Operation Scheherazade
by Sinbad
Chapter 10
The rest of the week passed much like it began. Ricky said goodbye to his father each morning and then was left alone in the house all morning. At lunchtime Maureen turned up in his father's car and took him to the hotel swimming pool for the afternoon. And usually his father joined them there at some point in the afternoon.
The biggest hotel in Amman was the Jordan Intercontinental, Al Urdan in Arabic. A tall structure typical of good hotels the world over, this one had an open-air swimming pool at the back, surrounded by lawns and patio areas, tables and chairs, so that guests could enjoy the amenity any way they liked. The pool, and the hotel behind it, enjoyed a superb position overlooking Djebel el-Webdeh across the valley, and the valley itself with its herds of goats and the Bedouin tents that dotted the valley sides, providing permanent accommodation for some of the goatherds and stonemasons.
The mornings were not much fun for him. He wandered around the house, bored and lonely. He missed his friends, and his mother, and especially he missed Chris. On the third morning he walked right to the end of the long straight road opposite the house, to the grocery shop where you could buy almost anything. And he bought a bottle of Seven-Up and an ice cream on a stick, and licked at the ice cream as he walked home. Most shopkeepers spoke good English, but the elderly man who served in this particular shop didn't understand if you spoke to him in English so Ricky had to manage in Arabic. He could do simple shopping in Arabic, but you really only needed to be able to say Hello, and Thank you, and numbers, and he could do that okay.
If the mornings were irksome, the afternoons were tense and stressful. Maureen started trying to make friends with him and although she was being perfectly nice, Ricky couldn't bring himself to respond. It seemed somehow disloyal to his mother, and Ricky was fiercely loyal to his mother. The idea of his father wanting to marry Maureen seemed all wrong. Ricky asked her how old she was and she told him, twenty-one. That made her older than most of the VSO's, who were usually nineteen or twenty, but it made her fourteen years younger than his father, and just nine years older than Ricky. No, it didn't seem right at all. And it gave him a queasy feeling in his stomach to think of it. He tried not to.
Before the war he'd always enjoyed the afternoons at the pool. He would usually be with a group of five or six friends and they'd play in the pool or on the lawn below it, and when they got tired they would lie out for a few minutes on the hot stone slabs of the pool surround, the water from their bodies sizzling as it was absorbed by the dusty dry stonework. Now, however, he was the only child at the pool and it was very quiet. Even the lifeguard wasn't on permanent duty. Ricky liked the lifeguard; some years before, he'd been taught to swim the quick way by him. Ricky had been playing in the shallow end of the pool and swimming confidently under water, and above water with one toe ready to touch bottom in case of emergency, for some months, and the lifeguard had watched him with a growing realisation that Ricky could swim but didn't know it. So one day he picked him up under his arms and threw him into the deep end. Ricky came to the surface spluttering, and swam competently to the side, and the lifeguard held out a hand to haul him out. Ricky came out beaming all over his face, having realised that he'd swum, in the deep end. And he'd never looked back.
On the third day of the holiday, his father joined them at the pool a little later than usual and announced that at the weekend they would join some other Council staff to go on a picnic expedition to Ajlun forest. So that became something to look forward to. And Ricky decided it was time he asked his father about the Hill Climb motor racing.
“Dad, is the Hill Climb on this year?”
“I should think so, Ricky, why wouldn't it be?”
“Well, the war...”
“Everything else is pretty much back to normal, and the King is very keen, so I expect it'll be on as usual. Why?”
“Can we go? I've never been and it'd be great to go, just us two!”
He thought perhaps he'd blown it, thought his father would insist on taking Maureen, but in the end Roger just said “Well, I don't know. I think it's in about two weeks' time. I'll have to see if we can get spectator tickets. I'm not promising anything, though!”
Ricky smiled and walked off, deeming it inappropriate to look too pleased in case his father got suspicious. He wanted to keep his mission from Mr Farquharson secret even from his father if he could.
Saturday arrived and Maureen turned up, on foot this time. Ricky wondered where she lived. Roger was organising the picnic and helping Mohammed pack supplies into a big wicker basket, and Ricky was out on his balcony watching the city across the valley. Roger found him there and gave him a job to do.
“The washing machine's finished. Will you just empty it and hang the washing on the line?”
Ricky didn't mind hanging the washing out, because it was like a magic trick. The heat in Jordan is so dry that moisture is sucked out of fabric very quickly. And out of sandwiches, which curl up almost instantly. Ricky took the basket of washing to the line at the side of the house that ran from one of the pine trees to a hook on the wall of the garage. And he began pegging items along the line. It took him about half an hour to get everything pegged out, and he went straight back to the start of the line and began taking things down, bone dry. It was a party trick his mother used to tell new visitors to the country about, and Ricky never bored of experiencing the power of the sun and the dry wind.
By the time he'd finished and brought the dry laundry in, the picnic provisions were in the boot of the Land Rover and Roger and Maureen were ready to go, with sun hats and sunglasses and cameras and all the usual paraphernalia. And the other members of the party arrived in a second Land Rover, and they climbed into theirs and left in convoy. It's a longish journey up to the extreme north of the country, where the temperatures are much cooler and the landscape is greener, and Ajlun forest is gloriously cool and perfect for a weekend picnic party towards the end of the summer when everyone's sick of the unrelenting heat.
Roger and Maureen sat in the front seats, leaving the back seat to Ricky, who sat quietly, daydreaming, on the long journey north. They arrived at noon, the vehicle interior sweltering despite all the windows being open, and engaged four wheel drive in order to negotiate the forest track which took them steeply upwards into the wooded slopes of the forest. And they came to a clearing on the brow of a ridge where the forest was thinner, and from where you had a magnificent view over the lush green valley below. Roger pointed out the monastery vineyards, row after row of vines growing along wire fence-like supports. And they set out the picnic, on travel rugs. To Ricky's frustration, the adults ate and then lay out and slept. Ricky had no desire to sleep of course, and would have liked at least one of the adults to accompany him on an exploration of the forest. But very soon they were all asleep, so he headed off on his own. Like all forests in Jordan, Ajlun forest is deathly quiet. There are no bird sounds because there are no birds. And except during the brief winter season, the wind is no more than a gentle breeze, not strong enough to rustle the pine needles. And the trees are all pines, mostly the long-needled dark green Corsican Pine with the big cones and sticky sap which boils out of the bark in the scorching sun. The result is a fragrant, pine-scented forest, carpeted to a depth of two or three inches in pine needles and cones, soft and springy under foot. No undergrowth, just a uniform carpet of brown pine needles. Despite the minimal breeze, the forest is cool, even cooler than Ajlun valley. So although it's a long drive from Amman, everyone considers it worthwhile.
Ricky wandered deeper into the forest, keeping to the brow of the ridge so that he would be able to find his way back again. He loved the forest, loved the quiet and the cool and the pine resin smells. The carpet of pine needles on the ground was occasionally broken by an outcrop of rock which he could enjoy clambering over, sure-footed like the goats that were very much in evidence, their droppings all over the place and an occasional goat voice calling from the distance. After he had walked half an hour he came out of the forest onto a rocky open patch of land that spread away from him down the hillside. And there were olive trees scattered across this area, and beneath each tree a group of goats was sheltering from the midday sun. The goatherd, a young boy not much older than Ricky, dressed in the long flowing robe of a Bedouin and a dusty keffir head-dress, squatted under the deep shade cast by one of these trees, with a long stick across his knees, and idly practised firing stones from his catapult at a tin can balanced on a rock. He wasn't very good, the can stayed put, shot after shot.
Ricky walked up and called “Mar-hhaba!” hello. And received the polite response “Mar-hhab-tein”. After which he had little else he could say. So he made do with smiling, the international language of friendship. And shortly the goatherd handed his catapult to Ricky, still smiling and with a twinkle in his deep brown eyes that said without words “You have a go. I bet you can't do any better than me!” - and of course Ricky took up the challenge. After several attempts it was clear that his aim was no better than that of the catapult's owner and they both got a fit of the giggles. Ricky took a packet of Polo mints from his pocket and after peeling back the silver paper wrapping, offered a mint to his new friend.
“La, Shukran.” No, thank you. But Ricky knew enough about local etiquette to know better. He offered again, and got the same response. And after a decent interval he offered a third time, and the young Jordanian, out of sight of any adult who might have chastised him for rudely accepting before the third offer, accepted a mint eagerly. Ricky was impressed by the other boy's good manners. You don't accept a gift from a stranger unless you are offered it three times, which shows the offer is really intended, and not just an offer made out of courtesy, in hope that it won't be accepted.
The sucked at their mints together in silence. One of the goats came over to investigate and began to nibble at Ricky's shorts, which set the two boys off giggling again. Ricky gave his friend another mint and got up to leave. He said his goodbye and held out his hand to be shaken. The goatherd took it, but pulled Ricky to him into a hug, and kissed him on both cheeks before letting him go. Ricky blushed, embarrassed, but smiled broadly as he waved goodbye and headed back into the woods to make his way back to the picnic site. As he walked he pondered his own British unease at displays of emotion or affection. It was entirely appropriate to say goodbye with a hug and two kisses, he'd seen Jordanian men do it many times. But his British reserve made him uncomfortable and awkward. He hoped the goatherd hadn't picked up on his discomfort and thought him rude.
When he got back to the picnic, the adults were awake and his father, on catching sight of him, crossly demanded “Where ever did you get to? I was worried sick!”
Ricky was taken aback. His father didn't usually worry about him that way; he was used to wandering from home all around Djebel el-Webdeh and his father never worried. So why now? But he knew better than to ask. “Sorry, Dad, I just walked along the ridge for a way. I met a boy with some goats and he let me try his catapult. I wasn't very good.”
“Well, don't wander out of earshot again.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Sorry, son, but I'm responsible for you now your mother's not here, and I worry. Oh, before I forget – I got tickets for the Hill Climb. Pleased?”
“Oh, yes, Dad, that's brill. I'm going to take my autograph book.”
“Well, don't pester anybody, they won't like it.”
“I won't.”
“Good boy. Now, help me lug the picnic stuff back into the Land Rover.”
They each took one side of the big wicker basket and carried it towards the car. They dropped the basket in surprise when they heard the sound of running and a young voice calling “English, English!”
Ricky recognised the goatherd, now arrived and holding him by the shoulder and talking fast in Arabic. As he spoke he gestured back the way he had come and clearly had something important to communicate. But neither Ricky or his father could understand him. Roger gestured to his son and said “Don't let him go. I'm going to get help!”
One of the other members of the picnic party was a language specialist and Roger brought him and stood him in front of the boy, who began his explanation again, with lots of arm-waving as before. The language expert spoke a few words in Arabic and the boy looked disappointed and then tried again, slower and louder. Eventually after several interruptions and more gesturing the boy looked back at Ricky and smiled shyly. Ricky looked at the language expert and the language expert looked at Roger. So it was Roger who spoke.
“Well, what did he say?”
“Its a bit rum. He says he met your boy under an olive tree? Just a few minutes ago? And he says after your son left him and went back into the forest, he saw a man following him and he says it was a bad man but I can't get out of him what he means by that. And he ran around the other way to warn you about this bad man. I'm sorry, my Arabic is classical Arabic and this lad speaks with a thick regional accent and it's really difficult to understand him.”
Roger caught hold of his son. “Ricky, did you see this man? Have you been up to anything you shouldn't have? Best tell me, son, so we can get this sorted out.”
“I didn't see him, Dad – and no I haven't done anything wrong. I walked out of the woodland into this field and he let me try his catapult, and I gave him a polo mint and then I came back. That's all that happened. Honest.”
Roger looked hard at his son. “I believe you. So there's a bad man, according to this lad, around. We're going home now anyway, but while we're packing I want you to get in the Land Rover and stay there with the doors locked from the inside. Okay?”
“Okay, Dad.” Ricky went right up to the goatherd and hugged him. He had no idea if it was appropriate behaviour or whether it would be acceptable, but it felt right. And after patting him on the back and breaking the hug he said “Shukran, shukran!” Thank you, thank you.
The Arab boy smiled broadly and held out a hand to be shaken. So Ricky shook it, wondering if this was what he should have done instead of the hug, but both boys continued smiling and nodding to each other, until the goatherd turned and walked off, presumably to round up his goats which would probably have wandered in his absence.
Ricky was happy to get in the vehicle following his father's instruction, with Mr Farquharson's warning in mind. Should he tell his father, now, about his mission? He thought about it as he sat in the back seat of the car. How likely was it that this prowler had anything to do with the message? The more he thought about it the less likely it seemed. How could this man have known they would travel all this way out today? And why hadn't he made his move in Amman? Eventually Ricky became convinced that the man the goatherd had seen was just a local rogue who might try his luck demanding money.
And if he was right about that, there was no need to talk to his father, because the danger would end when they left Ajlun. He began to relax a little. When his father and Maureen got into the front seat and the convoy moved off down the slope back to the road, he breathed easier. And by the time they were bowling along on a tarmac road he was quite at ease once more.
The journey home was uneventful from Ricky's point of view; he slid down and curled up on the seat squab and slept most of the way.