Zanzibar
A maharaja’s ruby cast on a Persian carpet by the blackest of hands: the richest of prizes for whoever could hold it.
The woman, standing perfectly still on the deck of the ancient dhow, slowly, deliberately, raised one hand and, cupping it over her eyes, gazed out to the skyline of Stone Town, the heart of Zanzibar; its jagged, cluttered silhouette so familiar, so much a part of her soul. In the distance, a green and gold minaret contrasted with the gothic architecture of a cathedral spire: both insistently pointing the way to God - spirituality a restless undertow to the city’s exotic allure.
The triangular sail stirred in the soft morning breeze and the ancient craft began to wallow through the water, snuffling about the other boats on the harbour - some scurrying, some at anchor, the sea slapping against their wooden hulls, some darting before a brief gust of wind; the lateen sails a bustling panorama of blood-red and sun-bleached white.
Slowly, and once again, deliberately, the woman pulled the tartan shawl thrown carelessly around her shoulders closer; her hands crossing over her breasts, seeking to keep out the cold rather than accept comfort in the shawl’s warmth.
Far out to the east the sun was throwing off splashes of burnt peach, singeing the ragged lavender clouds that clustered above the city skyline. The limestone sea gently heaved to the rhythm of the great ocean swells.
The woman’s eyes returned to the skyline and traced the silhouette to the grand building on the northern shore, Beit-al-Ajaib, the House of Wonders, palace to the great Sultan of Zanzibar - the distinctive architecture captured in the stark tropical light: coconut white outlined by contrasting shadow plays of pepper black; washes of persimmon from the morning sun.
A smile, ever so slight, started to play on the edge of her mouth then disappeared. A memory that should have been fond instantly turned to sharp unbearable pain. Her eyes hardened and moved on, searching the skyline.
Without warning, the dhow lurched to starboard, tacking to avoid another craft on the crowded harbour. The strident swearing of the seaman in Kiswahili stirred up long forgotten memories. Stumbling, the woman barked her shin on a wooden box, a rough-hewn coffin. She instinctively recoiled, knocking over an untidy stack of cane baskets. The rusty cockerels in the baskets squawked indignantly, their scruffy heads straining through the latticework, their beaks opening and shutting like snapping oysters. She looked down at the coffin. It had been carelessly stowed, a chore, rather than a labour of respect or love.
Susan Carey, teacher, lover, spy had returned.
A maharaja’s ruby cast on a Persian carpet by the blackest of hands: the richest of prizes for whoever could hold it.
The woman, standing perfectly still on the deck of the ancient dhow, slowly, deliberately, raised one hand and, cupping it over her eyes, gazed out to the skyline of Stone Town, the heart of Zanzibar; its jagged, cluttered silhouette so familiar, so much a part of her soul. In the distance, a green and gold minaret contrasted with the gothic architecture of a cathedral spire: both insistently pointing the way to God - spirituality a restless undertow to the city’s exotic allure.
The triangular sail stirred in the soft morning breeze and the ancient craft began to wallow through the water, snuffling about the other boats on the harbour - some scurrying, some at anchor, the sea slapping against their wooden hulls, some darting before a brief gust of wind; the lateen sails a bustling panorama of blood-red and sun-bleached white.
Slowly, and once again, deliberately, the woman pulled the tartan shawl thrown carelessly around her shoulders closer; her hands crossing over her breasts, seeking to keep out the cold rather than accept comfort in the shawl’s warmth.
Far out to the east the sun was throwing off splashes of burnt peach, singeing the ragged lavender clouds that clustered above the city skyline. The limestone sea gently heaved to the rhythm of the great ocean swells.
The woman’s eyes returned to the skyline and traced the silhouette to the grand building on the northern shore, Beit-al-Ajaib, the House of Wonders, palace to the great Sultan of Zanzibar - the distinctive architecture captured in the stark tropical light: coconut white outlined by contrasting shadow plays of pepper black; washes of persimmon from the morning sun.
A smile, ever so slight, started to play on the edge of her mouth then disappeared. A memory that should have been fond instantly turned to sharp unbearable pain. Her eyes hardened and moved on, searching the skyline.
Without warning, the dhow lurched to starboard, tacking to avoid another craft on the crowded harbour. The strident swearing of the seaman in Kiswahili stirred up long forgotten memories. Stumbling, the woman barked her shin on a wooden box, a rough-hewn coffin. She instinctively recoiled, knocking over an untidy stack of cane baskets. The rusty cockerels in the baskets squawked indignantly, their scruffy heads straining through the latticework, their beaks opening and shutting like snapping oysters. She looked down at the coffin. It had been carelessly stowed, a chore, rather than a labour of respect or love.
Susan Carey, teacher, lover, spy had returned.
Chapter One
‘Hello, who are you? I am Oliver, is Edward at home?’
The words were spoken by a tall, thin, impeccably dressed young man who had rushed into Edward’s flat, shaking off surplus water and calling for whisky while shoving his umbrella into the stand. It was a blustery, grey, bitterly cold February afternoon in the heart of London. He brushed a curl of soft auburn hair from his forehead and smiled charmingly.
Susan laughed, her hazel eyes dancing with the exhilaration of the new. ‘Yes, he is having a bath. I think he is trying to get warm. I’m Susan, Susan Carey, his sister.’
‘Ahh yes, from Australia. How do you do?’ said Sir Oliver, smiling broadly and offering his hand. He had noticed the laughter in her eyes, and the depth, particularly the depth, intensified by jade flecks that made them striking and alluring. ‘So, you have arrived, good trip I trust.’
‘I am very well thank you, and yes, it was a good trip,’ replied Susan.
He laughed, and looked into the sitting room, ‘whisky?’
‘Oh, I am sorry, please come in…….. that was silly of me, after all, it is your flat.’
Oliver smiled and gestured for Susan to lead the way, then he followed her into the room, helped himself to a generous portion of whisky and walked over to the fire.
Shortly after, Edward, wrapped in a huge ruby coloured dressing gown and wiping soap from his ear, strode into the room. He was a similar in age to Oliver, late twenties, lean with dark hair and a full moustache. Susan looked up and smiled to herself, she could see now where he had picked up some of his new mannerisms. If he were not careful, she thought, he would soon become a clone, hopefully not a parody, of Oliver.
‘Thought I could hear voices. I see you have met, no need for introductions then.’ As he spoke Edward walked to the side table and took the whisky decanter by the neck, he glanced at it, Oliver nodded, a long finger snaked into one of the tumblers and there was the distinctive clink of crystal. He then swept the decanter off the table and carried it to where Oliver was sitting with Susan. After pouring the whisky, he sat back and enjoyed the warm glow as it spread throughout his body. Then he sat up suddenly.
‘Sorry sis, would you like something to drink?’
‘Kind of you to remember, but no thank you, and yes, Oliver had already inquired.’
Edward nodded and sank back into his lounge chair.
They chatted generally. Oliver was intrigued by Susan. An attractive, self-assured young lady, of high intelligence, with a Degree was a rare find. And, as fate would have it, she was also a trained and experienced teacher. He suggested a picnic at Oxford, which was met with ready acquiescence, and arrangements were made for the following Sunday.
‘I’ll see if the Rolls is available,’ mused Oliver. ‘Must ring father, haven’t spoken to him in ages.’
‘Father’, was Sir Winston Marchmaine, and Oliver, , was Sir Oliver Marchmaine, heir apparent; an unaffected young man of intense intelligence who saw life as a great adventure, to be lived to the full. He was also unyieldingly loyal to his country, England, which is why he had joined Military Intelligence on leaving Oxford.
φ
Susan’s eyes were drawn, hesitantly at first, resisting back to Beit-al-Ajaib. She wondered if it was still the same. Still the same centre of power and intrigue that had been so much a part of her life twenty years before; that had defined her life.
She remembered those first few moments ………… the breathtakingly beautiful Persian tapestry hanging in the main foyer of the Palace.
The sea breeze stirred her clothes. She smiled a little sadly, and in her mind the tapestry gently swayed, two small apparitions ran giggling up the stairs: two small exquisitely rich gold burkas disappearing along the first floor landing, childish squeals of mischief and joy left in the air.
‘Move to seaward! You accused of Allah! Move!’
Susan’s thoughts were abruptly pulled back to the dhow. It lurched suddenly as the captain crashed the tiller over. She instinctively ducked as the heavy boom swung over her, narrowly missing her head.
…………. laughing and giggling, girls of seven or eight. A door on the first floor slammed, and all sounds of them disappeared. Silence. Susan smiled, she could see herself, a young woman, dressed plainly, unselfconsciously, her sexuality tantalisingly just out of reach, hidden beneath the thin veil of her clothing. She remembered standing alone in the foyer, looking around, perplexed. Asim came through a door to the left of the tapestry.
‘Salaam.’
Susan started and looked around. Then, realising, was cold again. Alone again. Alone, rocking gently to and fro on the swell of the sea, alone, beside a rough-hewn coffin.
φ
At the appointed hour a Rolls Royce Silver Ghost, driven by a Chauffeur and containing a picnic basket ‘picked up’ at Harrods floated down the road and stopped outside the flat. Susan was in awe of the car’s luxurious interior and readily accepted a glass of champagne. They motored up to Oxford through the English countryside where the drab colours of winter were just beginning to be overwhelmed by the insistent freshness of spring, the sun washing through the billowing grey cumulus in great shafts of light.
They wandered along the banks of the Thames and idly watched the punts drifting on the river while they waited for the picnic to be set out by the chauffeur. Oliver pointed out where the rowing regattas took place and informed them that the Thames was called the Isis at Oxford.
‘Did you go to Oxford, Oliver?’ inquired Susan.
‘Yes, I took a first in Classics,’ replied Oliver.
‘What do you do now?’ asked Susan, who then quickly corrected herself, ‘I am sorry. I did not mean to intrude.’
‘Oh, that is all right. I am in the army.’ Oliver gave this information with a charming smile.
‘He is a Lieutenant-Colonel,’ added Edward. ‘He looks quite spiffing in his uniform.’
The chauffeur let them know that the picnic was ready. They were soon seated on tartan rugs and enjoying a sumptuous lunch, complete with vintage champagne served in long stemmed crystal glasses. Susan talked of her interest in Africa and especially Zanzibar. She said that she particularly hoped to travel there while she was living in England. Sir Oliver was most interested in her passion for Zanzibar. He seemed to know a lot about the place. As they took a last walk for the day along the Thames he told Susan that he knew of some slides that had been taken by a friend of his while in Africa, and would she like to see them. Her face became animated. It was decided that she and Edward would accompany Oliver to his friend’s flat for dinner one evening next week.
φ
Susan smiled to acknowledge Asim’s greeting. His eyes looked directly at her from the folds of an impossibly white kufiyya; a peregrine falcon: lean, intense, beautiful, with a hunter’s gaze.
‘You were sent by Sir Edward Clark?’ asked Asim.
The question was asked directly, merely to ascertain the relevant information. He did not respond to her femininity. Did not glance. She remembered, allowed herself to remember. The counterpoint between the masculine and the feminine was missing. Something in him, that part of him, had withered to the point of extinction. She did not know then, that was to be part of her journey.
‘Yes, my name is Susan, Susan Carey. I am the teacher.’
‘Yes. Pleased to meet you, Miss Carey. My name is Asim abd –al-Aziz. You will please follow me.’
Asim turned and walked over to a white marble staircase. Susan remained standing at the door. She had a bag either side of her – two large carpetbags made of a dour tartan canvas with large rounded leather handles worn to a dull buff colour, where time, sweat and constant use had taken their toll. A parting gift from her father, “Take them, they were part of my travels, now they will be part of yours”, a fleeting, fond memory. She began to stoop to pick up the bags.
‘Leave them. The servants will take them to your room. The Sultan is waiting. Come.’
Asim waited as Susan walked over the rich mosaic of tiles to the staircase. He then walked up the staircase to the first floor balcony, turned to see that Susan had followed, walked to a smaller wooden staircase that led to the third floor then stopped. Once again he turned. He then walked down a corridor to where two guards, in immaculate white uniforms, gold handled scimitars buckled to their side, stood either side of another set of huge double doors. The guards opened the doors. Asim stood to one side and ushered Susan into the next room, the waiting room to the Sultan of Zanzibar’s audience chamber. On the opposite side of the room, a rotund and sweating man dressed in a huge tomato-red caftan, edged in gold braid, sat at a large ornately carved wooden desk. He was busy typing on an ancient typewriter and did not look up. The desk was completely clear except for the typewriter and an ivory telephone. He was wearing a black fez and occasionally mopped his face with an enormous white handkerchief.
‘We will wait here,’ said Asim.
Susan stopped and looked around the room. It was sparse, yet every feature spoke of immense wealth.
The telephone rang, once. The man at the typewriter picked up the hand piece and listened for a few seconds. He mumbled some words in Arabic into the mouthpiece and then carefully placed it back on the cradle. He glanced over to Asim.
‘We are to go in.’ Asim said, without expression and without glancing at Susan.
Asim walked towards the door to the right of the desk – a large, heavy door, ornately carved, with gold and mother-of-pearl inlaid throughout the intricate design. He stopped at the door and turned back.
‘Please come over here and be ready.’
Susan walked over and stood behind him. He knocked once on the door. A guard opened it from within. Asim strode through and stopped after three paces, he raised his hand to his forehead.
‘Salaam, Your Highness. Miss Susan Carey, the teacher sent by Sir Edward Clark is here.’ His voice was impassive.
‘Leave them. The servants will take them to your room. The Sultan is waiting. Come.’
Asim waited as Susan walked over the rich mosaic of tiles to the staircase. He then walked up the staircase to the first floor balcony, turned to see that Susan had followed, walked to a smaller wooden staircase that led to the third floor then stopped. Once again he turned. He then walked down a corridor to where two guards, in immaculate white uniforms, gold handled scimitars buckled to their side, stood either side of another set of huge double doors. The guards opened the doors. Asim stood to one side and ushered Susan into the next room, the waiting room to the Sultan of Zanzibar’s audience chamber. On the opposite side of the room, a rotund and sweating man dressed in a huge tomato-red caftan, edged in gold braid, sat at a large ornately carved wooden desk. He was busy typing on an ancient typewriter and did not look up. The desk was completely clear except for the typewriter and an ivory telephone. He was wearing a black fez and occasionally mopped his face with an enormous white handkerchief.
‘We will wait here,’ said Asim.
Susan stopped and looked around the room. It was sparse, yet every feature spoke of immense wealth.
The telephone rang, once. The man at the typewriter picked up the hand piece and listened for a few seconds. He mumbled some words in Arabic into the mouthpiece and then carefully placed it back on the cradle. He glanced over to Asim.
‘We are to go in.’ Asim said, without expression and without glancing at Susan.
Asim walked towards the door to the right of the desk – a large, heavy door, ornately carved, with gold and mother-of-pearl inlaid throughout the intricate design. He stopped at the door and turned back.
‘Please come over here and be ready.’
Susan walked over and stood behind him. He knocked once on the door. A guard opened it from within. Asim strode through and stopped after three paces, he raised his hand to his forehead.
‘Salaam, Your Highness. Miss Susan Carey, the teacher sent by Sir Edward Clark is here.’ His voice was impassive.
φ
They arrived at the flat just on dusk the next Thursday. Sir Oliver’s friend, Lord Cavendish stood to greet them as they were ushered in. He was just past middle age, a large man, florid, with craggy distinct features. Soon they were enjoying an simple but elegantly served meal while Lord Cavendish recounted his exploits in Africa. Susan glanced at Edward several times, he could read the delight in her eyes. After dessert, they adjourned to the sitting room where the slide projector had been set up.
‘I heard that you were particularly interested in Zanzibar, Susan, so I have concentrated most of the slides on the time I spent there,’ said Lord Cavendish. ‘I was lucky enough to be introduced to the Sultan by the British Consul General, Sir Edward Clark, who is an old school friend. The Sultan attached his chief aide, Asim abd-al-aziz to escort me. Although I am not sure if it was, indeed, more to keep an eye on me. Still, on with the show! Susan, this is a picture of the old Stone Town. It has a history stretching back over a thousand years, but most of the stone buildings you see were built last century.’
Susan watched the slides enraptured. She yearned to go there, to feel the air, to be a part of the life of that ancient and exotic city; to immerse herself.
Lord Cavendish and Sir Oliver watched Susan with interest. They encouraged her questions and ensured that Edward had sufficient port and cigars not to notice that they drank very little and were paying, perhaps, a little more attention to Susan than decorum and good manners dictated.
After Susan and Edward had departed, Lord Cavendish and Sir Oliver adjourned to the study, poured themselves a whisky and sat down on an ancient and worn, green leather couch opposite the fireplace. The fire crackled and danced on the hot coals, the black acrid smoke drawing up the chimney in the updraft. The two men sat in silence, contemplating the flames and enjoying the excellent whisky.
‘What do you think, Freddie?’ inquired Sir Oliver.
‘I think she would do quite nicely. She is intelligent, has an obviously genuine interest, and the right qualifications to take on the role of a teacher. It’s a bit of luck that the Sultan insists that his children are given an English education. I hope that a teacher from the colonies will not be questioned. Still, worth a try.’
Sir Oliver smiled.
‘Yes, definitely ‘worth a try’, I would say,’ agreed Sir Oliver, in a thoughtful voice. ‘I am, however, worried that we will be sending her in to some danger. I feel as if I am imposing on the friendship of her brother.’
‘Nonsense. We are talking about some minor skirmish to get low-grade background information. She will not be required to do any real spying. Shouldn’t think they will shoot her, you know.’
Sir Oliver winced a little.
‘This is not a joking matter, Freddie.’
‘Didn’t say it was. It will be useful and I dare say she would enjoy it. She seems awfully keen on the place. I found it hot and full of mosquitoes and red-faced monkeys. Still! Another whisky, old man, before I depart?’
‘Yes, thankyou.’ Sir Oliver held out his glass to Lord Cavendish, who proceeded to pour two generous fingers of single malt Macallam into each glass. ‘Who should recruit her, do you think?’ Sir Oliver continued. ‘It will be tricky. She won’t be able to tell her brother, I’m sure he would bundle her back to Australia on the next steamer. It will have to be you Freddie, I will arrange a luncheon next week. That should give you time to clear the matter higher up.’
‘I think it should be the both of us. Arrange that luncheon and I will tackle the big brothers,’ replied Lord Cavendish.
φ
‘Where, precisely, may I ask?’
The inquiry came from the back of the room in a rich, deep baritone, speaking clearly of culture and breeding. It had the distinctive elocution of Eton and Cambridge, where the Sultan had been educated. It was a voice used to command. There was more than a hint of amusement in the voice.
‘I am sorry, Your Highness.’
Asim turned around and beckoned to Susan, who had remained standing on the other side of the doors, unsure, hesitant.
‘Come.’
She walked into the room and stood beside Asim. The Sultan was standing before an open window which gave a panoramic view over the harbour. He was dressed in the white robes of an Omani Sultan. His distinctive headcloth, the kufiyya, was made of exquisitely fine cotton held in place by coils of gold rope, the agal. His smile was relaxed and urbane as he walked over to greet Susan. Like Asim, he had the sharp features of a falcon, but they were softer, more open. Susan, incongruously, noticed that his teeth were immaculate. His eyes were dark, intelligent and sparkled with humour.
‘I am so pleased to meet you, Miss Carey, please have a seat. Tea?’
The Sultan indicated two richly upholstered chairs standing either side of a delicate oval table. The table was positioned opposite a pair of French doors, opened to allow a soft sea breeze to wash through the room. Susan was enchanted by the panorama set out before her: by the exotic tropical landscape; by the unique architecture and lines of Stone Town; by the deep-water harbour with its wharves and cranes; by the myriad dhows, up to two thousand, darting and jostling on the water. There was movement, and colour and sound and smell; it was alive.
The Sultan waited for Susan to be seated before walking around to the seat opposite.
He gestured to the harbour. ‘It is beautiful, is it not?’ There was a strong note of pride in his voice. ‘There is history here which goes back nearly two thousand years. My people, the Omani, have ruled here for fourteen hundred years. Do you like children, Miss Carey?’
The question came abruptly, taking Susan by surprise.
‘Why, yes.’ She replied.
‘Why did you choose to take the position?’ The Sultan asked the question as he beckoned a servant to place the tea tray on the table between the chairs. Before Susan could reply, the Sultan smiled charmingly and asked, ‘Milk and sugar, or lemon? The tea is of exception quality; I suggest lemon.’
‘Lemon, please.’
‘Good!’ The Sultan then spoke in rapid Arabic to the servant who started to prepare the teacups.
‘Please try some of this sweet, it will prepare your palate for the tea.’ The Sutlan picked up a silver platter on which richly coloured sweets had been meticulously arranged, and offered it to Susan.
‘Thank you,’ she replied, as she selected a blue sweet lightly dusted in sugar powder.
‘The British think they invented the ceremony of tea. I often chide Sir Edward, as he sits in that chair and enjoys my hospitality, I tell him that we Arabs have been enjoying tea since before your forebears came to bring us civilisation at the point of a sword. He seems to indicate it had been a regrettable lapse of etiquette on the part of his forebears. We have most agreeable afternoon teas. What do you think of the tea Miss Carey? Is not the lemon more refreshing?’
Susan sipped her tea from an exquisitely fine, solid-gold teacup. ‘I am enjoying it, thank you,’ she replied.
‘Where were we, ah yes…… ‘why do you like children?’. Do you come from a large family? I have eight children. They are a delight! Yes, all of them.’
‘I have two brothers and one sister. I am the eldest girl. One of my brothers is older than me, he is currently a resident at Guys Hospital in London. The youngest is still at University studying engineering. My sister has just returned from Paris where she studied design under Paul Poiret.’
‘A Doctor! Your parents must be proud of him. You are a teacher I see. A very well qualified teacher.’
‘Thank you. I gained my degree in history and linguistics. I then qualified as a teacher. Yes, I love children and I care passionately about them. They place their trust entirely in your hands. I could not let them down.’
‘I am so pleased. Thank you. Asim will take you to Princess Khalida, who will show you to your rooms. Goodbye Miss Carey. It has been a pleasure to meet you.’
The Sultan placed his teacup back on its saucer and stood up. Susan put her unfinished cup on the table. The Sultan smiled. She stood up and walked around to Asim who turned and led the way back through the doors. The two guards softly closed the doors.
They arrived at the flat just on dusk the next Thursday. Sir Oliver’s friend, Lord Cavendish stood to greet them as they were ushered in. He was just past middle age, a large man, florid, with craggy distinct features. Soon they were enjoying an simple but elegantly served meal while Lord Cavendish recounted his exploits in Africa. Susan glanced at Edward several times, he could read the delight in her eyes. After dessert, they adjourned to the sitting room where the slide projector had been set up.
‘I heard that you were particularly interested in Zanzibar, Susan, so I have concentrated most of the slides on the time I spent there,’ said Lord Cavendish. ‘I was lucky enough to be introduced to the Sultan by the British Consul General, Sir Edward Clark, who is an old school friend. The Sultan attached his chief aide, Asim abd-al-aziz to escort me. Although I am not sure if it was, indeed, more to keep an eye on me. Still, on with the show! Susan, this is a picture of the old Stone Town. It has a history stretching back over a thousand years, but most of the stone buildings you see were built last century.’
Susan watched the slides enraptured. She yearned to go there, to feel the air, to be a part of the life of that ancient and exotic city; to immerse herself.
Lord Cavendish and Sir Oliver watched Susan with interest. They encouraged her questions and ensured that Edward had sufficient port and cigars not to notice that they drank very little and were paying, perhaps, a little more attention to Susan than decorum and good manners dictated.
After Susan and Edward had departed, Lord Cavendish and Sir Oliver adjourned to the study, poured themselves a whisky and sat down on an ancient and worn, green leather couch opposite the fireplace. The fire crackled and danced on the hot coals, the black acrid smoke drawing up the chimney in the updraft. The two men sat in silence, contemplating the flames and enjoying the excellent whisky.
‘What do you think, Freddie?’ inquired Sir Oliver.
‘I think she would do quite nicely. She is intelligent, has an obviously genuine interest, and the right qualifications to take on the role of a teacher. It’s a bit of luck that the Sultan insists that his children are given an English education. I hope that a teacher from the colonies will not be questioned. Still, worth a try.’
Sir Oliver smiled.
‘Yes, definitely ‘worth a try’, I would say,’ agreed Sir Oliver, in a thoughtful voice. ‘I am, however, worried that we will be sending her in to some danger. I feel as if I am imposing on the friendship of her brother.’
‘Nonsense. We are talking about some minor skirmish to get low-grade background information. She will not be required to do any real spying. Shouldn’t think they will shoot her, you know.’
Sir Oliver winced a little.
‘This is not a joking matter, Freddie.’
‘Didn’t say it was. It will be useful and I dare say she would enjoy it. She seems awfully keen on the place. I found it hot and full of mosquitoes and red-faced monkeys. Still! Another whisky, old man, before I depart?’
‘Yes, thankyou.’ Sir Oliver held out his glass to Lord Cavendish, who proceeded to pour two generous fingers of single malt Macallam into each glass. ‘Who should recruit her, do you think?’ Sir Oliver continued. ‘It will be tricky. She won’t be able to tell her brother, I’m sure he would bundle her back to Australia on the next steamer. It will have to be you Freddie, I will arrange a luncheon next week. That should give you time to clear the matter higher up.’
‘I think it should be the both of us. Arrange that luncheon and I will tackle the big brothers,’ replied Lord Cavendish.
φ
‘Where, precisely, may I ask?’
The inquiry came from the back of the room in a rich, deep baritone, speaking clearly of culture and breeding. It had the distinctive elocution of Eton and Cambridge, where the Sultan had been educated. It was a voice used to command. There was more than a hint of amusement in the voice.
‘I am sorry, Your Highness.’
Asim turned around and beckoned to Susan, who had remained standing on the other side of the doors, unsure, hesitant.
‘Come.’
She walked into the room and stood beside Asim. The Sultan was standing before an open window which gave a panoramic view over the harbour. He was dressed in the white robes of an Omani Sultan. His distinctive headcloth, the kufiyya, was made of exquisitely fine cotton held in place by coils of gold rope, the agal. His smile was relaxed and urbane as he walked over to greet Susan. Like Asim, he had the sharp features of a falcon, but they were softer, more open. Susan, incongruously, noticed that his teeth were immaculate. His eyes were dark, intelligent and sparkled with humour.
‘I am so pleased to meet you, Miss Carey, please have a seat. Tea?’
The Sultan indicated two richly upholstered chairs standing either side of a delicate oval table. The table was positioned opposite a pair of French doors, opened to allow a soft sea breeze to wash through the room. Susan was enchanted by the panorama set out before her: by the exotic tropical landscape; by the unique architecture and lines of Stone Town; by the deep-water harbour with its wharves and cranes; by the myriad dhows, up to two thousand, darting and jostling on the water. There was movement, and colour and sound and smell; it was alive.
The Sultan waited for Susan to be seated before walking around to the seat opposite.
He gestured to the harbour. ‘It is beautiful, is it not?’ There was a strong note of pride in his voice. ‘There is history here which goes back nearly two thousand years. My people, the Omani, have ruled here for fourteen hundred years. Do you like children, Miss Carey?’
The question came abruptly, taking Susan by surprise.
‘Why, yes.’ She replied.
‘Why did you choose to take the position?’ The Sultan asked the question as he beckoned a servant to place the tea tray on the table between the chairs. Before Susan could reply, the Sultan smiled charmingly and asked, ‘Milk and sugar, or lemon? The tea is of exception quality; I suggest lemon.’
‘Lemon, please.’
‘Good!’ The Sultan then spoke in rapid Arabic to the servant who started to prepare the teacups.
‘Please try some of this sweet, it will prepare your palate for the tea.’ The Sutlan picked up a silver platter on which richly coloured sweets had been meticulously arranged, and offered it to Susan.
‘Thank you,’ she replied, as she selected a blue sweet lightly dusted in sugar powder.
‘The British think they invented the ceremony of tea. I often chide Sir Edward, as he sits in that chair and enjoys my hospitality, I tell him that we Arabs have been enjoying tea since before your forebears came to bring us civilisation at the point of a sword. He seems to indicate it had been a regrettable lapse of etiquette on the part of his forebears. We have most agreeable afternoon teas. What do you think of the tea Miss Carey? Is not the lemon more refreshing?’
Susan sipped her tea from an exquisitely fine, solid-gold teacup. ‘I am enjoying it, thank you,’ she replied.
‘Where were we, ah yes…… ‘why do you like children?’. Do you come from a large family? I have eight children. They are a delight! Yes, all of them.’
‘I have two brothers and one sister. I am the eldest girl. One of my brothers is older than me, he is currently a resident at Guys Hospital in London. The youngest is still at University studying engineering. My sister has just returned from Paris where she studied design under Paul Poiret.’
‘A Doctor! Your parents must be proud of him. You are a teacher I see. A very well qualified teacher.’
‘Thank you. I gained my degree in history and linguistics. I then qualified as a teacher. Yes, I love children and I care passionately about them. They place their trust entirely in your hands. I could not let them down.’
‘I am so pleased. Thank you. Asim will take you to Princess Khalida, who will show you to your rooms. Goodbye Miss Carey. It has been a pleasure to meet you.’
The Sultan placed his teacup back on its saucer and stood up. Susan put her unfinished cup on the table. The Sultan smiled. She stood up and walked around to Asim who turned and led the way back through the doors. The two guards softly closed the doors.
Copyright Graeme Mills Australia All Rights Reserved Not to be copied
