The Princess and the Foal

by Stacy Gregg

  “They say that he loved the bay best of all,” her father replies.

  “Amina is a bay,” Haya says. She is quiet for a moment and then she asks, “Do camels have noble blood?”

  Her father smiles again. “Camels are magnificent creatures. Without them, the Bedouin could not have conquered the great desert. But horses are bonded to us, deep in our hearts. In the desert, a Bedouin will leave his camels outside his tent, but his horse sleeps with him inside, kept safe by his bed.”

  “I want to do that,” Haya says. “I wish Amina could come here and sleep in my bedroom with me.”

  “I think Amina might prefer her loose box,” her father says. “And I don’t think Zuhair would be very pleased to see hoofprints on the carpets.”

  The King tucks Haya in more tightly and strokes her hair. “Sleep well, my Bedouin Princess.”

  That night, for the first time in ages, Haya does not cry. She lies back on her pillow and stares at the stars, imagining galloping on Amina. She can hear the battle horn and feel the surge of the mare’s speed, as she grips on tight with her legs, spurring Amina forward. Bare skin against silky fur, the coarse rope of the mare’s mane tangled in her hands and Amina’s wonderful, warm, sweet smell filling Haya’s senses as she drifts off to sleep.

  ne morning at breakfast Haya’s father tells her that Grace is leaving.

  “Grace’s mother is very sick,” the King explains, “and there is no one else to care for her. Grace needs to go home.”

  Grace’s mother lives a long way from Amman so Grace cannot stay at the palace to look after Haya and Ali.

  “Will the new nanny bake biscuits?” Haya asks Grace.

  Grace smiles. “I am sure she will.”

  “But how will she know how I like them?” Haya asks.

  Grace gives Haya a hug and wipes the tears off her hot little cheeks. “Perhaps she will make them differently,” she tells Haya, “but I am sure you will like her biscuits too.”

  She cuddles Haya close. “Your new nanny will love you as much as I do,” Grace whispers softly. “Wait and see.”

  *

  On the day that Grace goes away forever, the King takes Haya and Ali to the Summer House in Aqaba. They set off, just the three of them, in the blue sports car, all alone – except for the bodyguards who travel in two separate cars, one in front and one behind.

  They honk and beep their way through the narrow streets of the market district where merchants hang their stalls with colourful rugs and scarves, and soon leave the creamy white apartment blocks of the city behind. Now there are clusters of houses amid bare hills, their flat rooftops trimmed with satellite dishes. Shaggy brown goats wander loose by the roads where camel herders live in tents constructed out of brightly coloured blankets, ignoring the motorways of traffic whizzing by them.

  On the open highway horns blast and lorries thunder past the little sports car, but Haya’s father is not flustered, weaving and zipping in between them. At one point he overtakes his bodyguards and Haya looks back through the rear window to see the two black Mercedes struggling to keep up as her father takes the bends at top speed.

  The roads climb higher until they finally crest the ridge and see desert mountains stretching out to the horizon. The mountains are the colour of rust, but the soil beside the road is chalky pale and the only plants that grow here are thorn bushes.

  Haya can feel her ears about to pop as they descend the mountain roads to a flat stretch of highway that goes all the way to Aqaba, where desert sand at last meets sea.

  The Summer House is very simple compared to their palace, sunny and bright with a view over the sea and doors that open out on to the beach. Haya remembers summer days spent here, always in her swimming costume with her feet covered in sand.

  The members of the King’s Guard have arrived ahead of them to check that everything is as it should be, and the housekeeper and chef are preparing lunch. Haya and Ali just have time for a swim before the food is ready. It is a feast of ripe tomatoes and hummus and baba ghanoush and tabbouleh, and a dish called upside down, made with aubergines. Haya shows her father shells that she found on the beach after her swim. Her favourite is a white one shaped in a twist like an ice-cream cone.

  In the afternoon, Haya takes Ali for a walk in the garden and holds him up to grasp the oranges that grow there and pluck them from the trees.

  As she walks back into the kitchen with her arms full of oranges, Haya is about to call out for Mama, expecting her to be here waiting for her, just like she used to be. Then the words choke in her throat as she remembers all of a sudden and the oranges tumble to the floor.

  On the drive home the next day Haya is silent. She stares out of the window while her father tells her about Frances. She will be Haya’s new nanny and is arriving tomorrow.

  “Frances will live with us just like Grace did,” her father explains.

  Haya has never had a new nanny. She keeps looking out of the window as her father tells her how wonderful Frances will be. Haya can taste her tears, salty like the waves at Aqaba.

  *

  “There she is, Ali, you see?” Haya lifts her little brother up to the window so that he can see Frances getting out of her car and walking to the front door. “That’s her,” Haya tells him. “She’s going to be really nice and love us like Grace did. Grace promised.”

  All Haya can see is the top of her head, the auburn hair twisted up into a sleekly groomed beehive. Frances is wearing a navy blue cotton piqué dress and the stiff pleats of her skirt stick out around her. As she walks up the front steps, the two stone lions on either side of the door don’t move. They wouldn’t bother to eat you, Haya thinks. Frances looks very bony, not enough meat for them.

  The King is very lucky to have secured Frances’s services at such short notice. Frances has, until recently, been in the service of a family in Zurich where she mixed with a very international set. She can speak English and French, bien sûr, and a little German, but not Arabic so do not even ask her to try. She has worked for the very best people, the cream of society. Haya knows this because she hears Frances telling Zuhair as she walks down the corridors of Al Nadwa, her sensible heels clacking on the marble floors.

  Frances informs Zuhair that she is a governess which is altogether different to a nanny and he will please address her as Miss Ramsmead. She explains how she likes her tea: with milk, no lemon, no sugar. The tea itself needs to be brewed for exactly two minutes, no more, no less, and she would like a cup of it right now, please, brought up to her room.

  Haya, who has been listening and watching from the upstairs landing, has to duck hastily into her bedroom as Frances breezes straight upstairs ahead of Zuhair.

  After a quick glance round Grace’s old room, she pronounces it “adequate” and tells Zuhair he may fetch her suitcases and the tea now.

  Zuhair is not used to being spoken to in this manner. Even the Queen never spoke to him like this. But his face does not show a flicker of expression as he says, “Certainly, Miss Ramsmead,” and heads downstairs to get her bags and explain to the kitchen staff the special requirements of the new governess.

  Haya is staring at Frances while she rummages distractedly in her handbag, but suddenly her new governess stops and swivels her head round. The Princess ducks behind the door, but it is too late.

  “Good afternoon. You must be Her Royal Highness Princess Haya?”

  Haya stays hidden behind the door.

  Frances sighs. “It is not good manners for a Princess to greet someone like this,” she says. “The correct thing would be to present yourself as I am doing now. I am Miss Ramsmead, but you may call me Frances if you wish.”

  She stands expectantly, waiting for Haya to emerge. When at last the Princess steps out on to the landing, Frances’s eyes widen as she takes in dirty shorts, T-shirt and bare feet.

  “You look more like a pauper’s son than a King’s daughter,” she says.

  Haya doesn’t like to wear dresses – they get in the
way when you are playing. She likes to wear shorts, just like Ali. But she has long dark hair to her shoulders and no one else has ever mistaken her for a boy before.

  Frances inspects her, looking her up and down, and Haya is suddenly aware that she has not brushed her hair today and she did not have anyone to give her a bath after returning from the trip to the summer house.

  “Your previous nanny clearly wasn’t a suitable influence,” Frances says and Haya feels her cheeks go hot. It is the way Frances says it – like Haya is not standing right there in front of her, as if she cannot hear what Frances is saying!

  “Is this your room?” Frances gestures over Haya’s shoulder. She walks straight past Haya and into her bedroom. Frances casts a glance around, and spies the photo of Haya and her mother on the dresser.

  “I was an acquaintance of Queen Alia, did you know that?” she asks. She holds the picture frame in her hands and Haya has to control the urge to snatch it back from her.

  “We met on more than one occasion in Europe,” Frances continues, still holding the picture. “Before you were born, before she married your father. I thought to myself, now there is a young girl from a good family who will go far. Your mother was the epitome of grace, so beautiful …” As she says this, Frances’s eyes lock on Haya’s legs. She is staring at the grass-stained knees poking out of Haya’s shorts.

  “My poor girl,” Frances tuts. “The state of you.” She takes a deep breath. “Don’t worry, things will change now that I am here.”

  She looks at her watch. “Now what time do you usually begin your lessons?”

  “Lessons?”

  “Yes,” Frances says. “You know, your studies?”

  Haya doesn’t understand. She is only five. Surely that is too young for anything except playing?

  At that moment one of the kitchen staff turns up carrying a silver tray with a pot, cup and saucer and a jug of milk. “Tea, Miss Ramsmead,” he says.

  Frances lifts the jug with great suspicion, feeling it in her hands. “This milk is warm?”

  He nods vigorously. “Yes! Hot milk.”

  Frances wrinkles her nose. “Tea requires cold milk,” she says. The kitchen boy stares blankly at the tray that he has set down on the table.

  “Well?” Frances says. “Take it away and bring me cold milk.”

  He rushes forward, grasps the milk jug and backs away nervously. Then he turns and dashes back down the stairs. Frances shakes her head as she watches him go and then looks back at Haya.

  “I can see I will have my work cut out for me,” she says.

  t doesn’t take Haya long to figure out that Frances is two different people. There is Frances the Governess – all sour, thin-lipped and taut as piano wire. And then there is the other Frances, the one the King gets to see. Haya and Ali call her ‘Happy Frances’.

  Happy Frances will cheerfully play games and sing songs. She will sew the pink hat back on Doll just like Haya has been begging her to do for days. Happy Frances reads proper bedtime stories instead of ones that last just one page.

  If the King is in the room then Happy Frances fusses over Haya and smothers her with cuddles. But her arms are so bony and her hugs are stiff and awkward. All they do is make Haya miss Grace more than ever.

  Haya never talks to Baba about how much she misses Grace, just as she never speaks about how much she aches every single day for her Mama.

  One day, Haya hears noises in the upstairs bedrooms, and walks in to find Frances overseeing her staff as they work their way through room by room with three large cardboard boxes.

  Haya watches in horror as Frances picks up one of Mama’s silk scarves and flings it into a box.

  “What are you doing?”

  Frances does not turn to look at her. “Decluttering.”

  “Those are Mama’s things!” Haya can feel her cheeks turning hot. “You leave them alone!”

  Frances shakes her head. “This is a palace, not a shrine. If you were more considerate, you would see that your father needs to put the past aside and move on.”

  If Baba were here then Haya would run to him right now – but he is away in Aqaba and Frances has chosen her moment all too well. Haya has no choice but to stand by helplessly as she watches Frances sweep her mother’s memory away as if it were so much house dust.

  No more Mama. That is the rule now that Frances is here.

  There is a hole. Haya can feel it inside her, an emptiness that overwhelms her. Into this void she pushes down all thoughts of Mama. Only she does this a little too well, pushes too far.

  Now, if she tries to picture her Mama’s face or the sound of her voice, she finds it harder and harder. She is losing her Mama all over again. This time it is like Haya is trying to grab at smoke with her fingers. She wants so badly to hold on to her memories and yet her eyes well with tears whenever anyone mentions her Mama. And so people stop talking about the Queen in front of the little Princess. Everyone stops talking about Mama. Everyone, that is, except for the one person who should.

  Frances barely met Queen Alia, but she speaks of her with an air of absolute authority.

  “Your mother would never…” Frances always begins her lectures with these words and very soon Haya can hear them coming before Frances even opens her mouth. Your mother would never… dress like a boy, laugh too loud, get dirty fingernails, stain her clothes, forget to brush her hair, play childish games, or – worst of all – waste time with smelly, filthy horses.

  Frances is an expert on the King too. She says His Majesty would be so much happier if Haya would try to be more feminine. “Your mother had such noble manners, she was such a lady.”

  A lady? Is that what Baba wants Haya to be? He has never mentioned it, but Frances says it over and over again, so Haya doesn’t know any more. And she doesn’t know how to tell her father about the dark empty place inside her that is getting bigger every day. When her Baba says, “You are very quiet, Haya, tell me what is wrong?” she finds that there are no words for her sadness and so she says, “It’s nothing. I am fine.”

  Haya cannot voice her emotions, not even to Baba. But she has found a place to put them. They are kept inside her treasure box. The treasure box is made of gold. Well, not really: it is made of cardboard, a shoebox painted gold with magazine pictures stuck all over it. Kept safe inside, where no one else can see, Haya stores her most precious things: her memories of Mama and life before Frances came to the palace.

  The box is her museum and Haya treats each item inside it with the utmost care. There is a pair of her Mama’s sunglasses with tortoiseshell rims, huge and square like a TV set. Two tape cassettes – Abba and Gloria Gaynor – which she found with the glasses in the glove box of Mama’s car after she died. A pink pebble from the beach at Aqaba and the pointy white ice-cream seashell, pressed flowers, wild blooms from the meadows near the Summer House, once soft and delicate, now brittle like parchment, tucked between the pages of a notebook. There are photographs too and empty bullet cartridges, made of cold metal, just like the ones that bounced off her father’s medal.

  Haya spends hours arranging everything from the treasure box on her bed and then packing it away again. The last item she puts in the box is an almost empty bottle of her mother’s favourite perfume. Before she puts the bottle back she very carefully removes the stopper and dabs the tiniest amount on her wrist, just like her mother did. Then she closes her eyes and inhales deep breaths, until the scent overpowers all her other senses and the world disappears.

  *

  Several weeks after Frances arrives, with great reluctance, the governess gives in to Haya’s pleading and they make a visit to the Royal Stables.

  As usual, Santi is there to greet them when the car pulls up at Al Hummar.

  “Welcome back, Titch!” He smiles at Haya. “The horses have missed you!”

  Santi invites them into his office, where the music is playing and the pot of cardamom coffee is bubbling.

  He offers Frances a cup. She takes a si
p and then screws up her thin lips in disgust, placing the cup promptly on the table. “I should like a tour of the grounds, Señor Lopez.”

  Santi is very proud of his stables. He has given many tours here; Sultans and Kings have come to visit. None of them were ever as critical as Frances. The governess inspects the horses in the same way that she ran her eyes over Haya the day they met. “They’re a little underweight, aren’t they?”

  “They are Arabians,” Santi replies. “The breed is much lighter in the frame than the horses you are accustomed to back home in England.”

  “I know my breeds, Señor Lopez,” Frances says. “All the same, I should like to see them a little more filled out than this.”

  “I did not realise that you were such a horsewoman, Miss Ramsmead,” Santi says, casting a glance at Haya.

  “Oh, yes,” Frances says. “In England I rode with The Quorn. Have you heard of it?”

  Santi raises an eyebrow. “That is a very exclusive hunt,” he says. Frances looks smug until he adds, “You must know my wife Ursula. She hunted with them for many years. I will ask if she remembers you …”

  “Oh,” Frances falters. “Please don’t bother. I never … rode to hounds very often. Besides, it was such a long time ago I hardly think—”

  Suddenly a muzzle thrusts over the door of the loose box beside Frances. She emits a piercing shriek and leaps forward, almost landing on top of Haya.

  “It’s all right,” Santi says as he reaches out to stroke the bay mare who has popped her head over the door. “This is Amina. She is being friendly; she didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I wasn’t scared!” But Frances won’t step any closer to the mare.

  “She’s got a rather coarse look about her for a pure-bred, hasn’t she?” Frances says, glaring at Amina’s flat nose and heavy jaw.

  “Amina is Desert Born,” Santi says. “Her temperament is excellent and she was once a very good showjumper …”

  “Arabs don’t jump,” Frances says emphatically.

  “That is what they say,” Santi agrees, “but some, like Amina, are very bold, confident jumpers …”