Her confidence was short-lived, however, for she felt his fingers lightly exploring her hair.
"I think we can dispense with the Sister Kenny look," he murmured. "Hair this colour was never meant to be hidden away." A strange thrill coursed through her as one by one he removed the hair-grips and dropped them into his shirt pocket. The flaxen hair cascaded to her shoulders, smooth and straight, and curling slightly upwards at the end. Briefly Clay buried his face in it.
"Smells of lavender ..."
Against her will Julie turned to look at him. Her face brushed against the hardness of his cheek, and lest he should see her sudden suffusing of colour she turned her gaze quickly back to the camel's head. Thankfully it was almost dark now, and the flames of the torches some distance ahead. It was necessary to sit a little rigid after that because her heart knocked so loudly. She forced herself to think of anything but Clay's nearness, and concentrated on the journey.
The smoky grey-black of the sky was sprinkled with diamante stars and occasionally she saw a stark bush silhouetted against the white sand-dunes. The tourists were so far ahead it wasn't even possible to hear the sound of their voices, but she could just about make out the swaying columns between the pinpricks of torchlight.
Their own camel was escorted by four men, two on either side. They were different from the white-cloaked Arab who had led her to the camel. Probably these were the genuine Tuareg from the encampment. Hadn't Clay said the name Tuareg was Arabic for nomad ? She looked down with interest at the swathed figures and veiled faces. Black eyes glittered from deep-set sockets, and on one she caught the glimpse of a fierce black moustache. They strode along, proud and silent.
Perhaps it was the restful rhythm of the camel's motion, now that it had got into its stride, or the fact that keeping one's back as stiff as a ramrod throughout the whole journey was going to prove a little too much. In any case Julie found herself relaxing and relying more and more on Clay's chest as a support. Soon her head was cushioned on his shoulder, and his cheek brushed lightly against her hair. Her heart caused her no embarrassment now, for it merely reverberated against the beat of his own.
All too soon the glow of camp fires could be seen in the distance and as they approached Julie felt a little like an intruder into the Arabian Nights. Tall robed figures and tents were lit by the light of the fires, and the sound of drums rolled along the desert air in an exciting variety of notes. There was a wide circle of women and children, apparently the music-makers, for the women were singing and beating the drums, and the children were acting as chorus leaders. The chatter of the tourists could be heard at the rear.
Reluctantly Julie stirred herself as Clay prepared to dismount. He jumped deftly to the ground, and as the camel knelt he swung Julie down close to him. She couldn't move, for his arms still held her and, puzzled, she looked up into his face. She was shattered to find it so close to her own, but in the moment their eyes met he slipped on a mocking smile and released her with a low laugh.
They were led to the doorway of a solid-looking tent a little apart from the circle but with an excellent view. There sitting on a kind of raised carpet stool was the Sheikh. Amongst the voluminous robes Julie saw a pair of gnarled brown hands, and above the veil a pair of hawklike eyes twinkled at her. He beckoned her to sit at his side and Clay took the other seat. The Sheikh clapped his hands and the show began.
The women accelerated the rhythm of the drums and their voices took on a high-pitched wailing note. As their breath threatened to give out, and the note diminished into little more than a whisper, a fearful-looking figure leapt into the ring accompanied by a simultaneous roar of the drums. The giant figure was clad completely in black, and straps crossed over his breast from a leather belt supporting a scabbard. From this he dragged a cross-hilted sword, and Julie stared wide-eyed as he proceeded to thrust it about with yelps and shouts. With the dainty steps of a ballet dancer he pirouetted around the circle, and as the shouts grew throaty and hoarse he took to swinging his sword viciously a few inches above the heads of the women, as if to encourage louder drum beats and heartier singing. The women readily obliged.
The tourists watched in awe as he leapt amongst them, slashing the sword and glowering darkly, until they were compelled to croak out some sound resembling the women's singing. The snorts and grunts brought a ripple of laughter to Julie's throat, but then she saw the black figure stop and turn her way. In the deafening noise of drums and voices, and with surprising agility for a man of such weight, he was before her, brandishing the sword. A wicked grin gleamed below the curled moustache and the nimble feet criss-crossed in the air.
Remembering the scant space between head and sword as he had swung around the circle, Julie hoped his judgement was still good. The long blade gleamed in the firelight and she swallowed, paled a little and waited. For some reason unknown to her he hesitated. His glance had dropped towards Clay and then back up again. Suddenly he leapt away, tossing a laugh into the air, and splaying his feet out into an almost split-like stride disappeared into the shadows.
One by one the performers took the ring, and when at the end a group of musicians added the peculiar sound of two-stringed violins and strange-looking wind instruments, as a kind of grand finale Sheikh Mafa turned to Julie.
"You come from England ?"
His voice was surprisingly vibrant and he spoke in faultless English. Julie nodded. How far away England seemed here in the desert! It was impossible to drag one's conscious thoughts away from the shrouded figures and veiled faces; from the yellow firelight and ghostly sand-dunes in the distance, and try to imagine a London bus or the bleep of the frantic traffic.
The Sheikh smiled and lifted his hands.
"I went to school in England. I got on well with everybody ... except your English weather!"As they laughed together, Clay stretched and came round to hand Julie a cigarette. The Sheikh watched them and nodded his head gently as though wrapped up in his own thoughts, and then he asked,
"Are you homesick, Miss Lambert, for your own country?"
"I don't think I am." Julie laughed in slight astonishment. "I barely give it a thought, except to write to my father once a week."
The old man nodded and spoke to Clay. He wanted to know if the fire at the oil rig was under control, and what was the latest output in oil at Guchani. They spoke with the easy companionableness of men who have known each other a long time, and Julie listened as they explored various theories on laying extra pipeline, and transporting oil by boat.
Eventually the old man rose.
"You must excuse me, my dear, for taking advantage and talking shop, as you say, with Clay. I must go now and show myself amongst my other guests."
He shook Julie's hand and then held Clay's. The twinkle was back in the faded eyes.
"And now, my friend, you are finding there is more to this life than oil and sand, hah?" As there was no immediate reply he continued throatily, "And you are tired of making love to an oil well, mmm?"
Clay smiled lazily and drew deeply on his cigarette, and the old Sheikh turned with a lift of his shoulders and an affectionate gleam in his eye.
"You are right. It is not for me to ask why you bring your woman into the desert."
Julie felt a flood of colour stain her cheeks. Only the crackling of the fires could be heard above the tossing of her heart. She watched the tourists surge around the tall robed figure, all eager for a glimpse of a real live Sheikh, and then she turned abruptly and walked out into the night.
Not knowing not caring where she stepped, her one desire was to get away, to be alone. The darkness enveloped her and the soft sand quickly filled her shoes, making them feel like iron weights around her ankles. She saw the stars like baubles swaying above her, and then the steely grip of a hand tightened around her wrist.
"Why the anti-social mood all of a sudden?"
Clay held on to her, the hard mouth slightly crooked.
"I ... just wanted to ... get away for a while."
<
br /> "From me?"
She tried to shake her hand free, "I ... don't know what you mean ... from you?"
"Of course you don't!"
He swung her to him, his eyes dark above her own.
"Please, Clay ..."
"Did the old man's words upset you that much?"
She looked up into the ruggedly handsome face, the lips so very close to her own.
"Please, let's get back to the others..."
"I've got a better idea."
She saw the gleam of his teeth from a twisted smile, felt the pounding of his heart as he said thickly,
"Let's oblige the old boy and say just for tonight you are, to use the rather dramatic term of the east, my woman."
Roughly his mouth found hers. It seemed to draw the very soul from within her. She leaned against him, unable to suppress the ecstasy of these hard lips upon her own. His mouth slid down, caressing her throat, her hair, and then almost without realising it she began to withdraw.
Three words starting as a gentle whisper at the back of her sub-conscious throbbed louder with every second ... just for tonight... just for tonight....
Of course that was as far as it went ... just for tonight. Clay Whitman was an oil man, and as he never failed to tell her at least once a day, women and oil didn't mix. But he wasn't averse to a little light entertainment on the side at her expense. Perhaps this was how he got his fun. A man didn't necessarily have to get married to get what he wanted from life.
This last thought made her writhe in Clay's arms, and with a suppressed sob she struggled free. Clay stood for a long time still and silent, and then with a slightly trembling hand he lit up a cigarette.
"As you were saying," in a voice that resembled the rattle of ice cubes, "let's get back to the others."
He took her arm and led her back to the encampment, blowing his smoke up into the sky.
CHAPTER IV
"AH, Monsieur Wheetman!"
The little Frenchman, organiser of the tourist party, hurried forward, mopping his brow as was his habit. "The transport ees ready. Eef you would agree to supervising the last car ... and Mam'selle can seet weeth the ladies up at the front."
Clay nodded tersely and Julie was led to a long estate car overflowing with the females of the party. All were laughing gaily and obviously well pleased with the night's entertainment. They willingly breathed in to provide the extra space, and forcing a smile Julie joined them, telling herself she much preferred this way of travelling to an intimate camel ride with Clay.
But once back in her hotel room she stared through the open window at a sky ablaze with stars, seeing only Clay's face. The memory of those hard lips upon her own was still painfully vivid in her mind. She was annoyed with herself. What did it amount to? A night laden with the magic of the desert, and a man who had been pushed beyond endurance with the fire at the oil rig and the extra work it had entailed.
Naturally on his arrival at Jalna he had been only too willing to indulge in the kind of relaxation that most virile men enjoy. No doubt there were girls in Tripoli whom he invited out when on leave, as there must have been in other parts of the world where he had worked.
She had thought he hadn't really wanted to go to the encampment, was just being polite. Now she could see he had been only too willing to take advantage of a situation here he didn't have to go to the nearest city for his amusements. She, Julie, had been on hand. Tomorrow he would go back to his men, oblivious to everything else but oil rags, and pipelines, and all the trappings that went with a top man in the oil business. And Julie would take care that such a situation never arose again.
Kisses from Clay Whitman could be, to say the least... unsettling.
In the distance she heard the high-pitched bell-like voices of the women of Jalna singing their gossip over the rooftops. Were they discussing the tourists? Or perhaps Clay and herself were the subject of their musical conversation?
Julie climbed into bed, a small ache in her throat. The women of Jalna didn't know it, but that particular subject was going to be very short-lived indeed.
They breakfasted early next morning, Clay his usual urbane self, and Julie striving to push the memory of a brief embrace to the farthest corner of her mind. She had expected to be whipped away at first light, but Clay seemed in no hurry to leave.
The first peach glow of dawn found her matching his lazy strides with suitable steps of her own, as they walked beneath the palms towards the gates of Jalna. The call to prayer echoed over the rooftops; a sonorous voice challenging over and over again, Allahu akbar ... Allahu akbar ... The call was taken up by another voice and yet another until the mosques and minarets reverberated with a plea to the faithful.
Julie found the view from the gateway quite breathtaking. With a little gasp of pleasure she gazed on the desert sand washed by the gold of sunrise, and spreading like a soft carpet towards a horizon of pure eggshell blue. Scarves of saffron, apricot, and a milky cream drifted by over head, reluctant to leave a sky still blinking with stars.
Not far from the gates on a gentle slope, a group of camels rested, and by their side a cluster of camelmen sat brewing tea around a fire. They saw Clay and beckoned, their eyes alight with friendliness, each showing a toothy grin.Julie was offered a grain sack for a seat, and she gathered from the men's performance that fresh tea was to be made for their benefit.
She watched as one of a pair of tea-pots was placed over charcoal embers, which must have been very hot indeed, for the contents of the tea-pot were steaming merrily in next to no time. The second tea-pot was placed beside it, but was not apparently required at boiling point. There followed a ritual of pourings from one pot to another until evidendy the right strength was obtained, and then a row of thick glasses were set out.
Much to Julie's surprise a handful of the peanuts that had been roasting in a pan over the fire was dropped into the bottom of each glass and the hot tea poured over them. She wasn't to know what this concoction tasted like, however, for when her turn came to accept a glass, Clay smilingly declined for her, saying something swiftly in Arabic.
Unperturbed, the camelmen nodded and smiled and sat with Clay to drink the three customary glasses. On the way back to gates Julie asked casually,
"Why wasn't I allowed a drink?"
"I told them it wasn't our custom for the ladies to drink tea with the men." He looked down at her briefly. "You wouldn't know the dangers of drinking from uncertain sources."
"But ycu drank it." Alarm showed in Julie's blue eyes.
"But I, child," he took her arm with a tolerant smile, "am hardened to it. We'd better get moving before the heat gets us."
The Land Rover ate up the miles as the sun became a blurred brassy disc in the sky, and Julie lay back thinking of Clay's last words. "I'm hardened to it."
That could be the story of his life, she thought with a touch of irritation. During the course of his travels Clay Whitman had undoubtedly become hardened to most things. He drove now with the cool calculation of a man who has every intention of getting from point A to point B in the least possible time, and unbelievably soon the gas jets of Guchani were showing upon the skyline. Julie felt as though she were coming home. Ridiculous how one could put roots down in a place after only being there a short while. She gazed ahead, all unsuspecting that life at the oil camp as she knew it was going to be considerably changed.The Land Rover pulled in, in a cloud of dust, and a tall figure almost as tall as Clay dropped negligently down the , steps of Clay's bungalow. There was something vaguely familiar about the set of the shoulders and fair waving hair, but it wasn't until she had stepped from her seat that recognition hit her.
"Alan! Alan Moore!"
"Julie, my sweet! You're a long way from Tripoli." With a vexed look around the mouth he pulled her to him and planted a kiss lingeringly beneath her ear. Julie was at pains to hide her embarrassment. To be held and kissed in this way while Clay stood by and watched was pure agony. Especially as she had never got beyond t
he handshaking stage with Alan in London.
"When ... when did you arrive?"
She smiled to cover her confusion.
"I flew myself in yesterday afternoon." With a side glance at Clay, he led her into the bungalow. "I didn't know you'd be out sightseeing. And stopping overnight at that." There was annoyance in his tones, and Clay interjected mildly,
"The journey would have been too much in one day. It was my decision to stay the night in Jalna."
"I expect you're right." Alan sighed irritably and flung off his tie. "Have you got a drink?" He laughed harshly. "That man of yours is pretty cagey about offering anything before dinner."
Clay went out and returned with a tray. He poured whisky, adding a generous helping of water, and handed him the glass.
Alan swallowed the contents rapidly.
"Glad to know," he said between gulps, "you got the fire at the oil rig under control."
"We managed." Clay passed him a tight smile. "Were you hoping for a ringside seat?"
"Well, no," Alan smiled obliquely, his tones smooth, "as a matter of fact, I came to offer my services in accounts ... until you get a replacement for Steve Rowland."
"That was thoughtful of you."
"Yes, wasn't it?"
Clay took the empty glass, his mouth still holding a thin smile.
"Strange. I've never known you set foot in one of your oil camps, let alone work in one."
There was a silence in which the two men eyed each other across the room, and then Alan moved a little self-consciously.
"I ... suppose there's a vacant bungalow I could move into?"
"There's Steve's." Clay put the glass down with some deliberation. "But I see no reason why you shouldn't put up here, with me. I've got the room."
"Thanks." Alan spread himself in a chair. "And would you tell the Mohammed bloke to let up on the bottles? I like a drink during the day. You know ..." he performed the actions of pouring a drink with smiling sarcasm, "to tip my own out when the mood takes me."
Rose of the Desert Page 6