The Princess and the Foal. Stacy Gregg

to the kitchen staff the special requirements of the new governess.

      Haya is staring at Frances while she rummages distractedly in her handbag, but suddenly her new governess stops and swivels her head round. The Princess ducks behind the door, but it is too late.

      “Good afternoon. You must be Her Royal Highness Princess Haya?”

      Haya stays hidden behind the door.

      Frances sighs. “It is not good manners for a Princess to greet someone like this,” she says. “The correct thing would be to present yourself as I am doing now. I am Miss Ramsmead, but you may call me Frances if you wish.”

      She stands expectantly, waiting for Haya to emerge. When at last the Princess steps out on to the landing, Frances’s eyes widen as she takes in dirty shorts, T-shirt and bare feet.

      “You look more like a pauper’s son than a King’s daughter,” she says.

      Haya doesn’t like to wear dresses – they get in the way when you are playing. She likes to wear shorts, just like Ali. But she has long dark hair to her shoulders and no one else has ever mistaken her for a boy before.

      Frances inspects her, looking her up and down, and Haya is suddenly aware that she has not brushed her hair today and she did not have anyone to give her a bath after returning from the trip to the summer house.

      “Your previous nanny clearly wasn’t a suitable influence,” Frances says and Haya feels her cheeks go hot. It is the way Frances says it – like Haya is not standing right there in front of her, as if she cannot hear what Frances is saying!

      “Is this your room?” Frances gestures over Haya’s shoulder. She walks straight past Haya and into her bedroom. Frances casts a glance around, and spies the photo of Haya and her mother on the dresser.

      “I was an acquaintance of Queen Alia, did you know that?” she asks. She holds the picture frame in her hands and Haya has to control the urge to snatch it back from her.

      “We met on more than one occasion in Europe,” Frances continues, still holding the picture. “Before you were born, before she married your father. I thought to myself, now there is a young girl from a good family who will go far. Your mother was the epitome of grace, so beautiful …” As she says this, Frances’s eyes lock on Haya’s legs. She is staring at the grass-stained knees poking out of Haya’s shorts.

      “My poor girl,” Frances tuts. “The state of you.” She takes a deep breath. “Don’t worry, things will change now that I am here.”

      She looks at her watch. “Now what time do you usually begin your lessons?”

      “Lessons?”

      “Yes,” Frances says. “You know, your studies?”

      Haya doesn’t understand. She is only five. Surely that is too young for anything except playing?

      At that moment one of the kitchen staff turns up carrying a silver tray with a pot, cup and saucer and a jug of milk. “Tea, Miss Ramsmead,” he says.

      Frances lifts the jug with great suspicion, feeling it in her hands. “This milk is warm?”

      He nods vigorously. “Yes! Hot milk.”

      Frances wrinkles her nose. “Tea requires cold milk,” she says. The kitchen boy stares blankly at the tray that he has set down on the table.

      “Well?” Frances says. “Take it away and bring me cold milk.”

      He rushes forward, grasps the milk jug and backs away nervously. Then he turns and dashes back down the stairs. Frances shakes her head as she watches him go and then looks back at Haya.

      “I can see I will have my work cut out for me,” she says.

      

      

t doesn’t take Haya long to figure out that Frances is two different people. There is Frances the Governess – all sour, thin-lipped and taut as piano wire. And then there is the other Frances, the one the King gets to see. Haya and Ali call her ‘Happy Frances’.

      Happy Frances will cheerfully play games and sing songs. She will sew the pink hat back on Doll just like Haya has been begging her to do for days. Happy Frances reads proper bedtime stories instead of ones that last just one page.

      If the King is in the room then Happy Frances fusses over Haya and smothers her with cuddles. But her arms are so bony and her hugs are stiff and awkward. All they do is make Haya miss Grace more than ever.

      Haya never talks to Baba about how much she misses Grace, just as she never speaks about how much she aches every single day for her Mama.

      One day, Haya hears noises in the upstairs bedrooms, and walks in to find Frances overseeing her staff as they work their way through room by room with three large cardboard boxes.

      Haya watches in horror as Frances picks up one of Mama’s silk scarves and flings it into a box.

      “What are you doing?”

      Frances does not turn to look at her. “Decluttering.”

      “Those are Mama’s things!” Haya can feel her cheeks turning hot. “You leave them alone!”

      Frances shakes her head. “This is a palace, not a shrine. If you were more considerate, you would see that your father needs to put the past aside and move on.”

      If Baba were here then Haya would run to him right now – but he is away in Aqaba and Frances has chosen her moment all too well. Haya has no choice but to stand by helplessly as she watches Frances sweep her mother’s memory away as if it were so much house dust.

      No more Mama. That is the rule now that Frances is here.

      There is a hole. Haya can feel it inside her, an emptiness that overwhelms her. Into this void she pushes down all thoughts of Mama. Only she does this a little too well, pushes too far.

      Now, if she tries to picture her Mama’s face or the sound of her voice, she finds it harder and harder. She is losing her Mama all over again. This time it is like Haya is trying to grab at smoke with her fingers. She wants so badly to hold on to her memories and yet her eyes well with tears whenever anyone mentions her Mama. And so people stop talking about the Queen in front of the little Princess. Everyone stops talking about Mama. Everyone, that is, except for the one person who should.

      Frances barely met Queen Alia, but she speaks of her with an air of absolute authority.

      “Your mother would never…” Frances always begins her lectures with these words and very soon Haya can hear them coming before Frances even opens her mouth. Your mother would never… dress like a boy, laugh too loud, get dirty fingernails, stain her clothes, forget to brush her hair, play childish games, or – worst of all – waste time with smelly, filthy horses.

      Frances is an expert on the King too. She says His Majesty would be so much happier if Haya would try to be more feminine. “Your mother had such noble manners, she was such a lady.”

      A lady? Is that what Baba wants Haya to be? He has never mentioned it, but Frances says it over and over again, so Haya doesn’t know any more. And she doesn’t know how to tell her father about the dark empty place inside her that is getting bigger every day. When her Baba says, “You are very quiet, Haya, tell me what is wrong?” she finds that there are no words for her sadness and so she says, “It’s nothing. I am fine.”

      Haya cannot voice her emotions, not even to Baba. But she has found a place to put them. They are kept inside her treasure box. The treasure box is made of gold. Well, not really: