Castles Of Sand. Anne Mather

talked to me—–’

      ‘I can’t teach my own son!’ declared Ashley emotively. ‘I can’t, Malcolm. I can’t!’

      ‘I see there’s a problem,’ said Malcolm levelly, but as she would have protested again, he held up one hand. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Hear me out. This is something we have to talk about.’

      Ashley made a helpless gesture. ‘What is there to say? It’s an impossible situation.’

      ‘First of all, I want you to tell me why you haven’t seen—Hussein—all these years.’ He frowned. ‘And why you added the name Andrew. I don’t recall the boy having that name.’

      ‘He doesn’t.’ Ashley moved her shoulders wearily. ‘That was my name for him. I called him Andrew. I—I refused to have a son of mine with only an Arab name.’

      Malcolm nodded. ‘All right, I understand that. But I had no idea your husband was an Arab. I imagined he was someone you’d met in England.’

      ‘I did meet him in England,’ said Ashley flatly. ‘I—I met his brother at—at the home of a girl I got to know at university. And—and through him, I got to know Hassan.’

      ‘I see.’ Malcolm digested this. ‘So you know his family?’

      ‘I—knew his brother,’ Ashley corrected tightly.

      Malcolm sighed. ‘Yet you were married. You had a child!’

      ‘I lived in London,’ Ashley explained. ‘Hassan had been working here before we got married.’

      ‘Of course.’ Malcolm slapped his hand to his knee. ‘The Gauthiers are in oil and shipping, aren’t they?’ He gave her a strange look. ‘Ashley, did you realise what a wealthy family you were marrying into?’

      Ashley’s long lashes veiled her expression. ‘Yes, I realised it,’ she replied dully. ‘You might say—that was why I married Hassan.’

      ‘Ashley!’

      ‘Well—–’ she tilted her gaze up to him, her green eyes dark and haunted, ‘I wouldn’t be the first girl to admit that. It’s true. I was pregnant, you see.’

      ‘Oh, my dear!’ Malcolm made a sound of sympathy. ‘And you were—how old?’

      ‘Eighteen,’ she answered blankly. ‘In my first year at the college.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘I was very naïve.’

      Malcolm hesitated. ‘But he did marry you. Some men—well, you know what I mean.’

      ‘Oh, yes,’ Ashley assented, ‘I know what you mean. But Hassan—always got what he wanted, and he wanted me.’

      She said it without conceit, and Malcolm watched her closely. ‘You’re still bitter.’

      Ashley’s smile was self-derisive. ‘Yes.’

      ‘Your husband dying so soon after the wedding—that must have been a great shock to you.’

      Ashley’s expression hardened. ‘Yes.’

      ‘They—his family—they wouldn’t let you keep the boy?’

      Ashley bent her head. ‘I’d really rather not talk about it.’

      ‘Which means I’m right, doesn’t it?’

      ‘Malcolm, you don’t understand.’

      ‘What don’t I understand?’

      Ashley sighed. ‘Hassan died the day after the wedding—–’

      ‘So?’

      ‘—–and his family blamed me!’

      Malcolm stared at her. ‘Why?’

      Ashley turned her head away. ‘Oh, Malcolm, don’t make me go into all the details. Let it be enough that they thought they had grounds for thinking that.’

      ‘But it wasn’t true?’

      Ashley looked at him with tortured eyes. ‘No, it wasn’t true.’

      ‘And later, when they found out you were pregnant?’

      Ashley hunched her shoulders. ‘We were estranged. I’d gone back to college. When—when—Hassan’s brother found out, he gave me a choice of alternatives.’ Her lips twisted. ‘Either I handed over the child when he was born, and allowed them to bring him up in the way he deserved, or he would wait until the child was older and then fight for him through the courts.’ She expelled her breath unsteadily. ‘I wanted to do that, to keep him, and care for him, but how could I? I had no money of my own, and I wanted nothing from the Gauthiers. And—and I knew Alain meant what he said. He would have taken Andrew from me, by one means or another.’ She bit hard on her lips to prevent them from trembling, then added tautly: ‘You read about these things every day. Babies, children—snatched from this country, and taken to live with their fathers in some foreign place. Alain could have done that, he would have done that, I know. And how much harder it would have been for me to lose him after I’d learned to love him …’

      She avoided Malcolm’s eyes as she said this. There were other reasons why she had let the boy go, but she had no intention of revealing them. She had told him too much already, more that she had told anyone, except the Armstrongs, without whom she might never have recovered from that traumatic experience. But it had been over. There had even been days when she had not thought about him at all. And now to find she was not to be allowed to forget it was the cruellest blow of all.

      ‘Alain?’ said Malcolm now. ‘This, I assume, is Hassan’s brother.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘But their names are dissimilar. And Gauthier—that’s not an Arab name.

      ‘No.’ Ashley cleared her throat again. ‘There’s—there’s French ancestry somewhere in their history, and—and Alain’s mother was French, actually. She—she was his father’s second wife.’

      Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. ‘You mean your husband and his brother had different mothers?’

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘Hassan—your husband—his mother died?’

      ‘No.’ Ashley spoke tautly. ‘So far as I know, she’s still alive. Prince—Prince Ahmed is a Moslem.’

      Malcolm was amazed. ‘I see.’

      Ashley had had enough of this. Pushing back her chair, she got to her feet, moving away from Malcolm and stiffening her spine. ‘So you see,’ she said, endeavouring to speak calmly, ‘my remaining here is—is quite out of the question. I shall look—–’

      ‘Wait. Wait!’ Malcolm slid off the desk and stood facing her impotently, balling his hand into a fist, and pressing it into his palm. ‘Ashley, there must be something I can do, some way I can persuade you to change your mind.’ He paced restlessly across the floor. ‘If I were to transfer him to another class—transfer you to another class—–’

      Ashley shook her head. ‘You couldn’t do that, Malcolm. He’s—seven. He should be with seven-year-olds.’

      ‘But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t take another form,’ Malcolm pointed out recklessly. ‘If I speak to Harry Rogers—–’

      Ashley turned away. ‘He’d still be in the school.’

      ‘But—–’ Malcolm made a sound of frustration, ‘you wouldn’t know him. You need never see him. He would be just another boy—–’

      ‘You’re asking a lot,’ Ashley exclaimed, glancing at him over her shoulder. ‘Could you do it? Could you work here, knowing your son was in the school and didn’t know you?’

      Malcolm had the grace to look disconcerted. ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘I