Rose of the Desert

by Roumelia Lane

  A soft footfall made her turn from the water's edge. Clay strode lazily into view. He had discarded the linen jacket, and a light breeze snipped at the collar of his open- necked shirt, lifted a lock of the dark hair. Julie turned quickly back to survey the fish.

  "Transparent little blighters, aren't they?" He came up behind her, staring down at the transparent shapes, every one offering a fascinating view into the workings of their anatomy.

  "There's a big one," Julie pointed. "Isn't he a beauty?

  Clay came close to follow her gaze, and she almost lost her balance drawing away from him. With a steadying hand he commented drily,

  "The sun's too much for you. Let's get back into the shade." He chose a patch of scrub where palm fronds spilled cool shadows upon the dry earth, and sank down to rest his back against a rock. Julie carefully chose a hillock of ground a little way in front of him. She knew his eyes were upon her. After some moments he said with deliberation,

  "The tan suits you."

  "I'll soon lose it," she smiled, staring out to sea, "when I get back to that well-known inclement English weather."

  "You're in a hurry to get back home. Do you miss your father?"

  Julie considered. "It will be nice to see him, but we don't spend all that much time together."

  "What happened to your mother?"

  "She was killed. My father cabled her to meet him in Geneva after a conference. The plane crashed in the Alps."

  "That's tough."

  "He's never forgiven himself."

  "And having you around doesn't make It any easier for him."

  She flicked him a glance. "I've always got on all right by myself."

  "But not in the modelling business. Why? Did you take too many knocks?"

  She traced a finger along a flattened blade of grass. 'There are a lot of nice girls doing modelling for a living."

  "I know. They're usually the dedicated type."

  "Meaning I'm not?"

  He stirred. "You haven't seen enough of life yet to know what you want."

  She turned to him, a light of amusement in the bluebell eyes.

  "You know, when I was fifteen I used to think twenty was ancient. Now I'm twenty and being constantly reminded what a schoolgirl I am."

  He smiled crookedly.

  "A girl who's spent the best part of her life in boarding schools, as I suspect you have, doesn't suddenly grow up overnight. Even the rigours of career girl in London's sophistication wouldn't do that for you. You're still hopelessly immature."

  Julie found herself yearning wistfully for some of Tamara's poise, but she managed to say lightly enough,

  "I'm learning fast."

  An urgent desire to pursue a certain line of thought made her ask casually, "When do you go back to the oil camp?"

  "In about ten days' time."

  "And in the meantime, I suppose you'll be ... seeing quite a lot of Tamara?"

  She had turned back to gaze at the sea, but she didn't miss the lazy smile.

  "Tamara's all right. She doesn't cling."

  Which was as good a hint as, any Julie thought, that he wanted no truck with cloying females. Her laugh had a brittle quality as she replied,

  "Of course, I was forgetting. You're married to the oilfield."

  He took out cigarettes and offered her one with an amused glint.

  "If I am, there's a divorce pending."

  "Oh?"

  Julie kept her eyes on the cigarette case, but there was no enlightenment forthcoming. He flicked a flame under her cigarette and after some moments she raised her eyes to find him studying her thoughtfully.

  ' "How are you with children?"

  "I've done an occasional baby-sitting with moderate success. Why?"

  "Just a thought."

  Julie turned to stare at the horizon. She was still wondering what he had meant by that cryptic remark "A divorce pending". Did he mean he was leaving the oil business? Or at least the oilfield? Obviously he felt no desire to go into details, for hadn't he very neatly changed the subject ?

  Swallowing an ache in her throat, she stretched her legs preparatory to rising. Why should Clay discuss his plans with her?

  She was merely a girl he had brought out for the day, because he thought she might be lonely. And today was just a filler until her plane time tomorrow. Besides she had been warned off, hadn't she? Tamara doesn't cling, he had said. Any interest Julie showed in his affairs now would put her automatically under the heading "clinging female".

  She made to rise and was aware of a stiffness in her shin that made her wince with pain. She sank down again with a quick intake of breath. Clay was beside her. Kneeling, he made a sharp exclamation.

  "What's this? There's blood on your leg. Why didn't you tell me you'd injured yourself?"

  "Heaven's, it's only a scratch." Julie drew away impatiently. "I knocked it on the stump of a tree. Never gave it another thought."

  She got to her feet unsteadily, and tried out a few steps. Much to her disgust the leg would not support her. She tottered, and Clay caught her up into his arms.

  "Scratch or not, you'd better not use it until it's been cleaned up."

  "Clay, put me down!" Julie struggled. "This is ridiculous! It's only because I had the leg tucked under me. I know it will be all right when I use it."

  "Stay put. You obviously don't know the dangers of ignoring open wounds in this climate." He brought his face round to where the fair head rested on his shoulder. The brown eyes were flecked with anger as he growled beneath his breath,

  "God knows, you need someone to look after you."

  Julie's eyes were suddenly brimming with tears. His arm tightened. He added in softer tones, "You admit it's painful now?"

  Julie buried her head in his shoulder. Yes, it was painful. But how could she tell him? It was his nearness that caused the pain. She wanted to curl her arms about his neck, brush her lips against that rugged cheek, but she knew she must hold herself rigidly in his arms. There must be no betrayal of feelings just because he was holding her close. Tamara doesn't cling, he had stated pointedly ... and Julie? She wanted to ... Oh, how she wanted to ... But tomorrow when she was winging her way home, it would be something at least to be able to say "Julie didn't cling."

  She struggled out of his arms as they reached the clearing, and the chief and his wife and several others clustered round in gabbling concern. Julie sank down thankfully on to the cushions, as Clay said something tersely. He turned back to Julie, the tanned features a little pale.

  "Since you won't let me touch it, the chief's wife will dress it for you. Don't worry, they're pretty contemporary when it comes to first aid." He turned on his heel and left.

  His absence was the best thing that could have happened. It gave Julie a little time to subdue her churned- up emotions. By the time a casket of various bottles and tins was placed at her side, her heart had resumed its normal rhythm. Gentle fingers massaged a soothing cream around the wound, and once it was covered with a surprisingly neat-looking plaster, Julie found she could walk passably well. Within half an hour the stiffness had almost completely disappeared.

  She was walking the length of the clearing for the third time when Clay emerged from one of the huts.

  "How's it going?"

  "Almost as good as new."

  "Too bad. Now I won't have to carry you to the boat." His tone was bantering, but she knew the charm of the afternoon was fast disintegrating. She sensed it in the jut of his chin, the set of his shoulders.

  "Shouldn't we be getting back?" She knew a miserable desire to end it all quickly.

  "If you want to." He strode away to collect his jacket. At the water's edge the chief took her hand in his. He seemed to have difficulty in conversing with her, though Julie knew he spoke English from his conversations with Clay.

  The chiefs goodbye to her was silent, strange, and rather touching. From the folds of his robes he brought out a small bottle, and touched a drop of the contents into each palm
of her hand. Rubbing her hands gently together, he cupped them before his face and then with a smile before her own. Julie inhaled with a feeling that she would never know anything like this again. It was as though all the exciting scents and aromas of North Africa had been captured and concentrated in that tiny bottle.

  The chief's wife stepped forward and shyly placed a waist long necklace over her head. Overwhelmed, Julie fingered the beaten metal in the shapes of coins and fish, and thanked them profusely. There were embraces and smiles and handshakes for Clay and then they were being rowed back to the mainland.

  It was almost sunset when the car pulled up outside the Victoria hotel. Neither had spoken a word since leaving the island, and now Clay strode round and opened the door for her. Her heart thumped as the last precious seconds ran out.

  "It's ... been a lovely day, Clay. I don't suppose I'll be seeing you again."

  "What time does your plane leave tomorrow?"

  "Eleven-fifteen."

  "I see." He nodded ignoring the outstretched hand. Instead an arm dropped negligently around her shoulder. With an almost imperceptible tightening of his fingers he murmured, "take care of the leg," and was back in his car cruising away from the curb with a preoccupied air.

  Julie walked quickly into the hotel willing herself not to look around. Head high, eyes dry, shoulders square ... at least until she could get to the privacy of her own room.The Victoria hotel didn't boast the luxury of a telephone in every room. The residents had to be content with the one down on the reception desk. Unfortunately the receptionist was in the habit of taking long sojourns away from his place of work and the telephone would often ring shrilly for hours unless someone thought to go down and answer it. It was ringing now as Julie stared at the very last item to be packed. The crystalline limestone lay in the palm of her hand, glowing dully in the evening light. She could hear Clay's words, "they call it the rose of the desert" ... its petals turned to stone ... funny, that was the exact description of her heart at the moment. She brushed it with her lips and placed it on top of her clothes. The lid was closed with a final click.

  The phone was still ringing. Should she answer it? Better not. It was probably for the two young French boys at the end of the corridor. They seemed to get the most calls. She had just picked up a book when the knock came on her door. A voice heavily accented called, "Telephone for Mees Lamberrrt! " Julie stopped, the book in mid-air. Who on earth could be calling her tonight? Her last night in Tripoli. Weakly she hurried to the phone. It was a woman's voice,

  "Hello ... Miss Lambert? You don't know me ... I'm Mrs. Rowland." There was a slight pause and then she hurried on, "I wonder if I sent a car round for you, if you'd care to come to dinner? I would like to talk to you ... you see, I want to know if you would consider staying on in Tripoli"

  CHAPTER VI

  THE car took the road that led to the airport and turned off along an avenue dotted with palms. The houses were white and sprawling and set in acres of ground ablaze with flowers. In the pearly glow of evening their colours were almost fluorescent. Julie held her breath as the car turned in along a sweeping drive and stopped outside an open door. Almost at once a small figure stepped out of the lighted doorway and hurried to meet her.

  "Miss Lambert? I'm Mrs. Rowland. Steve has told me a lot about you."

  Julie felt her hand clasped warmly and looked into the smiling eyes of a dark-haired woman of about thirty-five. She turned to hand some money to the Libyan driver and the car circled and drove off.

  "Steve's out with the car, and I don't drive, so it's handy to be able to hire one." She took Julie's arm. "Come on inside and we'll eat straight away. The children are in bed, so we won't have any interruptions."

  Through rooms that were furnished in a mixture of American colonial and English contemporary, she was led to the back of the house where french windows opened out on to the garden. They ate in the muted glow of wall lights from dishes served by an angular woman of about fifty. She swung in and out from the kitchen, her iron grey hair frizzing out from a bob, her mouth a thin line.

  "I expect you're wondering what all this is about," Mrs. Rowland smiled, taking their coffee out on to the veranda, "and I'm not one to beat about the bush, so I'll tell you straight away. We're looking for someone to take over with the children occasionally. Clay mentioned you, and Steve asked me to sound you out. He's quite enthusiastic about the idea."Julie hesitated.

  "I'm not sure I'd be capable of... you see, I..

  "We don't necessarily need a trained person," Mrs. Rowland explained. "Just someone to watch over them in the garden, take them for the occasional trip to the beach."

  "It doesn't sound too difficult," Julie smiled. Lynn Rowland leaned forward hopefully.

  "We couldn't manage oil company wages, of course, but with a room here and your meals, you might find you're slightly better off."

  "You mean you would want me to live here?"

  "It would be better." She rose and gazed over the garden with a humorous twinkle. "The imps can be pretty demanding, I must be truthful. I like to think they're reasonably well behaved, but at that age they do tend to sap the life's blood a little. With someone on hand I could devote more time to Steve when he's home. We might even find that we could take a break somewhere, just the two of us." The eyes softened, and Julie knew she was looking at a woman very much in love with her husband.

  "Do you think I'll be able to help?" she asked.

  "My dear, you're just right for the children. I know it Young and pretty." She laughed a little sheepishly. "Bella's a treasure in the kitchen, but she terrifies the children, poor soul, and I think she's half frightened of them."

  She turned to take Julie in from head to toe.

  "You don't know what a boon you are—an English girl out here. I only wish I'd known about you sooner, Steve's due back at the camp tomorrow."

  "So he won't be home for a month?"

  Mrs. Rowland nursed herself with pleasure. "Of course you won't have heard. The company has changed its rota. It's a fortnight on and a week off now." She studied Julie's face. "Well, what do you think?"

  Julie rose. "I'm not sure what to do about my air passage. You see, I was due to fly home tomorrow."

  "Clay told me to tell you he'll make all the necessary cancellations if you decide to stay on. I believe he's out with the American girl this evening, but," she added reassuringly, "I can ring him at his hotel last thing tonight if you like."

  Julie's fingers clutched imperceptibly round her handbag. Wouldn't it be better to get away from all this now? Clay obviously had close connections with the Rowland family. If she stayed she ran the risk of encountering him occasionally ... she might even find herself a spectator on the blossoming of a certain romance. No! No, she couldn't do that…

  Her mind had formed the words that would refuse the offer. For after all it teas an offer. To stay on in the land of permanent blue sky and silky sea. Where the palms flickered cool green in the heat of the day, and the black nights throbbed with dewdrop stars.

  She drew in her underlip and caught Mrs. Rowland eyeing her with dark entreaty. It was the look of a woman who had found the divine answer to sharing herself equally between husband and children and Julie hadn't the heart to dispel it No doubt there were many more English girls in Tripoli, but a mother would naturally feel easier with someone she knew something about, and Julie had worked in close contact with Steve for some considerable time.

  "Then it's settled." She offered her hand with a smile, "When would you want me to come?"

  Mrs. Rowland clasped the hand warmly. "Tomorrow if you like, I'll introduce you to Janet and Mark and turn them over to you for short periods during the day. They'll get used to having you around, without actually losing sight of me ..."

  She talked on about the children until the hired car returned and Julie found herself being transported back to the hotel. Through the windows she saw in the distance a cluster of domes and minarets. In the moonlight they looke
d like a tray of frosted fancy cakes. Dreamily she realised that now she needn't cling fervently to every passing scene as though for the last time. There would be many more nights like this to rapture over. She didn't permit herself the luxury of wondering when she would see a tanned arrogant face again. That would only be opening up old wounds.

  The next few days proved to be balm to Julie's heart For once in her life she had the feeling of really belonging.

  The children had taken to her from the moment they learned she was game to push the swing uncomplaining for hours, and walk alone into the darkest corner of the garden. They were fair like their father, but for Janet the resemblance ended there. She was a tiny miniature of her mother, with quick brown eyes and a piquant alertness to everything around her. Mark, who was a pocket edition of his father, was plump and inclined to be thoughtful. He would take perhaps ten minutes to decide which toy he wanted to play with.

  Looking at them now as she sat on the lawn, Julie thought of her own childhood. A blurred memory of mother and father together and a small life of warm security, and then quite suddenly, boarding schools. Clay hadn't been far out when he surmised that she had plunged from school life straight into a London career. Up to the age of eighteen the school dormitory had been her home, and after a London flat. Even school holidays had been the inevitable trek to the seaside hotel in the company of other abandoned children, and supervised by an equally deserted adult.

  Her father loved her, Julie knew, but on the rare occasions he had visited her she had sensed an apologetic remoteness about him, a reluctance to look too long at her face, or listen too long to her chatter. If only he hadn't always been so aloof, Julie mused wistfully, they might have made something of their lives together.