The Princess and the Foal

by Stacy Gregg

  *

  One day when Haya arrives at the yard, Jemima greets her waving a piece of paper in her hand. “We’ve been entered,” she tells her. “There’s a local showjumping tournament on this weekend. You’re riding Victorious in three classes!”

  It’s just a country show, but to Haya it might as well be the Grand Prix at Olympia. She is so nervous the night before she spends an hour unable to sleep, rearranging the contents of her treasure box. She is about to put it away, but then she changes her mind and opens the lid again, taking out the braid of hair that she cut from Bree’s tail. “You’ll be my good-luck charm tomorrow,” she whispers as she slips the braid into the pocket of her show jacket.

  Jemima and Lucinda have ridden loads of competitions before and their cheerful ease as they prepare the ponies helps Haya to relax too. They load the ponies into the Ramsays’ horse lorry and then all three girls pile in the back as they head off for the competition.

  By the time they arrive at 7am, there are already riders in the showjumping arena walking the course. They are jumping a metre ten today in the show ring, which is not as big as they have been practising at the stables. All the same, as she stands next to the fences, which come up to her chest, Haya feels her stomach tie in a knot. There is one set of coloured rails that Mr Ramsay refers to as a ‘rider frightener’ because it is so wide and imposing.

  “If you ask me, it’s the double that’s going to cause the problems. You’ll need to put in a really big stride or you’ll take out the back rails,” Jemima says as she strides out the distances between the fences with the other girls.

  Haya stands in the middle of the course and traces a track in the air with her finger, figuring out which order to take the jumps in. She hopes she remembers which ones she is meant to jump – it would be awful to be disqualified for an error.

  In the warm-up ring, she waits and watches while the other riders take their turns. Jemima and Lucinda are both up before her and they do well, but the white gate and the coloured rails both prove tricky and the girls have four faults apiece.

  Just before she is about to go into the ring, Haya rides Victorious twice over the practice jump. The gelding pops over the rails so neatly she feels a surge of confidence. When she hears her name being called and enters the ring, she forgets to be nervous and suddenly all her focus is on the fences.

  As soon as the bell rings, she is through the flags at a bold canter, taking the first jump with determination just as Mr Ramsay taught her to do. Victorious gets a little strong at the second fence and she checks him before driving him on, and they are over jump number two with air to spare. Haya had been so worried that she would forget the course, but now that she is out there riding, the adrenaline is flowing. She remembers it so clearly that in midair over each jump she is already turning her pony, preparing it for the next fence. Victorious fights her coming into the double and Haya has to trust the gelding to get his own striding right as she lets go of him and kicks on. Luckily Victorious is a smart horse and even though he takes off too far back he manages to make up with a big stride in the middle. Then Haya is pulling hard on the reins and setting him up for the last fence, which the pony flies with ease. They are clear!

  From their three events Haya and Victorious win three prizes – a first and two thirds. Haya has to stop herself from taking the ribbons out and admiring them all the way home. Jemima and Lucinda also come home with prize ribbons from their events and back at the stables the girls tie their sashes round their horses’ necks and take photos. Haya gives Victorious a hug as she puts him away in his loose box with extra feed.

  “Ohh, let me see!” Claire Booth grabs the prize ribbons off her when she gets back to the boarding house that evening.

  “I like the yellow ones the best,” Claire says. “I’d try to win them.”

  “But the red one is first place,” Haya tries to explain. “That is like wanting a bronze medal instead of gold.”

  “I don’t care,” Claire insists. “The yellow ones are prettiest.”

  In her room, Haya considers putting the ribbons away in her treasure box, but then changes her mind and strings them up over her bed between the posters that she has ripped out of magazines.

  *

  Showjumping and schoolwork often clash and Haya has to spend her evenings working on a history essay or a maths assignment until late at night so that she can keep up with her schoolwork. Yet, despite spending so much time at the Ramsays’ yard, she feels more and more a part of school life too. Most evenings after she has done her homework, she hangs out in the dormitory common room with the other girls from the Upper Third.

  The headmaster insists that they watch the news each night, not just music shows, because it is important to know about world events. Haya watches images of fighting in the Persian Gulf and listens as the BBC journalist talks in serious tones about the war. She feels the distance between England and Arabia more than ever. And although she has settled in, she misses Baba and Ali and Bree every single day. The treasure box remains in the top drawer of the chest by her bed, and every night she opens it to look at the black and white photo of her Mama. She never forgets that this is a strange land and she is a very long way from home.

  “Are you going to watch the space shuttle?” Claire asks Haya one afternoon when they are on their way back to the dorms.

  Everyone in the dorm is going to watch the Challenger take-off. The newspapers have been filled with little else for the past few weeks. This is not the first shuttle that NASA has sent into space, but it is the first time that ordinary men and women are joining the astronauts on the trip. Haya has watched them being interviewed and she thinks that one of the astronauts, a woman with long dark hair, looks a lot like her old nanny, Grace.

  In the common room, the girls gather round the TV. Haya and Claire both lie down on the floor, propped up on cushions right in front of the screen.

  “Keep your heads down,” someone at the back insists. “We can’t see the screen.”

  The astronauts are walking in their spacesuits, helmets tucked under their arms, as they leave the media conference and prepare to board the space shuttle. The news cameras cut to the grandstand at Kennedy Space Center in Florida. It is a cold day and the watching crowds are dressed up warmly in jumpers, scarves and coats. They have binoculars in their hands and their expectant faces are locked on the shuttle, which is perched on top of the big rocket boosters. There is excitement in the air and the crowds cheer when the astronauts emerge to take the walk along the ramp, giving a final wave as they board the shuttle. They are ready for take-off.

  On the floor of the common room Haya rests her chin on her pillow and watches as the rockets power up and white steam begins to come out all around the launch pad.

  “T-minus twenty-one seconds and the solid rocket booster engine is now under way …” the voice on the TV broadcast crackles. “Ten-nine-eight-seven-six – we have main engine start – four-three-two-one and lift off! LIFT OFF! The twenty-fifth space shuttle mission has cleared the tower!”

  The crowds in the grandstands shield their eyes as the rocket thrusts up into the cold, clear blue sky. In the common room at Badminton there is a cheer from the girls crowded round the TV.

  “That is so awesome!” Claire says as the white streak of cloud marks a track across the sky. “I wish I was going up into space!”

  On the TV the astronauts are talking to mission control: “Engines beginning throttling down now … altitude is 4.3 nautical miles …”

  And then, on the screen, the smooth white cloud trail that has been arcing across the sky suddenly blows apart, exploding in a ball of vapour. It is as if the cloud itself has shattered, shooting off strands of white plume in every direction. Sparks fly out from the clouds and then an eerie jet stream can be seen, the tail of a glowing fireball plummeting to the earth below.

  The voice on the TV is reassuring: “Looks like a couple of the solid rocket boosters blew away from the side of the shuttle �
�”

  The cheers in the common room hush. It didn’t look like booster rockets. Even though the voice on the TV is calm, it is clear that something is very wrong.

  Then a second voice can be heard, this time from NASA control: “This is obviously a major malfunction.”

  Haya is struggling to make sense of what she is seeing. On the screen the crowds in the grandstand at the Kennedy Space Center are straining their eyes at the sky in stunned confusion and devastated silence. In front of the eyes of the world, the rocket has just exploded in mid-flight. The shuttle, which was supposed to take seven men and women to the outer limits of the atmosphere, has taken them instead on a fiery plunge nine nautical miles to the earth below.

  In the common room, the girls of Badminton’s Upper Third stare at the TV in disbelief as the camera returns to the sky where the cloud vapour of the explosion still hangs in the air. But on the floor of the common room Claire is not looking at the TV any more.

  “Haya?” Claire stares at her friend. “Haya, what is it? Are you OK?”

  Grief is a living thing. It bides its time, holding your heart in its dark hand, and waits for its moment to give a squeeze. For eight years grief has cradled Haya’s heart. Now it tightens its fist. From a thousand miles away she watches the rocket fall from the sky and, as it falls, she sees her mother’s face, the lightning strike and then the screaming terror as the helicopter plummets to earth.

  “Haya?”

  The girls crowd round her.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Get back and give her some air!” someone says.

  Haya is crumpled in a ball on the floor, sobs wracking her body, breath coming in short brutal gasps. Grief is choking her, tightening its grip. This time it has no intention of letting go.

  aya feels so exhausted, the room is swimming in front of her and she cannot think straight. She is in her room at the dormitory and her father is here with her, beside her bed, stroking her hair.

  “Baba,” she sobs softly. “I’m so sorry …”

  “Shhh!” the King says. “Don’t worry, Haya. Everything is going to be OK. I’m taking you home …”

  At the airport the black state cars flying the red, white, black and green colours of the Jordanian flag cruise across the runway to meet the royal jet.

  “I don’t want to fly,” Haya murmurs as her father carries her onboard the plane, but the doctor has given her some pills that keep her calm. She barely remembers the flight home. At one point, she looks out of the window at the blue Mediterranean Sea stretching out below and she thinks about falling down out of the sky. She clutches Doll in her arms and gazes sleepily out of the window, feeling numb.

  When she wakes again, her father is beside her bed once more, and she is home. They are back at Al Nadwa palace. She feels like Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz waking up in Kansas.

  “You need to rest,” her father says. “Sleep some more. Tomorrow you will feel much better.”

  The next day Haya wakes up with a sore head and a thumping noise echoing in her ears. Bang, bang, bang. It is Ali kicking a football against the wall in her bedroom.

  “What are you doing?” Haya groans.

  “You’re awake!” Ali grins. Then he adds, “You look terrible.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’ve been asleep for ages. Baba has gone to the Royal Court. He left half an hour ago. Frances said I had to stay away and let you sleep.” Ali picks up the football. “Do you want to play on my Scaletrix set? You can pick any car you want – I’ve got the silver one though …”

  “Prince Ali!”

  It is Frances, standing in the doorway of Haya’s bedroom.

  “You were supposed to leave the Princess to sleep,” Frances says, bustling into the room and shooing Ali away from Haya’s bedside.

  “No,” Haya says, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “It’s OK, Frances. I was going to get up anyway. I want to go to the stables.”

  “Out of the question,” Frances says briskly. “The doctor told me you should spend the day in bed.”

  “I’m not going to just lie here all day,” Haya says. “I have to see Bree.”

  “The doctor says you need to rest.” Frances lifts Haya’s legs back into the bed and vigorously tucks the blankets in around her.

  “Then I want to talk to the doctor myself …” Haya says.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Frances says.

  “… or I will phone my father at the Royal Court and talk to him about it.” Haya has made it all the way home to Bree and she is not about to be held prisoner in her own bed by her governess.

  By the time the doctor arrives Haya has had a shower and eaten breakfast and is already dressed in her jodhpurs.

  “The Princess tells me that she is feeling much better. A short trip to the stables should be fine,” the doctor tells Frances. “The fresh air will be good for her.”

  Haya waits until Frances and the doctor both leave her room before she collapses back on to the bed again. The whole time they were here she was worried that she might faint. She has to grip the railing to steady herself as she walks down the staircase, but she is determined not to let Frances know how feeble she is. Nothing is going to stop her from seeing Bree.

  *

  “Titch!” Santi is delighted when Haya turns up in his office. “I heard that you were home, but I did not think you were coming to see us today!”

  Haya gives Santi a wan smile. In the car on the way here, she felt a little better, as if the fog that had filled her head for the past few days was beginning to lift, but she still feels weak. “How is Bree?” she asks.

  “Come and see for yourself,” Santi says. He looks at his watch. “Zayn should have let her out in the exercise yard to stretch her legs. Give me just a moment to organise myself and I will come with you …”

  Santi has risen from his chair and they are about to leave when a man in jodhpurs and a khaki shirt strides in through the office door. The man does not knock, but walks straight in. Reacting swiftly, Haya’s bodyguard leaps to his feet and steps forward to block his path.

  “Whoa!” The man halts in his tracks, a flicker of amusement on his face as he raises his hands in surrender. “What’s this, Santi? You have your own guard now? I had no idea you were such an important man!”

  Santi gestures to the bodyguard to stand down. “He is with the Princess,” he says.

  The man turns to Haya. “My apologies, Your Royal Highness, I did not realise you were here. I am Colonel Bashir, head of the Royal Mounted Police and gracious servant of His Majesty King Hussein.”

  “I know,” Haya says, “I have seen you ride. You are very good.”

  She has seen the colonel compete many times in the King’s Cup against the Al Hummar Royal Stables. The Royal Mounted Police are famous for their long string of victories in the hallowed event. In all the years that Haya has been watching the King’s Cup, she has never known Bashir to lose.

  Bashir beams with pride at Haya’s compliment. “I do hope Your Royal Highness will be coming to watch us win the King’s Cup again this year?” he says to Haya. “It will be the eleventh consecutive victory for my team.”

  “Tenth!” Santi scowls at him.

  Bashir smiles. “Tenth, is it? Well, who is counting, eh?”

  Santi is flustered as he grabs the office keys off his desk. “We were just leaving,” he tells Bashir. “Let us see you out on our way.”

  Haya knows that Santi is unhappy about losing so many times to Bashir. She also knows that he is not the only one. Every year she has sat beside her father in the Royal Box and seen the disappointment on the King’s face when Bashir and his team win. Her father is always gracious of course. He makes the speech in their honour every year and runs the red and gold flag of the Mounted Police up the flagpole beside the Royal Box. But Haya can sense his unhappiness every time.

  One year, after the cup had been handed once more to Bashir’s team, Haya asked her father why it ma
ttered so much to him. After all, both teams were in the service of the Kingdom and both teams rode in his honour. Her father turned to his children and smiled enigmatically. “Even Kings and Queens secretly have their favourite teams.”

  “It’s true, Haya!” Ali had piped up in agreement. “I heard a rumour that Queen Elizabeth supports Arsenal!”

  Haya thinks that her father’s passion for Al Hummar is surely its horses. The Arabians of the Royal Stables possess true Bedouin breeding, dating back centuries to the mares of Al Khamseh. These horses are a living embodiment of the heritage of Jordan and her father has fought hard to continue their sacred bloodlines. It is his love of these horses that makes him desire Al Hummar’s return to glory. Also, Bashir is kind of annoying. Who wouldn’t want to beat him?

  “I’m here to discuss the details for this year’s cup,” Bashir says, brandishing a folder full of paperwork.

  “It will have to wait for another time, Bashir,” Santi says. “I am taking the Princess to see her horse. Come back and talk to me later.”

  “Your Royal Highness has a pony?” Bashir smiles. “How nice!”

  “It is my dream to ride in the King’s Cup one day,” Haya says. It has taken courage to admit this to such a rider as Bashir, but when she sees the expression on the man’s face, she wishes she had kept quiet.

  “Horses are a man’s sport,” Bashir says, frowning. “Girls do not ride in the cup and in my opinion well-bred ladies should not ride at all.”

  “Princess Haya is a very good rider, Bashir,” Santi says. “And you would be wise not to insult her in my presence again.”

  Colonel Bashir looks taken aback. “I meant no insult,” he insists. “I shall look forward to seeing Your Royal Highness at the cup this year in the Royal Box. In fact, when we win, we shall dedicate our victory to you!”

  “You haven’t won it yet you know, Bashir,” Santi snaps. “Anyway, whatever business you have with me will have to wait. I am busy.”

  *

  The stables at Al Hummar look smaller than they did when Haya left. As she walks through the courtyard, the horses hear her footsteps and crane their necks over the stable doors to say hello. Normally Haya would not be able to pass them by without stopping to give them a pat or feed them a treat, but today there is only one horse she is here to see.