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The Princess and the Foal
“What’s going on?” Haya asks. “Is she OK?”
“She’s fine,” Santi reassures her. “Amina is getting ready. The foal will come soon.”
But the foal does not come. The minutes tick by and Amina lies down and stands up again many times. She is sweating so much that a white froth has formed on her neck. Santi has beads of perspiration on his forehead as he grabs hold of Amina by the halter and urges the mare back to her feet.
He rolls his sleeves up. “Ursula,” he says, “take hold of her head for me.”
Ursula frowns. “You think something’s wrong?”
Santi washes his hands in the soapy water bucket and then applies grease from a tub in the medicine kit along his right arm. He steps round behind Amina and lifts up the mare’s tail.
“The mare is taking too long,” he says. “I am going to check on the position of the foal.”
Carefully, gently, Santi extends his arm to reach inside the mare, to find where the foal is. Haya stands next to Ursula and strokes Amina on her hot, wet neck, murmuring the whole time, telling the mare it is going to be OK.
When Santi withdraws his arm, his face is grim. “Ursula,” he says, “go and fetch the vet. Now.”
As they wait for Ursula and the vet, Haya helps to rub the mare down all over with a soft, dry towel. Amina is shivering and when Haya strokes the mare’s face she can see the whites of her eyes. “Don’t be afraid,” she whispers. “The vet will be here soon.” It has only been a few minutes since Ursula left, but it feels like forever. When the mare tries to lie down again, Santi asks Haya if she is strong enough to hold the halter while he moves around the mare and pushes her to keep her upright.
“I think Amina’s foal is breech,” Santi explains. “Foals are supposed to come out front first, but this one’s head is in the wrong place. We need the vet to come and help get the foal out.”
There is nothing more they can do but wait. Haya holds Amina’s head in her arms. The mare is trembling and Haya whispers to her. “Not much longer, Amina. He’s coming, I promise.”
The lights come on in the courtyard as Ursula returns with the vet. Amina is drenched with sweat, shivering and exhausted. She does not even turn her head to look when the vet greases his arm and begins to search inside for the foal.
“It’s a breech,” he confirms. “I’ll try to turn it.”
Santi nods and takes the mare’s head as the vet moves back to the tail once more.
Haya stands beside Amina’s shoulder and watches the vet as he works. He is taking forever and all the time Amina looks weaker and more miserable. “Don’t be scared,” Haya murmurs. But now she is afraid for Amina. The vet is taking too long.
Finally the vet pulls his arm back out and shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, “the foal can’t be turned.”
He says nothing more, but that is enough. Santi understands what must happen next.
“Ursula,” Santi says, “please take Titch back home to Al Nadwa.”
Haya is bewildered. Amina’s foal is still stuck! The mare needs help and suddenly Santi is sending her away?
“Please, no,” Haya says. “I want to see the foal being born. I won’t get in the way, I promise. I’ll stay back in the corner of the box, I can help …”
Next to Amina the vet begins to unpack the contents of his bag. The syringes, scalpels and instruments are laid out in a row on a dark green cloth spread out on the straw.
“What is he doing?”
“He is going to save the mare if he can,” Santi says. He cannot meet Haya’s eyes. “Ursula, take the Princess home.”
*
As they pull up to the entrance of the palace, Haya emerges from the car trembling and exhausted. Her clothes are caked with dust and horse sweat and her cheeks are stained with tears. If only Mama were here to take her in her arms and hold her tight and never let go. But at the top of the stairs, waiting with arms folded, is Frances.
“Oh, Haya …” There is something about the look that Frances gives her that makes Haya’s eyes brim with tears all over again. She wants comfort so desperately. She swallows her pride and runs up the stairs towards the governess.
Frances shakes her head. “Look at the state of you! Your boots are covered in mud. And your fingernails! My heavens, child, you are utterly filthy and you positively reek—”
That is it. Haya doesn’t listen to any more. She pushes past Frances, choking on her tears, and runs in muddy boots past the row of Kings, bounding upstairs. The slam of her bedroom door echoes throughout the palace.
In the darkness, Haya drops to the floor and drags herself beneath the bed until she reaches her treasure box. She shimmies back out again with the box and lies panting on the floor. Her hands are shaking so much that she cannot open the lid. Instead, she just clutches it to her chest, holding it close to her heart as she shudders and cries, her sobs wracking her body as she weeps and weeps until she has no more tears.
“Ursula is here,” he says with his nose pressed up to the glass. “Her and Frances are fighting.”
Haya looks out of the window. She can see Ursula standing on the doorstep, still wearing the same clothes that she had on when she dropped Haya home the night before. And standing in front of her, hands on hips, flanked by the stone lions, is Frances.
“This is ridiculous,” Ursula says. “Let me in. I need to see Haya.”
“Out of the question,” Frances replies. “The Princess is still in bed. She’s exhausted after last night. She is not fit to receive company.”
“Well, I’ll come back later then.”
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t,” Frances says.
“It’s not up to you,” Ursula snaps back. “Ask Haya! She needs to know what happened.”
Frances looks as stony-faced as the lions. “I’m not asking a five-year-old to make the decisions; I’m the one who is in charge. If it had been up to me, she would never have been there in the first place. She was in floods of tears last night when you brought her home.”
“But I should tell her—”
“No,” Frances says. “You have already done enough damage without upsetting the Princess all over again. Now I think it’s time you got back in your car and left before I call the guards.”
Haya leaps down off the window seat and begins to run. Across the landing and down the stairs, she feels her heart hammering in her chest as she races for the front door. Why does the palace have to be so big? She is halfway down the corridor when she sees Frances striding towards her.
“Where is she?” Haya pants.
“If you mean Ursula, she has gone,” Frances replies. “Now go upstairs, Haya, and get dressed for breakfast.”
Haya is beside herself. “But I wanted to see her …”
“Out of the question.”
“I want to know what happened to Amina …”
“Haya, do not argue with me,” Frances says. “That is all.”
*
What else can Haya do? It is another two whole days before Baba returns from his meeting in America and Frances won’t let Haya go back to the stables no matter how much she begs.
When the King arrives home, it is late at night. Haya is in bed, but still awake when he comes in to check on her. “You’re back,” she murmurs.
“I made it just in time,” her father says as he strokes her hair. “I know a girl who is turning six tomorrow.”
*
The birthday party is held on the lawn of the palace. All of Haya’s cousins, aunts and uncles are there. Her aunts all admire the pretty dress that Frances made her wear. They say to Haya: “You look so much like your mother,” and Haya feels her cheeks turn hot with pride and delight.
She misses Mama more than ever on her birthday. Special days should be happy occasions, but since Mama died there is a tinge of sadness about them. But you cannot stop birthdays; they come every year. And so Haya tries to be brave and to smile for the guests even though she hears her aunts as they whisper, How quiet she is! And how sad she looks. Look how she sits alone and doesn’t play with the other children. It is no wonder that the King constantly worries about her.
“Haya,” her father says, “come over here and play pin the tail on the donkey.”
Haya’s father puts a blindfold on her and spins her round and round until she thinks she is going to topple over. All the other children shriek and giggle as she tries to stick the tail on the donkey’s head and soon Haya is smiling too.
Lunch is a picnic on the lawn and there is birthday cake and Haya opens the presents stacked on a big table. The coloured paper crackles in her fingers as she thanks her aunts and uncles for the gifts.
“My present wouldn’t fit on the table,” her father says. “It’s waiting at the front door.”
The children run, screaming with excitement, as they race through the palace, their bare feet slapping on marble. Haya is in the lead ahead of Ali and her cousins, determined to be the first one there. The massive front doors of Al Nadwa have already been swung open wide and she races outside.
“What is it?” Ali is panting. “What did he get you …?”
Haya does not answer. She is too shocked by the sight that greets her. At the bottom of the stairs, seated upon camels, are two officers of the Desert Patrol, the most rugged and fearless soldiers in all of Arabia.
The men of the Desert Patrol carry curved daggers at their hips. Their faces are noble, tanned from the sun, with high chiselled cheekbones and black eyes, their expressions solemn and serious. If the stone lions at the palace doors of Al Nadwa could shrink back in awe of these men, they would!
“Do you like them?” Her father has caught up with her at last.
Haya looks at him, her eyes wide. Standing next to these officers with enormous pink bows tied round their necks are her presents. Two camels. One fully grown, the other just a baby, but still taller than Haya. The baby camel keeps shaking his head to get rid of the pink ribbon, as if it is embarrassing him.
“They are mine? Both of them?” Haya turns to look at her father in astonishment.
“You wanted to be a proper Arabian Princess,” the King smiles. “For this you will need camels.”
Baba has understood all along. A proper Arabian Princess is exactly what she wants to be.
“Will they live with us at the palace?”
Haya can feel her governess’s cold eyes boring into her. She knows Frances is imagining the mess Haya’s camels will make on the back lawn!
Luckily for Frances, the King doesn’t think this is a good idea either. “They will remain with the Desert Patrol,” he said. “But you may visit them to feed and ride them.”
Haya is hesitant as she steps close to the camels. “Can I pat the little one?”
“Of course, Your Royal Highness,” the soldier replies.
Haya reaches out a hand to stroke the baby camel. He has shaggy fur, soft like velvet, the colour of caramel.
“I’m going to call this one Fluffy,” she says decisively, “and the mummy can be Lulabelle.”
A choked noise comes from the officer holding Fluffy’s lead rope. The men of the Desert Patrol are the toughest soldiers in Arabia. They do not call their camels Fluffy and Lulabelle! But he keeps a straight face and says nothing. He waits patiently while Haya and Ali and their cousins fuss over the baby and the other officer gets down off his camel to lift up the children so they can take turns to sit on Lulabelle’s back. When at last everyone has had enough, the soldiers mount up once more and lead the camels away, both men looking exhausted. The perils of the great desert are nothing compared to a six-year-old’s birthday party!
On the steps of the palace, guests are preparing to leave when Santi and Ursula arrive. They are driving the Al Hummar truck, and Ursula waves cheerily out of the window. “Happy birthday, Haya!” she calls. “So sorry we’re late!”
“Yes, happy birthday, Titch,” Santi says warmly.
“You’ve missed the birthday cake, I’m afraid,” Frances says curtly.
Santi pulls the truck up and opens the door, patting his belly as he gets out. “I do not need cake. Ursula feeds me too well as it is.”
He smiles at Haya. “I am only here to bring Titch her present.”
Santi looks over at the King and Haya sees her father give him a nod, as if to confirm that all is fine.
“There is another gift,” her father says, bending down beside Haya. “Santi and Ursula have brought it here for you.”
Haya does not know why her heart is beating so fast. Her father takes her by the hand and leads her to the rear of the truck, where Ursula and Santi undo the bolts and lower the ramp.
Inside the truck, so small that it does not even take up the space of one horse stall, is her birthday present. It looks at Haya with wide eyes blinking in the sunlight, a bundle of fuzzy baby fur on lanky pipe-cleaner legs.
“It’s a horse!” Ali shouts out. Then he frowns. “Why is it so little?”
“It’s a foal,” Haya tells him. “A baby, Ali, like you.”
“I’m not a baby. I’m four,” Ali says indignantly. But Haya isn’t listening to her brother. All her focus is on the foal standing before her.
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