The Weeping Desert by Alexandra Thomas Page B

flowering shrubs.
    John went up the steps and pushed open the glass-panelled front door. He could hear his parents’ voices in the dining room.
    Edith Cameron took one look at her tall, sunburnt son standing in the doorway, and let out a small shriek of delight. In a moment, John was hugging her, and his mother was weeping weak tears of welcome.
    “Why didn’t you let us know when you were arriving, my boy?” said Dr. Cameron, pumping John’s hand up and down, and clapping him on the back. “We’d have come and met you.”
    “I didn’t want Mother to make a fuss. I knew she’d only start spring-cleaning the house and laundering the covers.” He grinned down at his mother. “You look marvellous,” he said, pretending to ruffle her elegantly set grey hair. “Young as ever.”
    “We have missed you,” she said. “I don’t know why you ever wanted to go to that dreadful foreign place when—”
    Mrs. Cameron broke off as she caught sight of the strange black-robed figure in the doorway behind John. She was lost for words as John led the Arab girl into the dining room.
    “This—er—young woman is the daughter of Sheikh Abd-ul Hamid, the Ruler of Shuqrat. She is—er—” John cleared his throat. “She’s visiting England for a short holiday. I thought perhaps she could stay here—for a while. Would that be all right, Mother?”
    Khadija stepped forward and smiled gravely at the middle-aged English couple who looked at her with such astonishment. She brought her hands out of her gown, put them together, palms touching, as if in prayer.
    “I am Princess Khadija Safieh, favourite daughter of Sheikh Abd-ul Hamid, and now wife of John Cameron, purveyor of oil and provider of prosperity to Shuqrat. I salute and respect the honoured parents of my husband,” she said.
    To John’s horror, she sank down on her knees at their feet, her forehead touching her hands, in complete obeisance.

Chapter Five
    They had to give John’s mother a large brandy. Mrs. Cameron took one look at the prostrate figure on the floor and collapsed into a chair, weeping afresh.
    John was not sure whether the weeping was grief or fury. His mother had a strong character and was not normally given to hysterical outbursts.
    Dr. Cameron tried to comfort her, a mixture of incredulity and disbelief on his face. He looked at John and said: “Well, I never. Fancy that, an Arab wife.”
    “If Mother would only stop crying, I could explain that Khadija is not my wife,” said John drily.
    Mrs. Cameron dabbed her face with a small embroidered handkerchief. “What do you mean, John? Not your wife. This young woman has just said that you are her husband. Oh no…” She broke into fresh tears as further complications occurred to her. “Is she pregnant?”
    “No, she isn’t, and will you please listen to me? It’s a long story, and I’m in no mood to keep repeating myself.”
    Dr. Cameron looked at his son sharply. “And that’s no way to talk to your mother.”
    John ran his hand through his thick sun-bleached hair. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a bad day, or two or three.”
    Khadija stood in the corner of the room, bewildered. She could not understand why the mother of John Cameron should have shrieked that way, as if her new daughter-in-law were a poisonous desert snake. She could not see what she had done wrong; she had spoken in the most respectful manner. But perhaps in this strange country there were special words she should have said to the parents of her husband. It was all most confusing.
    John described the events leading up to the marriage ceremony and the unexpected passenger on the plane. Dr. Cameron listened intently. His mother had her hand over her eyes and John could not see whether she was taking it all in.
    When John had finished, Dr. Cameron sighed deeply and thoughtfully.
    “I don’t know how these comparative religions stand in the eyes of British law. This is something we shall have to find out,” he said. “But