Operation Scheherazade
by Sinbad
Chapter 9
Term dragged. It seemed that each day lasted forever. The best part of the day was usually lying in bed after lights out. You could be alone with your thoughts if the various noises emanating from the other beds in the dorm didn't put you off too much. Ricky looked forward to bedtime, when he could lie thinking about going home, home to Amman and his father. And by now, in the last weeks of term, he was no longer sobbing into his pillow with homesickness. Instead he was buoyed up with anticipation of the adventure ahead.
Chris, in School house, was also looking forward to the end of term but with a tinge of regret that he wasn't going with Ricky. It was hard to be happy for Ricky when he was going to be excluded from this big adventure, but out of friendship Chris tried hard never to let Ricky see his jealousy.
Eventually the end of term approached. The boys' trunks were brought back from storage and they found them placed at the end of the bed when they came back to the boarding house after school. They were to pack all their clothes and other possessions into their trunks ready for inspection the following day, and the boys set to the task with a willingness that told more about their enthusiasm for the end of term than it did about their aptitude for packing.
It was also the day of the finals of the inter-house cricket tournament so any packing not completed by lunchtime had to wait till the evening. The junior final was to be a match between Maze Green House and School House, and the senior final was between School House and Jefferson House. Ricky and Chris were both in their house junior teams so they were playing against each other.
School House batted first and acquitted themselves well. At the end of their innings Chris ran up to Ricky, gripped his arm and hissed “Stick man's here. Look at the far end of the row of spectators on the pavilion side.”
Ricky looked, but couldn't make out Mr Danvers at that distance. He thanked Chris, who followed his team-mates out to bowl, and Ricky had some time on his hands since he was eighth man to bat. He wandered down the line of spectators until he was near enough to be sure that indeed this was their Stick man, and then he joined the line of parents and siblings watching the game and thought for a moment what it would be best to do. Mr Danvers would have the message for him to take to the King and would have to find a way to pass it to him. Perhaps he could take the initiative.
So, boldly and with every indication of delight he bounded straight up to the tall thin man who was still wearing his long flappy trenchcoat and called out for all to hear “Hello Uncle Charlie! You never said you were coming!”
Mr Danvers recovered from the shock quickly, to his credit, and smiled in return and gave Ricky a hug that felt like he was being hugged by a tree.
“I thought I'd come along and see if you've inherited my cricketing skills or your father's. And I've brought you some stuff for your holiday and for on the journey. Here.”
And he passed a paper bag to Ricky, a bag like the ones you get in a sweet shop. Ricky opened the folded mouth of the bag and peered in. There was a big bar of Fruit and Nut chocolate, a puzzle book, a packet of Jelly Babies, and an envelope marked 'Dinars'. He looked up at Mr Danvers, straining his neck to do so at close distance, and smiled a quizzical smile that he hoped might say 'thanks, but what's all this for?'
Much more quietly than the first part of their conversation, Mr Danvers replied to his unspoken question. “If you want something to go un-noticed, hide it among a lot of insignificant things. There's a hundred Dinars in the envelope, various denominations. It's your spending money for the holiday. But don't spend the one with the writing on, will you? That's the one you give to the King.”
“Okay. Thank you. A hundred Dinars! I've never had that much money!”
“Well, it should help you enjoy the holiday then. And it's a thank-you from us for doing this.”
“Brill. Thank you and please say thank you to Mr Farquharson for me.”
“I will. Now, go back and join your team-mates. I'll watch the rest of the match and then go. You can come and give me a hug to say goodbye at the end of the match and then I'll go.”
“Okay, Uncle Charlie!” - and Ricky ran back along the line, carrying his bag of goodies. He put it safely in his locker in the pavilion before rejoining his team-mates waiting to go out to bat and watched as his team were soundly thrashed by School House. At the end of the game Chris came off the field beaming with delight and Ricky congratulated him gamely.
“Come and say goodbye to my Uncle Charlie – he's got to go straight away.” Chris looked startled, knowing Ricky didn't have any Uncles, let alone a Charlie.
“Come on – it's all right, you'll see!”
So Chris trotted after Ricky as he bounded back down the field to where Mr Danvers was waiting impatiently.
Ricky got back into character. He ran at Mr Danvers and gave him an enthusiastic nephew's hug. “Goodbye Uncle Charlie, come and see me again soon!”
“I surely will, young Ricky. Nice to see you're settling into your new school. And who's this?”
“That's my best friend, Chris. We were friends in Jordan and now he's at the same school as me. Isn't that great?”
“It certainly is. Good to meet you, young man.” - and he stepped forward to shake hands with Chris.
Chris knew his manners. “Nice to meet you, Mr....” “Taylor. I'm his Dad's brother.” Mr Danvers filled in.
“Nice to meet you Mr Taylor.” Chris repeated.
“Well boys, now I really must be going. I'm expected home to tea. Look after yourselves!”
The boys stood and watched as he strode long-legged off the field to the gravel car parking area. He turned and waved and they waved back, and then headed back up the field to the pavilion to change. Ricky explained to Chris that he had the message for the King, and that it was on a banknote hidden in the middle of no less than one hundred Dinars. Chris's eyes widened. But once they got back to the pavilion, that conversation had to end. Too many people who might overhear.
That evening the housemaster gave Ricky a pack with travel instructions in it. The big day came, and while other boys were loading their trunks into the backs of Range Rovers and hugging fond mamas, he was collected by a taxi driver and taken to the railway station. He had to catch a train into London, then make his way around London on the Underground and out to Heathrow. He managed the whole thing without a hitch, although he was nervous about getting lost or losing his ticket or some other important thing, like his passport. He checked and double-checked often, in the inside pocket of his coat, with the button to prevent the contents escaping, to ensure everything was there. And at Heathrow he went to the Universal Aunts desk and reported there. After a short wait, a motherly woman in a uniform like an airline stewardess came and introduced herself as Auntie Rosie. Which jarred on Ricky's ear, who had been used to referring to even his close friends by their surnames. It didn't sound right to be expected to call a total stranger Auntie Rosie. By her manner, he was constantly afraid she was about to kiss him, which would have been disgusting. But she did know her way around the airport, and she guided him smoothly through the various stages of paperwork and got him onto the plane, where she handed over to the real stewardesses. Ricky was much happier with these women, who smiled and checked up on him often, but didn't loom over him proprietorially like Auntie Rosie had done.
And he got a pleasant surprise when he was invited onto the flight deck since he was the youngest unaccompanied passenger, to see the captain and the controls. It was impressive, wall-to-wall dials and levers. Everything did something important, the co-pilot showed him some of them and explained what they were for, but Ricky couldn't take it all in. He was very grateful to have been shown around though, and remembered his manners, to thank them for the privilege before returning to his seat.
The flight took four hours non-stop, and touched down at Amman airport in the last of the daylight. His father was there to meet him, and waved from the balcony above the arrivals building as he walked across the tarmac, part of the long straggly line of passengers. His face lit up when he saw his Dad frantically waving from the top of the building, and waved back as best he could, although he was carrying his hand luggage in one hand and his coat in the other. It took nearly an hour to get through the various checks and collect his luggage which he manhandled onto a trolley and wheeled out to meet his father, who was there with one of the VSO girls, which rather surprised Ricky, but he dismissed it in his delight to see his Dad again. He left the trolley and ran to his father when he saw him, and Roger swung him up into a big bear-hug which lasted long enough to make him short of breath. Ricky was overwhelmed with happiness, unexpectedly overwhelmed, and his grin didn't fade until they were well on their way in the car.
The girl, his Dad had introduced her as Maureen Phillips, sat in the back, and Ricky sat next to his father on the bench front seat. But when Roger looked across at his son after driving five minutes, the boy was fast asleep with his head bouncing against the door frame. He asked Maureen to fold her cardigan and put it to cushion the boy's head, and she managed that okay. He looked his gratitude over his shoulder to her in the back seat. Maureen, young, pretty, elfin and sexy. He was captivated and couldn't stop looking at her. When she caught his eye she smiled coquettishly and made a hand gesture that was reminiscent of a teacher controlling a class of rowdy student, but on this occasion probably meant 'I'm flattered by your attention, and I like it, but watch the road – you're driving!
Ricky slept soundly, through their arrival home and his father carrying him from the car into the house and tucking him into bed, still in his clothes but without his shoes.
The next morning when Ricky woke his father had already gone to work. He wandered down the corridor and found Mohammed the cook housekeeper, a large, rotund man in white canvas shoes and trousers that tapered to the ankles under a big white apron that was usually covered in food, and with a permanently stubbly chin and a face like a football. The old man was very fond of Ricky, and rolled up to him and pressed him to his barrel chest and called him 'little Effendi' and kissed the top of his head over and over. Mohammed always greeted Ricky that way and although it was embarrassing, he knew it was an expression of real affection and so he put up with it. At least he no longer pinched his cheeks.
Mohammed made him breakfast and he woke up more as he ate. And it occurred to him to wonder who the girl Maureen was. His father had said she was a VSO – a volunteer worker, probably a student in a gap year, in Jordan as part of the Voluntary Service Overseas scheme. His father had something to do with organising these volunteers, he knew, but he hadn't expected a VSO to turn up at the airport with him.
After breakfast he wandered around the house. Everything at first sight seemed much as he remembered it. But after a while he realised that there had been a subtle change. His father had changed things. The laundry basket was in his Dad's bedroom now, instead of in the hallway. The bathroom had shaving equipment all over the shelf above the sink. And the lavatory seat was upright. Hooray, thought Ricky.
To put his dirty clothes from yesterday to be washed, he had to go into his Dad's bedroom and was surprised to find the room in turmoil. The bedclothes were all higgledy-piggledy in the middle of the bed and there were clothes strewn over a chair on one side of the room. And to his surprise there were some women's clothes on a chair on the other side of the room too. Clothes he didn't recognise as his mother's.
Ricky didn't want to be naïve, but also didn't want to jump to any conclusions. So he forced himself to ignore what he'd seen on the assumption that the reality would make itself obvious in due course.
He went out onto his bedroom balcony. Everything was much as he remembered it, but perhaps it was unusually quiet. He didn't hear so much traffic noise as usual. In Amman drivers use their horns constantly and traffic makes progress accompanied by a cacophony of honking. But today he had to listen hard to hear some car horns in the distance. Maybe this was the result of the war. His beloved pine trees were still there, and he could smell the pine resin on the air. But he knew there would be no point running down the wadi and up the other side to visit Chris, or to walk to the houses of any of his other friends. No-one would be there. Even the boys who lived next door were at school, not sitting on their verandah working through their enormous load of homework as they would be later in the day.
At lunchtime the phone rang. It was his father, checking he was up, and asking how he was feeling. He was fine and said so. Then his father told him to get his swimming things ready because Maureen was going to pick him up and take him swimming. And he would meet him later at the pool. Ricky thanked his Dad and put the phone down, but he was not pleased. This Maureen was apparently far too close to his father and Ricky felt his heckles rising.
Sure enough Maureen arrived – driving his father's car! Ricky got in the front passenger seat but didn't speak to the girl beyond an initial Hello. And at the pool he went off on his own and left her to swim or sunbathe as she chose. He swam, she sunbathed. And later when his father arrived he stayed in the pool or out on one side, and his father stayed in the pool or out on the other side – where Maureen lay roasting herself. It must have been quite obvious to Roger that Ricky was making a point, but he said nothing.
By teatime when his father drove home – Maureen in the front passenger seat, Ricky in the back – he was in a very bad mood. And when it transpired that Maureen was staying to tea Ricky lost it. He stormed off to his room and slammed the door. His father came and knocked but Ricky wouldn't open the door and wouldn't talk. So Roger spent a glum evening with Maureen, and Ricky spent a glummer evening on his own, with no tea, in his bedroom.
The next day Ricky woke early and shuffled in his slippers to the kitchen in time to catch his father before he went to work. He looked hard at Roger and said “Who is Maureen and what is she to you?”
Roger must have been expecting the question but it made him nervous nevertheless. “She's one of the VSO's. She's from Yeovil, she's a teacher, and she's a friend of mine.”
“Just a friend?”
“No, not just a friend. A very good friend. Give her a chance, Ricky, you'll like her, I'm sure you will.”
“Are you going to marry her?”
“I can't marry anyone while I'm still married to your mother, and we agreed that will be the way it is until we've been apart for five years. That's the law – you can only divorce if you've lived apart for five years, unless one or the other cites a respondent.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, there's a lot to it, but basically it means unless I want to blame your mother or she wants to blame me, we have to live apart five years before we can divorce.”
“And then will you marry Maureen?”
“Five years is a long time, Ricky. I don't know what will happen that far ahead.”
“Is that your plan?”
“Well, as far as it goes, yes. But it's a long way away, Ricky and you don't need to worry about it for now. Let's just enjoy our holiday together, shall we?”
“It's not enjoyable with her with us all the time.”
“Well, I'm sorry you feel that way, but she won't be with us all the time, just sometimes. She has her work to do.”
Ricky fell silent.
“Well, I've got to go to work now. Maureen will pick you up at lunchtime and take you swimming again. Okay?”
“Okay.”
And his father left, unsure whether he had scored a victory or fallen on his face.