The Master's Wife

by Jane Jackson

  ‘Shall we see if our blankets and bags are here yet? If we make things comfortable now, we won’t be stumbling around in the dark.’

  As she led the way out, Caseley’s overriding emotion was relief that she would not have to sleep wearing her scarf and headband to keep her hair hidden.

  The following morning, after a breakfast of goat’s milk yoghurt sweetened with a little honey, dates and camel’s milk, Caseley went with Fayruz to the latrine, then to the spring-fed well. She washed her hands and face, dried them with the end of her scarf, and took the pots as Fayruz filled them.

  As they walked back to the tent Caseley noticed that though the camels were penned in one area, they were tethered in separate groups. Men moved among them, talking as they stroked the huge beasts with easy familiarity.

  During the day more people arrived. Once again, Sabra was greeted with kisses and deference. After courtesies were exchanged she introduced Caseley and Antonia.

  Having managed to get her tongue around the Bedouin dialect, Caseley had been quietly practising her greetings and responses. Her efforts were met with surprise and pleasure.

  As the women dispersed to meet others and set up their tents, Antonia announced that she was going to take some photographs of the trees at the well.

  ‘As women and children will be there that would not be wise,’ Sabra said. ‘Take some of the animals or of the landscape. It has a stark beauty few ever see.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Upsetting our hosts will end Captain Barata’s mission and reflect badly on Sheikh Imad.’

  Flushing, Antonia marched away carrying her camera box and tripod. Caseley took her place beside Fayruz and settled to making flatbreads. At one side of the awning a tripod of curved poles had been erected and a goatskin suspended between them.

  She watched Zainab carefully pour a large pot of fresh goat’s milk into the skin at the neck end. When she had emptied the pot of milk, she blew air into the skin several times then quickly tied the neck closed with a leather thong. As she moved away, one of the young girls sat down and began to shake the goatskin to and fro to separate the curds from the whey.

  Later, returning from the latrine, she saw Jago walking from the camel pen with two of the elders and Richard Pawlyn. Her heart leapt.

  Seeing her, he murmured something to Pawlyn who spoke to the elders. They nodded and she saw their teeth flash in their dark faces as they waved Jago away.

  ‘It seems a long time since I’ve seen you,’ he said as he reached her. He started to lift his hand, then withdrew it without touching her. ‘Are you comfortable?’

  She nodded. ‘Fayruz is very kind. We have part of the tent to ourselves. How are discussions going?’

  ‘Slowly. Many people must have their say, and there are constant interruptions and diversions. I’m not sure which way it will go.’ He studied her, suddenly intense. ‘I wish –’ Then his mouth twisted and he shrugged. ‘I should get back.’

  He returned to Sheikh Imad’s uncle’s tent where Pawlyn waited and the discussions resumed.

  ‘The elders are angry that Turco-Circassian landowners are encroaching on tribal land,’ Pawlyn quietly translated. ‘Some believe this is a good reason to take the gold and give their backing to the English. But others question whether the English would respect their traditional rights any more than the current ruling class does. They want to know what assurances you can give.’

  ‘None,’ Jago muttered. ‘I have no authority to make promises on such matters. Don’t translate that. It makes us look weak. Just wait.’

  The elders talked among themselves some more, then one looked across and asked a question.

  ‘He wants to know why they should support the English.’

  Jago bowed politely before replying. ‘Tell him that the English have created financial stability in a country whose own rulers had brought it to the brink of ruin. Britain has a major shareholding in the Suez Canal, and British trade is vital to Egypt’s economy. The relationship between the two countries is important to both, and of benefit to both.’

  Pawlyn translated. While the elders were talking, two left and three more arrived. They were greeted and offered coffee. While they were informed of discussions so far, several of the men began talking among themselves.

  Used to accepting responsibility and making quick decisions, Jago kept his features expressionless as he fought growing impatience.

  An hour later, with nothing resolved, youths brought over huge platters of spiced rice and goat meat.

  All over the camp men were cooking their own food and eating together. Despite being used to all-male shipboard life, it seemed strange to him that men and women of an extended family, sharing the same tent, should live so separately and independently of each other.

  When not at sea, his happiest times were those spent with Caseley, discussing their future plans, the business, the boys. But all that had been before.

  This past year had been ... A shudder rippled through him. Quickly disguising it by shifting as if to make himself more comfortable, he murmured ‘Shukran’ as a dark-eyed youth handed him a tiny cup then filled it with freshly brewed cardamom-flavoured coffee.

  ‘Now it is time for stories,’ Pawlyn whispered.

  ‘What kind of stories?’

  ‘Historic tribal raids and epic battles.’

  As one of the elders spoke, the others fell silent, listening intently. As Pawlyn translated, Jago was caught up in the tale. After two more stories Imad gestured to Jago. Through Pawlyn one of the elders asked if he had taken part in battles.

  ‘My battles have been against the sea.’ Urged to continue, he described a fierce storm, the sea streaked with foam torn from breaking waves by a wind that screamed like souls in torment as it shredded canvas and tried to drive the ship down into the dark ocean depths. They watched him closely, listening to Pawlyn’s translation.

  ‘Every time I leave harbour and set out on another voyage, I recite the seaman’s prayer, “God be kind to me. Your sea is so wide and my boat is so small”.’

  As Pawlyn finished, Jago saw a lot of nodding and more coffee was poured.

  ‘After I started it occurred to me that some of these men may never have seen the sea,’ he murmured to Pawlyn.

  ‘That doesn’t matter. You described a battle. Better yet, it is a battle against the elements, testing your courage as well as your skill. You made a good impression.’

  ‘Let’s hope it may weigh in the discussions.’

  Pawlyn was watching the two elders opposite. When they rose, the others did too.

  ‘Up,’ Pawlyn muttered and Jago stood. ‘There’ll be no more discussions tonight, at least not officially. The wedding celebrations are about to begin. We are invited to the groom’s father’s tent to watch intricate designs being painted on the groom’s hands and feet with henna. It’s an important tradition.’

  Refusal was out of the question. So when Sheikh Imad beckoned Jago bowed politely to the elders, then followed.

  ‘Henna symbolises beauty, good fortune and good health,’ Sabra explained as she led them into the bride’s mother’s tent, where women from both bride’s and groom’s families had gathered to help decorate the bride’s hands and legs.

  ‘I don’t understand why I can’t take photographs.’ Antonia grumbled. ‘We’re all women.’

  ‘Yes, but we’re not family. We’re very privileged to be invited.’

  ‘We can’t see anything. It’s too crowded.’

  Caseley was content to remain near the entrance where it was cooler and less noisy. ‘I understand you being disappointed.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Antonia snapped. ‘You have no idea. You’re not artistic. You’re just a housewife, happy making endless piles of bread.’

  Caseley thought back to the months she had run her father’s business during his final illness, keeping her efforts secret from everyone, including him. She recalled the day that Jago, a man used to controlling everything in his
life, handed her total responsibility for refurbishing the house he had inherited, the house that was now their home. He had trusted her to hire and oversee tradesmen and left the choice of colours, fabrics, carpets and furnishings to her. When it was finished he had approved the result, saying he had expected nothing less.

  Antonia moved away through the press of teasing, laughing women. Sabra watched her go.

  ‘She’s upset,’ Caseley explained.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘It’s – things are not as she hoped.’

  ‘They are what they are. She had no right to expect differently. And you? Are you disappointed?’

  Caseley smiled at her. ‘How could I be? I have met such kindness. Being welcomed into the tent, permitted to help prepare food – Antonia mistook that for a menial task, not something expected of a guest. In England she would be right, but not here. Here it is a gesture of acceptance. I find that humbling.’

  ‘Yet she was born in Egypt. You have been here less than a month.’

  Caseley shrugged. ‘I suspect my upbringing was very different from hers.’

  ‘Be glad of it.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  The following morning, after breakfast, Caseley went with Sabra and Antonia to the bride’s father’s tent which had a black roof and striped side cloths.

  A coffee hearth had been scooped out of the dusty ground in front of the men’s area. Coffee pots, a stone mortar and pestle for grinding coffee beans and cardamom seeds, and a roasting pan were lined up to one side of the fire. There were rugs on the ground and camel saddles to lean against.

  Already the breeze carried the aroma of roasting meat from a cooking fire near the groom’s father’s tent, where a number of young men were busy with knives and cooking pots.

  The women’s area of the tent was already crowded. Caseley followed Sabra who was easing her way through a press of women, all talking and laughing. Though she understood only the occasional word, Caseley guessed this was a rare and welcome opportunity to catch up with family news.

  Finally, she was close enough to see the young bride. Wearing a dress of red silk, richly decorated on the front and down the sleeves with cross-stitching, she was seated on a large, embroidered cushion. Her eyes were outlined with kohl and around her throat hung several large silver pendants studded with amber, turquoise, coral and pearls.

  Standing on either side of her, two women dipped their fingers into pots held by helpful friends. Spreading the salve over their palms they smoothed it onto the bride’s head, then combed it through her long hair.

  ‘What’s that?’ Caseley whispered to Sabra.

  ‘Herbal mixtures to make the hair smell nice.’

  The women began braiding the bride’s hair into many shiny plaits.

  Another woman came forward with a tiny pot of golden powder and dabbed some on the bride’s ears, cheeks and neck.

  ‘Powdered saffron,’ Sabra said, before Caseley could ask. ‘It is very expensive and indicates the family’s wealth.’

  In front of the bride, more jewellery, folded clothes and a small, carved chest were displayed beside woven blankets, cooking pans and utensils, dishes, small tea glasses, coffee and tea pots.

  The sun was high and, though the tent walls had been rolled up to allow air to circulate, the crush of women made it uncomfortably stuffy.

  Caseley touched Sabra’s arm. ‘Will you excuse me? I need some air.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Please don’t. This is an important occasion and you should be with your family and friends.’

  ‘I’ll take her,’ Antonia said, grasping Caseley’s arm and pushing her towards the opening.

  ‘You didn’t need to leave.’ Outside Caseley drew a deep breath. Though the intense summer heat of Cairo was tempered by altitude, it was still very warm.

  ‘I’d had enough anyway. I’m sure they were talking about us.’

  ‘Why would they? This is probably the biggest family gathering in months. It’s also for a wedding. That’s far more important than us.’

  ‘There’s Imad!’ Antonia’s irritation vanished.

  Looking across, recognising Jago, Caseley felt her heart lift. It seemed such a long time since she had seen him.

  As Antonia raised her arm to wave, Caseley grabbed it.

  ‘What are you doing? Let me go.’

  Releasing her at once, Caseley said, ‘He will not thank you for attracting attention.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Caseley. What makes you such an expert?’

  Had Antonia learned nothing here?

  Jago acknowledged her with a nod, then spoke to Sheikh Imad who looked across.

  Caseley remained where she was. If they were on their way to further discussions, Jago would not have time to talk. But Antonia wasn’t willing to wait and was already hurrying towards them. After another brief exchange, Jago left the Sheikh. Caseley went to meet him.

  ‘I’m sorry if we distracted you.’

  ‘You are always a welcome sight.’

  She wanted so much to believe him. ‘We have just visited the bride. She looked beautiful, and a little overwhelmed. Obviously I could not understand what was being said, but it looked as if everyone was offering her advice. It was very crowded and noisy so I came out for some air.’

  ‘Miss Collingwood doesn’t appear to be enjoying herself.’

  ‘She’s upset because she hasn’t been permitted to take photographs.’

  He made no attempt to hide his impatience. ‘Why would she expect otherwise?’

  Anxious not to waste this brief time together, she asked, ‘Are you making progress?’

  ‘I believe so. Formal discussions have finished until after the wedding.’ She followed his glance towards groups of men making their way from the outlying tents of recent arrivals towards a large bayt.

  ‘All the important leaders of the tribe are gathering at the groom’s father’s tent to drink tea and coffee, offer their congratulations, and present gifts to the bridegroom and his father. Then we will be eating. I’m told that after the marriage ceremony the bride will be taken to her new husband’s tent and won’t be seen for the rest of the celebrations.’

  ‘After so much preparation and so many people I imagine she will welcome some quiet time.’

  ‘You never liked crowds.’ He brushed her cheek with his fingertips. Unexpected, it stopped her breath. ‘Are you finding it very difficult?’

  ‘Less than when we arrived. Fayruz and her family have been very kind. Though in some ways things are very different here, in others – people are people wherever they live. They care about their families, enjoy a wedding, love their children –’ she cleared a sudden thickness from her throat. ‘I’ve learned a lot, even a few words of Bedouin dialect, though my efforts sound as if I have a cough.’ She looked across to where the Sheikh stood, as still as a rock, while Antonia talked and gestured. Jago followed her gaze.

  ‘Is she giving you trouble?’

  Caseley hesitated. ‘Not exactly. It’s just – she doesn’t seem to realise that our behaviour here reflects on Sabra and Sheikh Imad.’

  ‘You would be welcome anywhere.’

  Spoken as a simple statement of fact, his words warmed her more than any flowery compliment. ‘You should go.’

  ‘Later I will leave the Sheikh to talk privately with the tribal leaders. Will you meet me?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’ll find you.’

  When the food was ready – rice cooked in broth and goat meat simmered in a spiced yoghurt sauce – the young people of the two families carried platters first to the tents of the bride and groom’s fathers, then to other nearby tents. As always, men and women ate separately. Sitting with Sabra and Antonia, Caseley heard lively conversation and laughter from every part of the camp.

  ‘When will the ceremony take place?’ Antonia asked.

  ‘After the meal. It is very brief, just a formality,’ Sabra said. ‘The bridal contract was arr
anged some time ago in front of witnesses and Sheikh Imad’s uncle.’

  After the meal, platters and dishes were gathered up, the fragrance of fresh coffee filled the air, and trays of honey and almond cakes were passed around.

  Then everyone followed the bridegroom’s family walking in procession to the bride’s father’s tent, singing songs accompanied by a one-stringed violin and drums.

  The women of the bride’s family had displayed all the gifts given to her by the groom’s family on several blankets spread on the ground at the front of the tent. The guests proceeded past, adding their gifts. The most important was a female camel and her calf. Others were three sheep, two nanny goats with kids, sacks of rice, engraved platters and money.

  ‘The bride and groom give their promise separately,’ Sabra whispered. ‘They do not see each other until he takes her to his tent.’

  Caseley thought back to her own wedding, standing with Jago as they made their vows. She couldn’t watch any more and edged away from the chattering women as a handsome camel with a decorated halter and tent-like structure over the saddle was led forward. The bride was helped onto the saddle, the cloth folded around her like curtains, and she was led away to her new husband’s tent surrounded by the women of both families singing and clapping.

  A small boy stood by himself; left behind as the women crowded round the bride’s camel. He couldn’t have been more than three, the same age as her younger son James had been when ... Caseley felt a tearing wrench in her chest.

  His little face puckered, his eyes widening in panic as he realised his mother wasn’t coming back. He started running towards the women, tripped over a stone and fell flat on his face.

  Caseley was already running, her limp making her ungainly. After an instant’s shock he struggled to his feet, howling in shock and pain. But his shriek was lost beneath the women’s high-pitched ululating cries.

  She scooped him up, cooing comforting words he couldn’t understand. Gradually his screams subsided to hiccupping sobs as he peered at the blood on his scraped knee. Telling him what a brave boy he was, she dabbed away his tears with one end of her head cloth then wiped the blood from his grubby knee and kissed it better.