As he spoke the young locusts started to drop off the bushes and advance erratically over the sand. In a few minutes they were marching in green columns, each hopping a few inches at a time.
Murray had to stay to weigh up the situation from all angles, but Julie preferred to keep her distance. She walked to the water hole and found shade beneath a squat palm. Even there she had the eerie feeling that the locusts were not far behind, and any minute would be scrabbling greedily at her feet.
It was some time before Murray could drag himself away. When he finally approached he called out buoyantly,
"Well, what about it? Was it worth the trip?"
"It's a sight I wouldn't have missed," she replied brightly. "I hope you can stop them reaching Jalna."
"A piece of cake!"
Jauntily he started the car and headed back, and Julie thought she had never met anyone with such a red-hot enthusiasm for his job. He whistled meditatively under his breath, blissfully unaware of any discomfort, though by now the heat was terrific.
Julie's head ached and a dull throb beat out a rhythm at her temples. Even Dr. Rahmid's pith helmet seemed scant protection from the glare of the sun. If they hadn't turned into the gates of Jalna at that precise moment she was sure she would have just melted on the seat.
There was another Land Rover outside the hotel. Dusty and sprayed with sand, Julie thought at first it looked vaguely familiar, and then realising that all Land Rovers looked alike decided it must be Dr. Rahmid's transport.
With one thought uppermost in her mind, to get out of the searing rays of the desert sun, she groped through the door and stopped to let the coolness envelop her. Her eyes focussed beyond the shadows within, to a figure approaching.
Dimly she made out a tall frame, wide shoulders, arrogant carriage ...
"Well, fancy meeting you here!"
There was no mistaking that voice or the heavy sarcasm that went with it.
"Greetings, O great one," Murray said breezily, coming up from behind. "We've just got back from locust colony."
"Yes, I heard about your proposed adventure from Mohammed," Clay returned drily, never taking his eyes off Julie.
"There's millions of the greedy little monsters about eight miles from here." Murray lit a cigarette and puffed happily. "Did you see anything of my men on your way up?"
Clay nodded. "They should be in in about an hour."
"That so. Well, I'm for a drink. Anyone joining me?" As they both declined he gripped Clay's shoulder in a friendly gesture, and murmuring absently, "Good to see you, Clay old son," departed for the bar.
As they moved along the long cloister and into the hall Julie was able to see Clay more clearly. There was dust in his hair and he was unshaven. She thought that she had never seen him look so weary, and it was only when she saw him eyeing her rather keenly that she realised she presented no better a picture.
"You look all in," he said curtly. "Purnell's inclined to think that everyone's got the constitution of a rhinoceros."
Julie smiled feebly. "We stayed out in the sun rather longer than I expected."
"Of course."
Once again his voice was weighted with sarcasm and she felt annoyance stir beneath her weariness. Before she could think of a suitable reply he tossed her a key.
"I've booked you a room. You'd better go and bed down for a couple of hours. I'll see you this evening. You'll find your case up there with all that's necessary for a night's stay, if Mohammed has done his job."
He turned to go and, Julie finding her voice, asked spiritedly,
"Why am I staying the night?"
"Because I have no intention of driving back today."
"You needn't have come," she retorted, her annoyance giving her strength.
"Needn't I?" His eyes were flecked with steel. "You forget I brought you out to the oil field, and until I hand you back to the Tripoli offices, you're my responsibility."
"I'm not a brown paper package, you know."
"No, but you're one hell of a headache."
He turned and left her and then, apparently realising that she wouldn't know where to go, he swung back and took her arm.
"I'll show you to your room."
As he closed the door behind her Julie found herself inside a spacious sweet-smelling chamber with an adjoining creditable bathroom. The furniture was a dark unpolished wood, and the bedcover was wearing paper-thin, but to find such a place after the rigours of the morning was nothing less than a miracle.
She sank on the bed, thankful to close her eyes, which seemed to be boring twin holes in her head. She heard a faint hum of voices, the gentle splashing of water, and the subdued chirrup of a bird, but soon the sounds merged into senseless trail of noise and she fell into a deep relaxing sleep.
The sun was no more than a pink glow along the wall when Julie awoke. She stretched blissfully, feeling refreshed and hungry, her eyes roaming around the room to rest on the small brown case.
What had Mohammed thought fit to pack for an overnight stay? Curious, she stirred from the bed and found that the case held toilet articles, night wear, and oh, bless the man! a clean skirt and blouse. Admittedly the skirt was severely tailored in white linen, and the blouse one that §he had declined to wear so far, being of the military flavour with epaulettes and pleated flap pockets, but anything was better than the creased jaded dress that she wore now.
After a tepid bath she stepped into the fresh clothing, feeling rather like a nurse in a tropical hospital, but the blouse was a good fit and she found if she left it open at the neck and rolled the sleeves well above the elbows, the result wasn't too bad.
One thing she could thank the sun for, it had given her a golden rose complexion that needed little make-up. A touch of peach lipstick seemed sufficient. She turned her attention to the flaxen hair swinging on her shoulders. Definitely not in keeping with the rest of her outfit. With the box of hair-grips that Mohammed had so thoughtfully included she folded the hair into a soft pleat at the back of her head, not realising that the severity she sought fled as the smooth curve of her chin and throat were revealed.
The small ears and strands of gold drawn back from her temples rejected all ideas of the stern look and presented instead a picture of vulnerable demureness.
Happy in the knowledge that she presented a fairly respectable picture, Julie left the room to seek out some kind of life. She found herself back in the hall with the buff- coloured tiles, passed the bar and then the dining-room to the lounge where Clay, obviously rested and relaxed since the morning and clad in dark slacks and cream shirt, stretched out smoking a cigarette. Another man, rather resplendent in silk Turkish trousers and a patterned waistcoat, was talking to him in fluent French.
As she entered Clay stirred himself to flicker a glance over her. The Frenchman uttered a couple of sentences and seeing Julie gave her a toothy smile and hurried away.
"Miss Nightingale, I presume?" Clay said lazily with a humorous twinkle. Julie felt rather like a spiral staircase as his eyes started at the top and swung round to the bottom.
"I think Mohammed sees me as a recruit for the nursing auxiliary," she smiled, feeling unaccountably shy.
"The outfit was my idea."
"Of course, I forgot," she returned lightly. "You don't care for frills and lace. While I'm here in the desert I must look as uniform as the oil rigs."
He didn't reply to this, merely looked at her for a long time and then got slowly to his feet with a dry smile."I shouldn't worry. The femininity is bursting through at the cracks. Let's eat."
The meal was good, consisting of fresh green beans, veal," cheese and coffee. The black waiter who served it looked rather sad, probably because the tourist season was almost over and he had only one table to attend. Clay told her that the hotel, going by the name of El Fondouk, was run by two French brothers, Charles and Raoul Pagniet, and meeting them later she thought she had never seen two such complete opposites.
Charles, the one she had ca
ught a brief glimpse of in the lounge, was plump with a round clean-shaven face, and a mass of tight black curls. Raoul was tall, incredibly thin, with a balding head and a thick black moustache, but whatever their outward appearance they apparently shared the same jolly nature and sense of fun.
In the bar, with Charles tapping his plump fingers on the counter, and Raoul pushing glasses along its chipped surface, they recited endless experiences of life in a desert hotel. Their antics and gesticulations said much more than mere words, which was just as well, for they talked most of the time in voluble French. Julie felt as though she had a front seat at a variety theatre and laughed until her eyes shone with tears. Clay lay back, a drink in his hand and a lazy smile on his face.
Later he showed her the entrance to the hotel, with its inscription in Arabic on either side, and told her it had once been an ancient hostelry for camel caravans. From the courtyard he led her to an upper terrace where the roofs were washed in the pink pearl of afternoon sunlight, and as they watched a young woman a short distance away hung washing on a line. With a slight turn of her head she saw she was being observed and stepped discreetly back into ^he shadows, only half a garment hanging.
Julie waited eagerly for her to appear again, hoping to get a better view of the golden-skinned heart-shaped face and majestic carriage, but Clay smiled and led her away.
"The ladies of Jalna prefer not to be seen. All but the lower"*social caste keep to the rooftops."
"A town without women," Julie pondered. "What a restricted life they must lead."
"They're happy enough. They exchange gossip after dark by singing in a language that only they understand. You'll probably hear them tonight sending messages from quarter to quarter discussing our arrival in Jalna."
As they walked along the dusty road in front of the hotel Julie saw that Murray's Land Rover had gone. Following her gaze, Clay commented lazily,
"Purnell had to pull out," and then with an attempt at a smile that somehow fell short and presented instead a sour line he added, "I'm to tell you he hopes to run into you again some time."
Julie digested this in silence. It was rather a blow to one's ego to be regarded as just a passing acquaintance, especially as she was the only white girl in probably hundreds of miles. But that was Murray. He didn't really see anything beyond the nearest bush, and whether the green on it was leaves or an infestation of locusts. She had rather liked the gangling young man, but was in no particular hurry to see him again.
"I shouldn't worry too much," Clay commented, his mouth still taut. "He drops in at the camp pretty regularly."
They walked for some time in silence.
The last rays of the sun had left the air languorous and warm, and heavy with the faintly soporific mixture of eucalyptus, jasmine, and hot dust. Several bodies still sprawled beneath the diminishing shade of the palm trees, and a frail old Negro amused himself on an instrument resembling the bagpipe. Hearing similar rhythmic jigs and wails in Tripoli, Julie had come to regard this as typical North African music, though very similar to the Scottish sound.
Clay held on lightly to her arm as a string of camels strode disdainfully by, and she could only put down the inner trembling she experienced to the excitement of being here, in Jalna, a North African desert oasis where centuries- old customs and beliefs still prevailed. Why else should her pulses stir, and her heart beat out a fierce tattoo? Not because of the big man at her side, surely? His only concern was to hand her back to the Tripoli offices sound in mind and limb. She looked up at the suave tanned features and faintly arrogant line, annoyed at the girlish flutterings of her heart.
As his hand tightened on her arm she drew jerkily away and would have collided with a group of men but for Clay's sudden outstretched arm. Tall and dignified ancj, veiled in dark blue burnouses, each man raised a stained brown hand in greeting with the words "La bass" and Clay, nodding pleasantly, returned the greeting.
After they had disappeared the brown eyes hardened. He held Julie firmly beneath the elbow.
"Don't think you can wander around on your own in a place like this. Whether you like it or not you'd better stay close to me."
The sharp retort died in Julie's throat as she caught sight of the market place. The laden stalls and haphazard shops made her eyes shine.
"Oh, Clay!" she looked up pleadingly, "may we go?"
With a tolerant grin he escorted her towards the piles of merchandise. There were baskets and bangles and murderous-looking daggers, glowing silks and a variety of leather work. The red and yellow leather had been exquisitely embroidered, probably by the women of the oasis, and made up into long boots, slippers and belts.
It was a little disconcerting, too, to see several British products on display. There were bottles of aspirins, in amongst tinned toffee and fish; a well-known make of tea, and another in hair shampoos. Further along Julie stopped to examine a belt polished to a deep blood red. It was such a superb piece of craftsmanship, being minutely carved from end to end, she would have dearly liked to purchase it for her father. Having no money with her she fingered it lovingly and then put it down.
"Do you want it?"
Clay picked up the belt and pushed a hand into his pocket. The owner of the stall produced a piece of fine tissue and wrapping the belt presented it to Julie with a bow and a touch of his forehead. As they walked away Clay took the parcel from her and negligently dropped into her hand a small trinket he had purchased with the belt.
"What is it?" Julie gazed in wonder at what appeared to be the petals of a rose turned to stone.
"It's a form of crystalline limestone," he explained, guiding her back towards the hotel. "The action of the wind erodes the softer stone, leaving petal-like crystals."
"Clay, it's beautiful!" Julie's eyes shone with pleasure. He looked down at her, the brown eyes curiously dark and unreadable. With a peculiar slant to the hard mouth he drawled,
"They call it 'Rose of the desert', which somehow seems fitting."
Julie's mind was too fuzzy to work out that last remark. His dark unfathomable glance had stirred within her a strange bitter sweet ache that sent a pain of longing coursing along her veins. Her pulses fluttered like a caged bird, and she drew a little away from him, afraid he might sense the turmoil going on inside her. She heard herself saying rather stiltedly,
"I'll pay you for my father's belt and this ... souvenir when we get back to Guchani."
Clay began to walk briskly. "Forget it, child. Let them be a reminder of the dark days at Guchani."
Julie found herself matching his steps with some difficulty. Her heart spiralled round and down. He was already tiring of her company. Probably politeness had prompted him to show her something of the oasis; now he seemed impatient to end the tour.
As they approached the hotel El Fondouk she was surprised to see it literally surrounded by vehicles of varying shapes and sizes. The noise from within was reminiscent of an English pub on a Saturday night.
"The last of the tourists, I believe," Clay said. "Sheikh Mafa is their host tonight." He stopped and turned to her, a muscle flexing in his cheek. "We're invited, if you want to go?" Of course he was remembering his promise to try and arrange an invitation from the Sheikh, and here he was confronted with it. Naturally he felt committed.
Julie had no intention of being a nuisance.
"I don't think I want to go," she replied, walking towards the entrance of the hotel.
"If you're afraid of the camels we can walk to the camp. It's not far."
"I'd love to ride a camel, but ..." She searched round in her mind for an excuse that would let him off the hook,
"with all that way to drive back tomorrow, shouldn't you rest?" Looking at the tremendously fit physique and leashed vitality, she knew this suggestion was laughable, but Clay didn't look amused.
"Maybe I can give you a few years, but I'm not senile yet." He led her inside, rasping, "If that charming reticence of yours stems from the idea that I don't quite fill the bill
as an escort, I should point out that there will be roughly two dozen in the party. You will be perfectly free to go off with whom you please."
Sheikh Mafa had sent an escort of torch-bearers and white-cloaked riders to direct the party, and the tourists, a mixture of wealthy Americans, Italians, and French, chattered excitedly and gingerly mounted the kneeling camels. Some stared wide-eyed and nervous when the camels regained their true height, and they found themselves suspended in space. Others like the plump little American woman giggled rapturously and hung on for dear life. Wherever possible husbands accompanied wives as pillion.
Julie found herself watching the scene with interest and amusement until a hand tapped her lightly on the shoulder, and a smiling Arab beckoned her to follow him. She was led to a magnificent-looking animal. Bigger than the others and almost white, the camel stared straight ahead in cold aloofness until a sharp command brought him to his knees. He looked at Julie with a bored expression, the jaws grinding lazily, and the feet splayed out as though it was all a colossal waste of time. She advanced as the Arab patiently offered his assistance, but as the coarse hair of the camel brushed her legs, she sensed another pair of hands take her lightly by the waist and hoist her into the saddle.
Before she could catch her breath the animal rose at the rear and she was flung forward towards its neck. The front rose with equal suddenness and she gazed giddily down to the ground miles below. Clay took one look at the slight figure draped precariously sideways over the camel and barked,
"Hold on. I'm coming up. You wouldn't get ten yards." The Arab obligingly lowered his back and with the help of a hand-hold Clay swung up behind her and pulled her firmly against him. With his assistance she curled her fingers around the cross-shaped pommel in front of her. This and the hard strength of Clay's chest as a backrest banished her trepidation. She now felt blissfully secure in spite of the camel's lurching step.
Rose of the Desert Page 5