Desert Doctor, Secret Sheikh Read online

  She studied him for a moment, then she nodded.

  ‘It’s what I like,’ she confirmed.

  ‘You are a very strange woman.’

  Her smile broadened.

  ‘A very ordinary woman,’ she corrected him. ‘Some people see the things I do as noble or self-sacrificing but, in fact, it’s totally selfish, because I love doing it—love the adventure of going somewhere different, the challenge of meeting goals under sometimes trying circumstances, the fun of learning about another culture, meeting people I would never have met if I’d stayed at home, tucked safely away in a GP practice, seeing people a hundred other doctors could see and listen to and treat.’

  Kam was checking Akbar’s pulse as Jenny explained this, but his disbelief registered in a quick shake of his head.

  ‘And is there no one left behind you who is harmed by your adventures? No one left to worry?’

  He turned to look at her, certain she would tell the truth but wanting to watch her face where, he was sure, he’d read hesitation if she chose to avoid his question.

  ‘My parents are both GPs, in a safe practice, one I might one day join, but although they wouldn’t choose to do what I have done, they live vicariously through my travels. They support me and scrounge equipment and drugs for me, and take in strangers I send to them, people from distant lands who need more medical attention than I can provide. They had a Guatemalan family live with them for six months while local reconstructive surgeons fixed their daughter’s face. She’d been born with a double hare lip and cleft palate.’

  Kam shook his head again, unable to find the words to express his surprise, although his own people would take in those in trouble just as easily. But he’d always considered that the way of the desert, born out of need when the support of others might make a difference between life and death.

  ‘Let’s see if the blood is doing any good. I’ll check his blood pressure.’

  The woman’s practical suggestion jolted him as his mind had wandered far from his patient.

  ‘I keep forgetting we don’t have monitors doing these things for us all the time,’ he admitted

  Jenny smiled and shook her head.

  ‘No such luck. But before they had all these fancy things, doctors managed and so will we.’

  Kam returned her smile.

  ‘Of course we will.’

  He watched as she inflated the blood-pressure cuff and they both watched the readout on the small screen of the machine. Akbar’s blood pressure hadn’t dropped any further, but neither had it risen.

  ‘Let’s give it an hour,’ Kam suggested. ‘Are you feeling all right? Would you like a break from this tent before you give the second pint? A walk or, better still, a cup of tea? What eating arrangements do you have? It seems a long time since I had breakfast at my campsite.’

  ‘A cup of tea and something to eat is easily fixed,’ Jen said as he put out a hand to help her to her feet.

  She took the offered hand reluctantly, no doubt because of the uneasiness and flutters, but she was grateful for it as he steadied her.

  ‘This way.’

  Telling Aisha where she’d be, she led Kam towards the food tent, squaring her shoulders and walking straighter as she recalled his upright posture and the slightly arrogant tilt of his head, wondering again about the blood of desert warriors…

  The food tent was set up by a different volunteer aid organisation and stocked with tinned and dried foodstuffs. Most of the refugees collected food from the canteen but cooked and ate within their family groups, but those who had no families now ran the tent as a kind of cafeteria, providing hot water for tea and coffee and meals three times a day.

  ‘Smells good,’ Kam said as he entered.

  ‘Stew,’ Jenny explained. ‘Not made with goat but with canned corned beef and dried vegetables. It tastes much better than it sounds.’

  ‘Or you get very hungry out here in the desert and would eat anything,’ her companion said, and Jen suspected he was teasing her. But would he tease, this stranger with the profile that could have been used as a model for an artist to etch an emperor’s face on an ancient coin?

  She had no idea and was slightly concerned that she’d even considered it because teasing, even gentle teasing, felt like personal attention…

  The women tending the big kettles and stew pots handed them small glasses of tea and indicated they should sit while the bowls were filled with food.

  Jenny lowered herself easily, used by now to this custom of sitting on one leg while the other was propped in front of her to use as an arm rest as she ate.

  ‘You adapt quickly to local customs?’ Kam said, half-teasing again as he nodded at the position she’d taken up.

  ‘These people have had thousands of years to work out the best way to sit while eating—why would I want to do otherwise?’

  She sipped her strong, sweet tea—the sugar was added as the water boiled—and watched the shadow of a smile pass across his face, then he too sipped at the steaming liquid, raising his head to speak in another tongue to the woman who was putting food in front of him. Jenny knew they were words of thanks and praise because, rather than the guttural sounds of everyday talk, they had the soft, musical notes that, to Jen, always sounded more like spoken poetry than day-to-day language.

  ‘I may be able to sit properly,’ Jen told him, ‘but no matter how hard I try, I can’t get my “Thank you” to sound like you make it sound. I think it would take a lifetime to learn the Arabic language.’

  ‘And another lifetime, or two or three, to learn different tribal variations of it,’ Kam told her. ‘I can probably make myself understood to the people of the camp, but every tribe has words that are common only to it. Do you know that in Arabic there are eight hundred words for sword, three hundred for camel and two hundred for snake?’

  ‘Putting the sword—an instrument of death—at the top of the most useful word list?’

  He studied her for a moment then smiled a real smile, one that lit up his rather stern face and revealed strong, even white teeth.

  ‘Definitely not. They have even more words for love.’

  The huskiness was back in his voice, and Jen shivered as a strange sensation feathered down her spine.

  She glanced at her companion, hoping her reaction hadn’t been obvious to him, and was pleased to see he’d turned his attention to the woman serving their meals, speaking again, perhaps telling her how good the food smelt.

  Another of the women set a bowl of food in front of Jenny and handed her a thin round of bread.

  ‘Eat,’ she said, then smiled shyly, as if embarrassed by showing off the English word.

  Jen returned the compliment by thanking her in Arabic, although she knew her pronunciation was hopeless—especially after hearing Kam’s fluid, rhythmic use of the same words.

  They ate, Jen now adept at scooping up the food with her bread, holding it always in her right hand and using pieces of it as easily as she’d use cutlery at home. But as she ate uneasiness crept in, born of not knowing what to make of the stranger who already seemed so at home in the camp.

  ‘We shall check on our patient then sit outside for a while,’ he decreed, as if picking up on vibes she hadn’t realised she was giving out. ‘Today’s experience has probably made you think of other things that a proper medical clinic will need.’

  ‘I refuse to think about work while I’m eating,’ Jenny said, wiping the bread around her bowl to soak up the last bits of gravy. ‘Especially as we haven’t had dessert yet.’

  As she spoke one of the women approached, a big metal dish of sheep’s milk yoghurt in her arms. She scooped some into Jenny’s bowl, handed her a spoon, then passed her a tin of golden syrup, a carton of which had somehow found its way into the camp’s supplies.

  ‘Best dessert in the world,’ Jen told Kam, scooping golden syrup onto her yoghurt. ‘Sweet and sour and very yummy. The women here think I’m mad!’

  He watched her eat, shaking his hea
d when the woman offered him yoghurt and Jenny urged the golden syrup on him, but she’d only taken a couple of mouthfuls when Rosana appeared, crawling across the floor of the tent and settling herself into Jenny’s lap. Now Jenny shared, spooning most of the treat into Rosana’s mouth, cuddling the little girl and talking to her all the time, although she knew Rosana didn’t understand a word she said.

  ‘She has no family?’ Kam asked as they left the tent, Rosana once again perched on Jenny’s hip.

  ‘Not that we can find. In fact, I think she might belong to one of the warring tribes or clans across the border.’

  She paused, stopping beneath a spindly juniper tree, knowing questions could be considered rude but intrigued enough to ask anyway.

  ‘Having lived here, grown up here, do you know enough about these countries to understand the war that is going on over there?’

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘SUCH a simple question,’ Kam replied, ‘but it’s like asking me to tell you the history of the Bedouin in a couple of sentences. You know they are the nomadic tribes that roamed the deserts of the Arabian peninsula and north Africa, although in Africa there were Tuareg as well.’

  His listener nodded, but it was the intensity in her eyes—her genuine interest and what seemed like a need to know—that spurred him on.

  ‘Originally people think there were three main tribes, but over the years these divided into many clans. Clans and tribes were headed by sheikhs, who were appointed by the elders of the tribe, although members of the one family were usually the ones chosen so in a way leadership was hereditary.’

  ‘And have they always fought or is it only recently that wars like the one over the border have been going on?’

  Kam smiled at the ingenuousness of the question.

  ‘They’ve always fought,’ he admitted. ‘Often against invaders, especially infidels, but also against each other, one tribe sending hundreds of men on camels and on foot to raid another tribe’s camels. But the fighting had strict rules. You never attacked at night because Bedouin believe a man’s soul leaves his body at night and to attack then would be to attack a dead man. So they would attack early in the morning, which gave the men who’d lost the camels all day to give chase and maybe recapture their own stock.’

  ‘Giving them a sporting chance? It sounds more like a game than serious warfare,’ Jenny said, smiling at him.

  To encourage him to keep talking?

  Or because she was relaxed and happy in his company?

  He gave a long inward sigh that he should even think such a thing. The problem was, he’d been too long without a woman, not wanting, since he’d returned to practice in Zaheer, to have the complications of a love affair while establishing himself at the hospital. Then there’d been his father’s illness and the suspicion that all was not well throughout the land, although until their father’s death, he and Arun had been unable to do anything about it.

  Now they could, but first they had to know what needed to be done, hence his decision to visit the more remote areas. Once they had a clear picture of what was happening, they could plan for the future, and do what they could to right past wrongs and bring better conditions to the whole country, not just the city.

  Another smothered sigh, because thinking of Arun had reminded Kam that between them they had to work out the succession. It would probably have to be him, he knew this in his heart. As well as being the elder, he doubted Arun would ever marry again, and children were important to their people and to the succession.

  Very important!

  Arun’s first wife, the gentle and beautiful Hussa, had died from complications of a burst appendix. Arun had been in the city, and his bride had been too shy and ill at ease in her new home in the family compound in the country to mention to anyone that she felt ill.

  Arun had been devastated, but once over the loss had become a playboy, courting and escorting beautiful women of every nationality, determined to enjoy life his way but equally determined to remain unmarried, no matter how the women he bedded used their wiles.

  But he, Kam, was talking warfare, not women, although thinking of Arun and Hussa and the succession had reminded him of another matter he had to sort out—that of finding a wife. As Zaheer’s ruler it was his duty to marry, and though he’d once dreamed of marrying for love, love had never found him, so now his mother was actively pursuing a wife search on his behalf…

  Definitely better to think of history and camels and raiding parties than wives and marriage—besides which, Jenny was looking at him as if puzzled by the lengthy pause in his explanation.

  What had he been saying? Battles…

  Camels…

  ‘It was serious, because camels were a tribe’s wealth, but it became more serious when the tribes began to give up their nomadic lifestyle and settle in one place. In the past, tribes usually had a set pattern in their wanderings, spending summer months in one place and winter months in another, roaming from area to area, but within certain boundaries, to find grazing for their camels.’

  ‘And sheep and goats?’

  ‘Sheep and goats? My dear woman, the true Bedouin acknowledged only camels and horses. He might buy a goat from a village where goats were raised, and cook it up for a special feast—the birth of a son, for instance—but camels were their stock, providing all they needed—meat and milk, hair for making clothes and tents. You have seen women spinning camel hair?’

  The woman shook her head and the moonlight caught the paleness of her plait as it shifted with the movement, catching his eye as well, making him wonder what the hair looked like unbound…

  Was it because right now he should be sitting with his mother, discussing his requirements for a wife and checking the list of candidates, that he was distracted by the sight of pale hair?

  ‘Where was I?’ he asked, and even to his own ears it sounded like a demand, but Jenny stood her ground.

  ‘The nomadic tribes settling in one place.’

  Her face displayed her interest—a strong, intelligent face—but he wasn’t going to be distracted again.

  ‘Of course,’ he continued smoothly. ‘Across the border here you have two clans, both of the same tribe, both claiming to own the land where they want to settle. It is an impossibility to grant rights to one or the other because ownership of land has never been part of Bedouin history. The people here in the camp are from a different tribe, and the only thing the clans across the border agree on is that this particular tribe shouldn’t be there, although, in fact, they have had their camps in the area for many hundreds of years and recently many of them have settled in the area, breeding sheep and goats.’

  ‘So how will it be resolved?’

  ‘Men from other clans within that tribe are already talking to the leaders. They need to settle the dispute soon because like all wars it means no one’s planting crops or keeping herds and soon there’ll be an even worse famine in the area. I understand people have already tried to mediate, but at the moment no one is listening.’

  He paused, looking at the little girl who was perched on Jenny’s hip, her head resting trustingly on the woman’s shoulder, her eyes closed in sleep.

  ‘As you said, she probably belongs to one of the clans across the border. The family would have known she was sick and that she would be better cared for here.’

  Jenny brushed her fingers across the soft dark hair.

  ‘Poor wee mite! But she’s a favourite with everyone so she’s never short of people to take care of her. She probably eats better than anyone else in the camp, although as you can see that hasn’t always been the case.’

  ‘Yet she comes to you at night? Is it wise that she should become dependent on you? Learn to love you? And you, if you love her, then leave…’

  Jen stopped and breathed deeply, relishing the feel of the cool night air entering her lungs, enjoying the smell of the desert—of sand, and dust, and flowers she couldn’t name, and goat and camel and juniper trees.

  But
tonight there was another dimension to the magic, and try as she may to deny it, it was to do with a man in jeans and ancient T-shirt…

  A man who spoke of love…

  ‘Is it ever wise to love? Yet we all do it,’ Jen replied, dropping a kiss on the child’s dark hair. ‘Opening ourselves up to the vulnerability it brings with it, and to the hurt and anguish when it ends. You must know that, for when you spoke of the history of the Bedouins and the tribes just now, you spoke with passion. Growing up here, learning the history, it’s obvious you grew to love this place.’

  He was walking again, and she followed, realising he was heading towards a flat rock ledge where she often sat herself at night, looking out at the desert, purple in the darkness, the waves of the dunes reaching all the way to the horizon like the ocean on a windless day. Here she enjoyed the wide, star-bright sky and the wash of the cooling night wind over her skin. Here she felt, if not happiness then at least something that was very close to it.

  He turned as he reached it.

  ‘So you are an expert on love in all its manifestations?’

  The question was so unexpected Jenny waited until she’d sat down to consider it.

  Not that it took much consideration.

  ‘Definitely not,’ she said. ‘I doubt anyone is. Although if you’ve experienced romantic love, then you might think you know about it. As for the other kind, love for each other, that’s easier, although there are always people you come in contact with whom you can’t love, even though some are people that your friends and family might find extremely lovable. But an expert, no way! What triggers love within us is a mystery to me.’

  Was she really sitting here, looking out over the vast sandy desert, talking about love with a stranger?

  ‘With romance, it’s physical attraction, surely,’ her companion said, not looking at her as he spoke so she had a moonlit view of his profile.

  ‘Maybe that’s what brings people together to start off with, but it doesn’t always turn to love,’ Jen argued. ‘Look at all the marriages that break up, the affairs that end. Maybe love should come before the physical attraction—start with common interests and friendship and let love grow from that, not from overheated hormones or a rush of testosterone to the brain.’