The Princess and the Foal. Stacy Gregg

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СКАЧАТЬ he stood up for the first time and now he is reluctant to be restrained by his mother’s arms any longer. His sturdy little legs kick out as he wriggles in a bid for freedom.

      The worried expression does not leave the King’s face at his wife’s suggestion. “Alia, we agreed at breakfast that you would take the car. It is too dangerous to fly with a storm coming.”

      “If I take the helicopter then I can be home again by nightfall,” the Queen says. And then before her husband can object she adds, “Badr Zaza has offered to fly me.”

      Badr Zaza is the King’s own pilot and in all of Jordan there is no one better. The King nods in agreement at his wife’s plan. “If Badr Zaza is willing to undertake the journey then I know you will be safe …”

      “I want to come too.”

      It is Haya. She is standing in the doorway, eyes bright with excitement.

      “Haya,” her Mama cautions. “What did I say at dinner last night? I told you, if you wanted to come with me, you had to eat your steak and your Brussels sprouts.”

      “Ali didn’t eat his either!” Haya offers as her defence.

      “Ali is staying home too,” her Mama says, rocking Haya’s brother gently on her hip. “Grace will take care of you until I get home and next time, if you eat everything on your plate, then you may come with me, OK?”

      There is a storm coming, but right now the sun still shines on the palace. On the lawn, not far from the pomegranate tree where Haya played that morning with her mother, a helicopter roosts like a sleeping dove.

      “Are you going to fly away?” Haya asks her mother.

      “Yes,” the Queen says, “but Grace will look after you while I am gone.”

      Grace, their nanny, stands beside them on the balcony that leads to the lawn. She is holding Prince Ali in her arms. Grace is nice; she bakes biscuits.

      Haya frowns. “Will you tuck me in?”

      “Not tonight. Baba will be home in time to put you to bed and I will be there when you wake up in the morning.”

      Grace reaches out to take Haya’s hand. It is time to say goodbye.

      “Be good, Haya,” her mother whispers in her ear as she bends down and kisses her.

      The Queen kisses Ali too and then sets off across the lawn towards the helicopter.

      “Wait! Mama!” Haya shouts, but the helicopter engine roars to life and drowns her words. Grace’s hand is clasped firmly over hers, anchoring her to the balcony. Then suddenly Grace’s hand is empty. Haya has broken free and is running helter-skelter after her mother across the flat, green lawn.

      The Queen has almost reached the helicopter by the time the little princess catches up with her.

      “Mama!” Haya’s tiny hands clutch at the Queen’s trouser leg. Startled, her mother looks down and sees Haya standing there beside her. Above their heads the blades of the helicopter begin to turn. The dove is waking.

      Haya has something to tell her Mama, but her voice is too light as the engines of the helicopter thrum overhead. Her words are lost the moment they leave her lips. “Don’t go!” she shouts. “Stay with me. I love you, Mama.” And then she looks up into her mother’s eyes and Haya realises that she does not need to say anything because her mother understands.

      The Queen bends down and picks up her daughter, taking her in her arms and hugging her tight. She kisses her one last time, and Haya feels the softness of Mama’s skin. Then Grace is beside them and her mother is passing her over into the nanny’s arms. Grace, who is still holding Ali, manages to straddle Haya on one hip and Ali on the other as she walks back to the garden terrace.

      The helicopter blades turn slowly and then faster and faster until they are a blur. The wind gets stronger and whips at Haya’s hair, flattens the flowers in the gardens below.

      At first, the helicopter rocks up off the ground and bumps back down again as if it cannot make up its mind. Then, suddenly, it lifts up like a leaf caught by a gust of wind, rising straight into the air. It hovers for a moment and then arcs away, clearing the high palace walls and the tops of the trees beyond, setting a flight path towards the distant hills.

      Haya tries to keep watching it, but the sun blinds her eyes. She shuts them tight, just for a moment, and when she opens them again, the helicopter is gone.

      *

      Haya curls herself up tightly into a ball. It is pitch-black in here, but nice and warm too, and she has her favourite toy, Doll, with the pink hat and sewn-on eyes and squishy cotton legs, with her for company.

      “Shhhh,” she whispers to Doll. “I can hear them coming. Be quiet now or they will find us.”

      There are voices outside and then car doors slamming. Haya feels her heart racing as the engine begins to purr. They are moving!

      Uh-oh. The car has stopped again. There is the sound of voices once more and then footsteps, and suddenly the car boot is wide open and she is blinded by the glare of daylight.

      “Haya! Not again!”

      It is Baba. He has opened the car boot and found her!

      “Haya.” The King hardly seems surprised to see his daughter in the boot of the car. “Out you hop, please. I need to go now.”

      The first time Haya hid in the boot of Baba’s Mercedes she made it all the way to Aqaba. But ever since then the King has been wise to her tricks and he always checks the car before he drives off.

      Haya unfurls herself slowly and reluctantly, as if stalling for time will help matters.

      “Please can I come?” she asks hopefully. “I won’t be any trouble.”

      The King tries to suppress a smile at her antics as he bends down and lifts her out of the boot. “Somehow I find that very hard to believe.”

      Haya isn’t going anywhere and so it is up to Grace to keep her amused. That afternoon they are baking biscuits in the palace kitchen. Grace makes them with dates and almonds and it is Haya’s job to roll the mixture into little balls, dip them in sugar and then squish them down with a fork before they are put on the baking tray.

      Ismail, the head chef, is grumpy that they are taking up his kitchen space. He doesn’t complain – how can he tell off the daughter of a King? But he does clatter about, making extra loud noises banging his pots and pans as he cooks. He is making mansef for dinner: a rich dish of lamb with rice and thick pungent yoghurt. Bedouin food, Ismail calls it, one meal powerful enough to sustain you for many days.

      This is what Haya’s ancestors survived on during nomadic voyages across the great deserts. Her great-grandfather, King Abdullah, ate mansef with Lawrence of Arabia when he led the Bedouin army in the Arab Revolt.

      Haya never met her great-grandfather, but she has seen his portrait on the wall of Kings. Baba was with him on the day that he died. He was accompanying his grandfather to pray, climbing the stairs of the mosque in Jerusalem, when an assassin opened fire. King Abdullah was СКАЧАТЬ