The Princess and the Foal. Stacy Gregg

museum and Haya treats each item inside it with the utmost care. There is a pair of her Mama’s sunglasses with tortoiseshell rims, huge and square like a TV set. Two tape cassettes – Abba and Gloria Gaynor – which she found with the glasses in the glove box of Mama’s car after she died. A pink pebble from the beach at Aqaba and the pointy white ice-cream seashell, pressed flowers, wild blooms from the meadows near the Summer House, once soft and delicate, now brittle like parchment, tucked between the pages of a notebook. There are photographs too and empty bullet cartridges, made of cold metal, just like the ones that bounced off her father’s medal.

      Haya spends hours arranging everything from the treasure box on her bed and then packing it away again. The last item she puts in the box is an almost empty bottle of her mother’s favourite perfume. Before she puts the bottle back she very carefully removes the stopper and dabs the tiniest amount on her wrist, just like her mother did. Then she closes her eyes and inhales deep breaths, until the scent overpowers all her other senses and the world disappears.

      *

      Several weeks after Frances arrives, with great reluctance, the governess gives in to Haya’s pleading and they make a visit to the Royal Stables.

      As usual, Santi is there to greet them when the car pulls up at Al Hummar.

      “Welcome back, Titch!” He smiles at Haya. “The horses have missed you!”

      Santi invites them into his office, where the music is playing and the pot of cardamom coffee is bubbling.

      He offers Frances a cup. She takes a sip and then screws up her thin lips in disgust, placing the cup promptly on the table. “I should like a tour of the grounds, Señor Lopez.”

      Santi is very proud of his stables. He has given many tours here; Sultans and Kings have come to visit. None of them were ever as critical as Frances. The governess inspects the horses in the same way that she ran her eyes over Haya the day they met. “They’re a little underweight, aren’t they?”

      “They are Arabians,” Santi replies. “The breed is much lighter in the frame than the horses you are accustomed to back home in England.”

      “I know my breeds, Señor Lopez,” Frances says. “All the same, I should like to see them a little more filled out than this.”

      “I did not realise that you were such a horsewoman, Miss Ramsmead,” Santi says, casting a glance at Haya.

      “Oh, yes,” Frances says. “In England I rode with The Quorn. Have you heard of it?”

      Santi raises an eyebrow. “That is a very exclusive hunt,” he says. Frances looks smug until he adds, “You must know my wife Ursula. She hunted with them for many years. I will ask if she remembers you …”

      “Oh,” Frances falters. “Please don’t bother. I never … rode to hounds very often. Besides, it was such a long time ago I hardly think—”

      Suddenly a muzzle thrusts over the door of the loose box beside Frances. She emits a piercing shriek and leaps forward, almost landing on top of Haya.

      “It’s all right,” Santi says as he reaches out to stroke the bay mare who has popped her head over the door. “This is Amina. She is being friendly; she didn’t mean to scare you.”

      “I wasn’t scared!” But Frances won’t step any closer to the mare.

      “She’s got a rather coarse look about her for a pure-bred, hasn’t she?” Frances says, glaring at Amina’s flat nose and heavy jaw.

      “Amina is Desert Born,” Santi says. “Her temperament is excellent and she was once a very good showjumper …”

      “Arabs don’t jump,” Frances says emphatically.

      “That is what they say,” Santi agrees, “but some, like Amina, are very bold, confident jumpers …”

      “Yes, well, thank you, Señor Lopez,” Frances says flatly. “I think we’ll be leaving now.”

      “But we only just got here!” Haya says.

      “I think we’ve been here quite long enough,” Frances says. She walks back towards the car and Haya only just has enough time to snatch up a handful of alfalfa to feed to Amina.

      “I wish you had tried to bite her,” Haya whispers. “She deserves it.”

      Amina nickers. “I know,” Haya agrees with the mare. “I don’t think she does like you. And I don’t think she likes me either.”

      “Stay for lunch!” Santi implores as Frances ushers Haya into the car. “Ursula can bring food up from the house for us.”

      “No, thank you.”

      “Well then, leave Titch here for the afternoon. She loves the horses and my grooms will keep a close eye on her.”

      “The grooms? She’s not a horse!” Frances replies. “Thank you for the tour, Señor Lopez.”

      The car trip home is awful. “Those horses are ill-mannered brutes!” Frances proclaims. “Small wonder with Señor Lopez in charge! The dust and the dung in those yards …”

      “I like it there.” Haya juts her jaw out bravely. What is wrong with dung anyway? To say there is dung in a horse yard is like saying there is sand in the desert.

      The rest of the journey home is spent in silence. But the next day, when Haya asks to go to the stables, Frances says she can’t. She has a piano lesson instead. And the piano lesson is followed by French and then ballet. There is no time for the stables.

      *

      “Baba? I don’t feel so good.”

      The King puts down his newspaper and looks at his daughter. Haya’s face is flushed and she has hardly touched her breakfast.

      “You haven’t got a fever,” the King says as he feels her forehead.

      “Maybe I am coming down with something?” Haya says hopefully.

      “Maybe.” Her father looks at her knowingly.

      “Frances?” The King summons the governess. “Princess Haya will be coming with me today.”

      Haya packs her colouring-in pencils and waits with Doll at the front door as the driver brings the car round. She tries not to look too happy or too healthy as she gets in the back seat beside her father. The car cruises out of the gates and up the winding roads of the palace compound to the Royal Court.

      “Welcome, Your Royal Highness!” The women who run the office are always pleased to see her. Her father’s secretary brings the King his morning coffee and also some orange juice and crackers for Haya, with a stack of paper and more coloured pens. In the corner of the office Haya makes herself a fort out of sofa cushions and lies on the rug, drawing pictures of horses while her father talks on the phone and looks at the important papers on his desk.

      She is very quiet when the King’s ministers come for a meeting at the large polished-oak table in the corner of the room. Haya focuses hard on her colouring-in, but she hears them, their voices deep and serious as they discuss Egypt and Israel and a place called Camp David. After the men are gone, the King asks his secretary for more orange juice and chocolate biscuits. Then he takes off his shoes and climbs inside Haya’s sofa-cushion fortress.

      “Haya, are you feeling better now?”

      “Yes, Baba.”

      “You are very quiet. Why don’t you tell me what is wrong?”

      Haya hesitates. She doesn’t want to bother her father. He is a King with the weight of a nation on his shoulders.

      “It’s OK,” her father says, “you can tell me.”

      “Frances won’t take me to see the horses,” Haya says. “I keep asking, but she always says no.”

      A misunderstanding. That is what Happy Frances calls