Desert Doctor

by Winspear, Violet

  An Eastern market ! A confusion of scents, colours, and aggressive noises. Rather unnerving at first, especially when a tall tribesman strode towards Madeline, his brown robes flying back from his iron-hard limbs and the carcase of a sheep thrown over his shoulder. He grinned, and the barbaric devilry

  of several gold teeth in his sun-blackened face was one more picture to add to Madeline’s growing gallery of Moroccan images.

  She and Amalia had now penetrated into the souk itself, roofed with palm fibres and honeycombed with open-fronted shops where merchants sat within handreach of their wares.

  Their dark, avaricious eyes dwelt on the two European women, who were implored, left and right, to look at articles they could never have found a use for — conical kus-kus covers, garlands of red and green peppers, tawdry ornaments, and even secondhand European garments.

  But when they turned into the section where leather goods were sold, Madeline was unable to resist a vivid display of sofa cushions, dove-soft slippers, pocketbooks and cigarette cases. It was Amalia, bargaining in Arabic with the owner of the shop, who saved her from being fleeced when she decided to buy a pair of slippers for her aunt, a tobacco pouch for her father, and cigarette cases for her brother and his wife.

  “I might as well buy my souvenirs now as later,” she smiled, stowing them into the string bag she had brought with her.

  They continued on their way to the carpet warehouses, passing Jewish tailors and cobblers; potters turning out their pot and platters in all shapes and sizes; and bakeries where long—

  handled shovels were whipped into cavernous ovens with the flat, circular loaves the Moroccan women kneaded themselves, then brought to the baker to be cooked to a shiny sulphur colour.

  “How exciting all this is !” Madeline exclaimed. “There’s a zest and spice to Eastern living that one doesn’t feel back home

  — except, perhaps, along the Portobello Road or Petticoat Lane.”

  “You haven’t grown homesick yet for your folks, my dear child?” Amalia’s smile was fond and questioning as she took in her secretary’s blue-suited figure, then the string bag of souvenirs she had just bought. “I’d hate to think you were pining to rush back to England just as I’ve grown used to having you around. Then there’s Brooke — well, it’s no secret, I’m sure, that he likes you more than a little.”

  Madeline’s fingers tightened on the handle of the bag she was carrying and she wanted to reply quickly that she enjoyed her job and found Morocco an exciting place — but romance was out !

  Something of what she was thinking must have betrayed itself in her eyes, for Amalia said at once : “Now you mustn’t think I’m trying to push you two young people together. Bless my soul, I wouldn’t advise any girl to marry a man unless she felt a hundred per cent sure she would follow him to the moon and back if he asked her to. But there’s more to Brooke than may appear on the surface, and I guess,” Amalia gave Madeline’s arm a squeeze, “I want you in the family, honey.”

  A few minutes later they reached the carpet warehouse and Madeline followed her employer into a large courtway where, among acacia and almond trees, carpets were displayed with a colourful abandonment over stone benches, pergolas, and walls. Here and there — an added enticement to the European tourist — were glossy pieces of copperware, elaborate little tables, and picturesque lamps set with panes of jewel-toned glass.

  The hour that followed was curious and very lively. A robed, shrewd-eyed Arab played host over tiny cups of dark coffee spiced with essences while carpet after handsome carpet was unfurled for Amalia’s approval. This was a silken Shiraz, this a mellow Kairouan, and surely both ladies must be enchanted by such a fine specimen of Bokharan carpet weaving?

  The pile was magnificent, the colouring incomparable — ah, did Madame prefer that delectable example of Persian crafts-manship ?

  Madeline found every one of them irresistible, and she listened fascinated to the broken English of the Arab dealer.

  She felt certain the old fox was wealthy, but life, he asserted, was a continuous struggle. One lived each day as it came and tried not to worry about tomorrow. Madeline caught back a grin when Amalia fell in with this view, and agreed that she too was worried about finances and couldn’t possibly afford five hundred pounds for the Persian carpet. Of course it was out of the courts of Paradise, but the price was also out of the realms of reality.

  The carpet was luscious, and Amalia finally got it for three hundred and seventy-five pounds, and on the way out of the souk she smiled with satisfaction. She had expected to pay at least four hundred pounds for the carpet, and she had got the better of that wily old devil by noticing a small stain on the back of it.

  “Can you imagine a London dealer throwing those lovely things about a courtway?” Madeline laughed. “He’d be scared stiff to let anyone breathe on them.”

  “Bargaining with old Sulaiman has exhausted me.” Amalia blotted her hot face with a handkerchief. “I think we’ll make for the Restaurant de France and lunch there.”

  The restaurant faced the main square, and while Amalia went in to freshen up and order a couple of drinks, Madeline made for the post-office, where she wanted to send off an airmail letter to her father. Having done this she walked to the restaurant, passing several parked cars. One was a grey Citroen which she thought looked rather like Max Berault’s, and it was really no surprise when she entered the cocktail lounge and saw him in conversation with Amalia. He rose and smiled charmingly when Madeline approached. Both ladies must dine with him, he insisted.

  During the course of lunch, eaten at a corner table in the air-conditioned dining-room, Madeline found herself thinking again what a cordial person Max was. Then, while she was spooning her soufflé glace, her glance collided with his across the table and she surprised a look in his eyes she couldn’t quite fathom. He seemed embarrassed for a moment that she had caught him staring at her, then he said smilingly : “You do not appear to find our Moroccan climate at all trying, Miss Page.”

  “Doesn’t she look deliciously cool?” Amalia sighed envi-ously. “Like one of those blue and gold irises on a slender stem. I suppose you’ve heard, Max, that I thought she had been carried off into the Berber hills the other morning? That naughty Donette came riding home without her and coolly informed me that Madeline was on her mount, which had bolted.

  I had a pink fit!” Amalia pressed a hand against her ample bosom. “My blood pressure went leaping up like a giddy goat.

  I mean, had Victor not been about, Madeline might have come to any sort of harm.”

  “Donette would be the better for a spanking,” Max waved a breadstick. “I am afraid, Amalia, that I find her disposition a jarring one.” Then he shrugged and smiled wryly. “Unless it is that I have reached an age when I appreciate tranquillity in a woman rather than provocation. Were I Victor’s age I might not look beyond those dusky eyes and that sultry promise of a mouth.”

  Madeline fed sugar into her coffee, outwardly composed, inwardly stormy. Oh, why did she have to care that Victor seemed to be falling under Donette’s spell? Why did she let the man trouble her at all, so that she kept remembering little things that jabbed — the sun flaring on his cropped brown hair; his fingers pressing her pulse; the smile deep in his eyes when he had stood looking down at her with Ruff the fox cub in her arms.

  “Donette’s home life has never been all that happy, Max,”

  Amalia fondly excused her niece. “My sister was very highly-strung, and she and Donette’s father were always scrapping.

  When Dulcie died, Donette was packed off to a boarding-school. Her father is generous to her in a financial sense, but there is no real bond between them…. My ! ” Amalia took up the jug of iced water and poured herself another glass, “traipsing around the medina has made me feel hot and headachy ! ”

  Madeline glanced anxiously at her employer, who was looking pale rather than flushed, and she saw the glass of water tremble in her ringed hand as she lifted it to her lips, w
hile Max narrowed his eyes in a professional way as he regarded Amalia.

  “When you arrive home, I would suggest you rest,” he said to her. “In fact, with the heat now increasing in Marrakesh, why do you not go to the coast for a few weeks? The Atlantic breezes will do you good, and I am certain Miss Page would enjoy the Portuguese scenery at Mazagan.”

  “I want to get on with my book, Max. If we go to the coast, we’re bound to run into people I know and very little work will get done. Madeline doesn’t intend to stay here indefinitely — though I had hopes.” Amalia shot a coaxing glance at her secretary.

  Madeline smiled briefly, but remained mute. Something painful darted in and out of her heart at the thought of leaving Morocco, but inevitably she would return to England, where the skies were temperate and small tensions unlikely to build into storms.

  “Will you continue your secretarial work when you return to England, Miss Page ?” Max asked. “I mean, you have no other plans? You have never, in fact, considered work in another field? I say this because it occurs to me that you might have a talent for child welfare. The financial returns are less, but there is a great deal of satisfaction to be reaped out of helping to rehabilitate children who are handicapped by such things as blindness. We deal with such cases at Green Palms.”

  Madeline listened to Max with interest. Secretarial work was all right, but she had been wondering lately whether she wanted to carry on with it. For her it was just a job, not a vocation, and therefore lacking in real satisfaction.

  “I like children enormously, Dr. Berault,” she said. “I also flatter myself that I get on with them.”

  “I agree,” he smiled. “What is mainly needed in work involving children is an understanding of them and a natural gift for winning their confidence. A course of training would have to be undertaken by you, perhaps at the Hollinghead Foundation in England, then you might come to us at Green Palms. I am certain you would find the work agreeable and rewarding.”

  “I — think so too.” She played with a spoon in an absent way, for inevitably she was remembering what Victor had said to her when she had spoken to him about wanting to wade in and contribute something towards the work done at Green Palms. Max’s idea wouldn’t appeal to him in the least. He would dismiss it with an impatient click of his fingers and assert that she was far too young — far too English — to be a success at such an undertaking.

  “You like Morocco, no ?” Max questioned her. “The place and the people have an appeal for you?”

  “Very much so,” she agreed.

  “Then bear what I have suggested in mind,” he coaxed.

  He directed his smile at Amalia, who was regarding him with a faint frown. “What are you thinking, Amalia? That Miss Page is much too young and pretty for hospital work?”

  “Exactly, Max,” she retorted. “The most satisfying kind of work a girl can undertake is marriage with the right man.”

  “But Miss Page is not yet contemplating marriage?” He raised a quizzical brow at Madeline. She answered him with a quick shake of her head, while Amalia pursed her lips.

  “Because you’re a dedicated man, Max,” she grumbled, “you want everyone else jumping on your bandwagon. I’m not saying that you don’t need helpers at the hospital, but it’s such exacting work … and being young lasts such a short while.

  We all have to face up to responsibility in the end, but I’m dead against young people being coerced into it before they’ve had a chance to enjoy some irresponsibility.”

  “My good Amalia,” Max shook his head at her, “you have a ceaseless regret that your husband could not be irresponsible.

  Not all of us can. Not all of us want to be. I would not speak to Miss Page of child welfare work if I felt she was not the type to enjoy it — yes, enjoy it! The demands, the patient toil, and the rewards. Come now, concentrate your matchmaking energies on Donette and Brooke… .”

  Amalia, with an unusual show of annoyance, pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. “I didn’t bring Madeline out here to Morocco to be coerced into becoming one of its work-slaves. Victor does the work of six men… . I’ll grant you he has the stamina for it, but he never enjoys himself as he should.

  You were the same as a young man, Max. Obsessed by the one idea, the one word, duty… .”

  She broke off, sighed shakily, and fumbled with her gloves.

  “I want to go home, Madeline,” she added fretfully.

  Max strode round the table to her, looking concerned. He spoke to her in low, soothing French while Madeline gathered her belongings together. A waiter appeared at Max’s elbow and he settled his bill, afterwards accompanying them out to the street where Zamil smoked patiently at the wheel of the limousine. “See that Amalia goes straight to bed, Miss Page,”

  Max said. “I will call in this evening.”

  Madeline slid into the car beside Amalia and Max poked in his head to inform Amalia sternly that a short holiday at Mazagan would do her good. “I do not want you going down with that malaria of yours.”

  “Oh, go back to Green Palms and order your long-suffering staff about !” she retorted.

  “Quinine for you when you get home, Amalia,” he said.

  “Miss Page has orders to see you go to bed. Au revoir, ladies.”

  He stepped back from the car and it moved carefully out of the crowded square, past the old houses and the archways that framed the ageless scenes of Eastern life. The fretted minarets, grumbling camels, homeless bundles asleep in the shadows, the Hand of Fatima pressed into the rose-brown walls above which wooden balconies rested on sun-peeled supports. Twilight softened this city to a strange beauty, but in sunlight it was a barbaric tapestry which had seen a great deal of wear. Walls were scarred and seamed like the brown faces of the beggars.

  Amalia reclined with closed eyes. “Darned Latins !” she muttered. “Charm, practicality, and an ingrained belief that they always know better than a woman.”

  “Mazagan does sound a good idea,” Madeline said gently.

  “We could take the portable and work in the mornings as we do at the villa.”

  One of Amalia’s greenish eyes shot open. “Mazagan is the Riviera of Morocco, my dear child. If we go there we will not take a typewriter.” Both eyes were now open, half-feverish already. “In view of the fact that Max — darned man — is out to shackle you to his staff, I think I will take you to the coast for some gaiety.”

  Madeline had to smile at her employer’s disgruntled look.

  Mazagan was some miles out of Marrakesh, and it might be a relief in more ways than one to get away for a while. Brooke would probably accompany them, but Madeline wasn’t sure about Donette. Mazagan might hold social diversions she would find to her liking, but here in Marrakesh she was certain of seeing Victor.

  They turned in between the gates of the villa, and Amalia leant heavily on Zamil when he assisted her from the car. It was obvious that she was feeling far from well, and up in her bedroom she submitted tiredly to the combined attentions of Madeline and her maid Louise. Having taken a dose of quinine she soon fell into a sleep that was almost a stupor. Louise shook a worried head as she regarded her mistress under the netting of her big, draped bed.

  “It’s malaria, miss,” she said to Madeline. “I know the signs.”

  “Oh, dear!” Madeline ran restless fingers through her hair.

  “It’s such a horrible, enervating thing, isn’t it? Dr. Berault has promised to call in later today, but I’m half inclined to get on to the phone to him right away.”

  “I’d let Mrs. Van Cleef sleep for now, miss,” Louise advised. “That dose of quinine might do the trick and ward it off — though I will say she usually has a bad time of it when these bouts come on. Nasty thing, malaria. Once you’ve had the bug in your system you’re liable for other attacks.”

  This one turned out to be quite severe, and the following few days were extremely worrying ones for Madeline. Amalia was reduced to a prostration that was broken by bouts of de-l
irium and baths of sweat which, Max said, would run their course in about a week. He offered to send along a nurse from the hospital, but Madeline assured him she could cope, for she had the help of Amalia’s devoted maid.

  Donette showed a surface concern for her aunt, but Brooke on the other hand was genuinely anxious about her. Madeline liked him for this, but he was inclined to trail around the villa rather helplessly, as men will in a house of sickness, and she finally suggested that he sit himself down in front of the typewriter in the study and work on an article about Marrakesh for one of the London magazines. People were always interested in colourful places abroad.

  “I know you want me out of your way,” he grumbled, “but all the same it’s an idea.”

  He hobbled away, turning at the door of the study to give Madeline a quizzical grin. “Will you reward the good boy with a cup of coffee around eleven o’clock?” he asked.

  “If you mean will I bring it myself, all right,” she said.

  “Bless you — for more than that.” His green eyes held hers for a moment, then he went into the study and quietly closed the door behind him. Madeline told herself he’d probably fiddle about with the typewriter, think up a title for the article, then laze about until she took in his elevenses.

  But to her delight he was busily typing when she entered with coffee and biscuits on a tray. He’d lit up the absurdly important pipe he sometimes smoked and the study was blue with smoke, while he’d already covered several quarto sheets with his own particular brand of journalism. Madeline stood beside him and read the top sheet. “This is good, Brooke,” she complimented him.

  “It’s in the rough at present,” he took a sip at his coffee, “and it needs a bit of pruning, but I’m enjoying myself with it.”

  “You’ve a flair for journalism, Brooke,” Madeline helped herself to one of his biscuits. “I wonder you don’t try for a job on a newspaper.”