m not sure of the relationships.
‘Excellent,’ Sabra’s smile held approval. ‘Rashida is Fayruz’s mother, Noor is her divorced sister, and Zainab is her daughter-in-law.’ She spoke to Fayruz, who led her to one of the partitioned areas. Sabra beckoned Caseley and Antonia. ‘This is where we will sleep. Sheikh Imad’s servants are bringing our bags and camel saddles.’
Taking Fayruz’s arm, Sabra walked with her to the awning, talking quietly.
‘It’s not very big,’ Antonia grumbled.
‘There’s plenty of space for three,’ Caseley whispered. ‘Considering we weren’t expected, Fayruz is showing great hospitality.’
‘They have to. It’s one of their rules.’
Caseley clamped her mouth shut. Though Antonia was right, she was missing the point.
‘What am I supposed to do with my camera boxes?’
‘Stand one on top of the other in that corner with the tripod propped upright between them and the tent pole. Or,’ she continued as Antonia opened her mouth to argue, ‘you could lay the tripod down flat, make a pad with your saddle blankets and use it as a pillow. We’ll manage, Antonia. We have to. We are of no importance. Sheikh Imad is here for the wedding of his cousin, and to persuade the elders to listen to my husband.’
Antonia’s eyes had widened in surprise. ‘You’re right. It’s just –’
