Desert Barbarian

'Fifteen!' Marie was astonished. It seemed very young to be a Queen and expecting a first child, but then she knew that things were very different here. She thought of herself at fifteen, a hockey-playing schoolgirl with white socks and a short gym tunic, and suppressed a smile. Indeed, things were very different.

When Rahaib had left her she went into the bathroom. It was a stark, whitewashed room. The bath was sunk into the floor, which had been concreted, perhaps to discourage insects. When she turned on the taps the water issued in a discouraging brown stream, but after running for a while the water cleared, although occasionally a dead fly fell out with it.

She locked the door and had a brief bath, then dried herself and dressed again. When she returned to her bed­room she found Jeremy there, sitting on her bed, staring around.

'I'm sleepy,' he said fretfully.

'Bed, then,' she said, lifting him down. He was limp and heavy, his eyes glazed with weariness. She carried him through to the tiny room which Rahaib had said was for him, undressed him and popped him into bed. She had barely left the room before his even breathing announced that he was asleep. It had been a long jour­ney, she thought. It was not surprising that he was so tired.

Jess had returned from the palace some hours later, having eaten with the King, her eyes excited as she told Marie about the plans she and the King had laid for the work ahead.

'I'm going to enjoy this,' she said delightedly. 'What about you? Are you settling in?'

Marie had said she was already feeling quite at home here, and Jess had given her an approving look.

Their first day in Jedhpur had ended peacefully as the darkness fell with the swiftness of a hawk, cloaking everything with shadows.

And so their life began to take on a routine. Each day Jess got up at dawn, breakfasted on fruit and warm chapattis, then drove off in a Land-Rover the King had lent her to start sketching in the isolation of her stilt hut in the marshes. While she was gone, Marie amused Jeremy on the verandah of the house.

Drawing elephants and tigers was his favourite occu­pation. Like his mother, he had a natural talent for it, and a deep curiosity about everything around him.

When he was not with Jess, he liked to play in the kitchen with Lispa's sons, who were close to his age and possessed exciting toys similar to those he had seen in the market. He and Marie had already visited the market with Lispa to help her choose food and to see the fas­cinating shops at closer quarters. Jeremy had bought some pencils, a wooden elephant with a jewelled head-cloth and bright eyes, and a large plastic ball imported from Europe.

Today as they trailed back into the house for their midday meal Jeremy demanded another visit to the mar­ket. Marie promised one tomorrow, with which he was content.

He showed Lispa his drawing of the great blue ele­phant, and she admired it, clicking her brightly painted fingernails in delight.

Jeremy eyed the food laid out for them with faint depression—a plate of steaming white rice, a bowl of vegetable curry, a pile of warm chapattis and some fruit in a carved wooden bowl.

'Rice again!' he groaned, and Lispa looked at him anxiously.

Marie spoke to her in the local dialect. 'Good, very good.' She had been learning a few phrases from Rahaib in order to be able to speak to Lispa in her own tongue. The young woman's face cleared and she smiled, amic­ably making her little gesture of polite recognition.

'You mustn't hurt Lispa's feelings, Jeremy,' Marie said gently. 'She works very hard to make your meals. You must try to like them.'

'They're always the same,' he said crossly. 'Curry, curry, curry…'

'Last night we had chicken cooked in the oven,' she pointed out.

'It didn't taste like chicken,' said Jeremy. 'It was

all hot and spicy.'

Marie sighed. At his age it was difficult to adjust, she supposed. She helped him to a small portion of rice and curry and he poked at it with his fork, his face sulky.

Rahaib appeared behind her chair and bent to say quietly, 'An Englishman to see you, Miss Brinton.'

Suddenly her heart leapt on a wild, ludicrous hope. 'An Englishman? Did he give a name?'

'He is an archaeologist called Davidson,' Rahaib ex­plained. 'He is living here while he studies our temples— many archaeologists come here to study them. They live in a bungalow near them and rarely come into Lhalli.'

'Davidson?' She did not know the name, but she said that Rahaib might show him in, and the old man de­parted to do so.

'Miss Brinton? I'm so sorry to disturb you during your meal!' The voice was young, cheerful, with the un­mistakable burr of a West Country accent running be­neath the English.

She smiled, holding out her hand. 'Mr Davidson? Do sit down and join us. There's more than enough for three.'

'Well, thanks,' he said at once, taking a chair. 'I must admit, I'm hungry. I've been trailing around Lhalli all morning trying to see the King, but they won't admit me to the palace. That's why I'm here, to tell you the truth.'