A World Away From Home Opening chapters of our compelling new serial

Young nurse Clare is arriving in Jordan on a mission to help Syrian refugees…

Cabin crew seats for landing, please.” She was nearly there. Her plane was under the clouds; the sky below was a hazy blue.

From her window seat Clare could see high plateaux dotted with shadows as the odd cloud passed over. There were straight, narrow roads running across arid mountains, but few buildings. A sight so different to the lush greenery that carpeted much of the British countryside. Not that she would be seeing Britain, family or friends for the next six months.

Her heart jolted as they came in to land, bouncing twice across the Tarmac.

In a matter of hours she would be taking up her position as a nursepractitioner with a medical charity in a refugee camp for Syrians forced to cross the border into Jordan. It would be a world away from her position in a busy GP practice – but worthwhile, challenging and, hopefully, rewarding.

“Welcome to Jordan,” the pilot said as they taxied towards the terminal building. “I hope you enjoy your stay.” Clare quickly picked out the notice with her name printed on it among the many held by a crowd of men near the exit.

“Hello, Miss Armstrong. Welcome. My name is Khalid.”

A tall, slim man greeted her with a smile and a nod. He was dressed in a long dark robe and wore a red and white checked scarf wrapped around his head. “Clare, please,” she said. “Follow me, Clare. Let me take your luggage.”

The tiredness that had begun to overtake her on the flight had evaporated.

She was here. She wanted to soak everything up about the country she had chosen to make her temporary home. She’d read so much about Jordan since receiving the offer of the position, but she knew that you could never really know a country until you were there.

She’d been expecting heat, but still, stepping from the aircraft the blast of hot air had been surprising. She had expected

“Babies BORN THERE are now SIX OR SEVEN. They know NO OTHER life”

blue skies, and she wasn’t disappointed there. But what else had she expected? “My car – please.” Khalid opened the door of a four-byfour pickup and threw her luggage with little ceremony into the back, pulling away from the parking spot with a spin of the wheels. Instinctively Clare gripped the handle above her door.

“Too fast?” She spotted him glance at her and smile.

“A little,” she replied, not knowing what to make of this man. She had been told she would be picked up by someone from the camp, but nothing more. She had no idea what his role was.

“I will slow down. There is no rush. Tomorrow there will be much to do.”

“I can’t wait,” Clare said. “Now I’m here, I want to help. I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like for people, to have fled their homeland with so little and not be able to return. Not knowing if their home still stands, if friends are safe.”

“Some have been in the camp for years,” Khalid told her. “Babies are born there who are now six or seven years old. They have known no other life.”

“I hope to make a difference to them,” Clare said. She rested her head against the window. The tiredness was returning.

“You will miss your family?” Khalid

asked. “For us Jordanians, family is very important.”

“I will.” Clare smiled, a lump forming in her throat at the thought of her hustle and bustle of a family. Of mealtimes where there was a scramble for a place at the table. She had been living at home when she decided to apply for the charity – on the brink of moving out.

“I have two brothers and a sister. One brother’s at university, the other two are still at home. Mum and Dad think they’ll never get rid of us.” Khalid looked puzzled. “That we’ll move out, you know.” His expression told her that he still didn’t understand.

And then there was Dom. She hadn’t mentioned Dom. How would she describe him? Her boyfriend? Was he still that? They’d been together for years now, since they met at university. It had been easy, they just slotted into place alongside one another, drifting into love. But it had become less easy in recent months, especially when she’d revealed her plans.

Would he be at the airport to greet her when she got home?

“Au revoir,” she’d said at the airport, kissing him, his blond hair flopping over his forehead. “Goodbye,” he’d replied. So final. “We are here,” Khalid’s gentle voice brought her back to the present.

They were on a track, and it was dark. Strings of lights lit up the scene ahead. Tent after tent was strewn over the mountainside, a higgledy-piggeldy mass that she could make little sense of.

“Come, it is late. I will show you your tent. Tonight you will sleep well, I think.”

Carrying her suitcase on his shoulder he led her down a narrow pathway between red and black striped tents. The air was still warm. She could hear voices in the distance, but not make out what they were saying.

“This is yours,” he said, pulling back fabric. The tent interior was compact but neat. She could make out a narrow bed and a table illuminated by a night light.

“Goodnight,” Khalid said. He had disappeared before she could reply.

She fell onto the bed and was asleep, fully clothed, in moments.

Avoice woke her. A warbling but tuneful voice distorted by a loudspeaker. The morning call to prayer.

It took Clare a moment or two to orient herself. It was very different to the sound of her phone alarm. Sunlight peeked through a narrow gap between the doorway and the tent. It was beyond sunrise, but she couldn’t tell what time as her phone battery was flat and her watch buried somewhere in her handbag.

“Knock, knock,” a woman’s voice called from outside her tent. “Bonjour.”

“Come in,” called Clare, momentarily blinded when sunlight streamed in. As her eyes adjusted, she made out a figure in a white T-shirt and dark trousers.

“I have tea for you,” the woman said, placing a glass on a saucer on Clare’s tiny bedside table. “You speak French?” Clare asked. The woman, a couple of years older than Clare, maybe, nodded. “Je suis Belgique. You?” “I’m British,” Clare smiled, “but my mother is French and she brought us up to speak it fluently.”

“It is useful here, French. You are Clare? A nurse like me? I’m Hélène.”

“I am,” Clare said, sipping the scalding aromatic tea, so different to that at home. It was thick and sweet, no milk. Could she taste cinnamon?

“Your uniform is here. I will leave you to dress and be back to show you the way. The shower block is straight ahead.”

Hélène pointed to a neat pile of clothing folded on a wooden chair.

Clare showered and dressed quickly, bumping into Hélène as she returned to her tent.

“Come, we must go,” Hélène said, making her away along the pathway with other people walking in the same direction with apparent purpose. The place was a warren. Clare needed Hélène; else

she’d be lost, in more ways than one.

Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday evening.

“Today we are vaccinating children. It is rare for us to have vaccines. They arrived yesterday. There will be a rush. Grab some bread from there.”

She pointed towards a large black and white tent with open sides. Food was piled on wide platters and in bowls on a vast counter. The tent was empty but for one young man, who was tidying up.

Clare realised the morning must begin early in the camp.

The already warm air was filled with a variety of aromas. Wood smoke from fires, something spicy and sweet that she couldn’t yet identify, and something pungent, less pleasant, that you might expect in a camp of this size, teeming with displaced people.

The man stopped his work and swiftly picked some flatbread and olives for Clare, wrapping them in a napkin and smiling as he handed it over with a nod. “Shukraan,” she said. Thank you. “Afwan,” he replied. You’re welcome.

Arriving at the medical tent Hélène led the way through the hustle of people waiting for them. Over the chatter of children and mothers speaking in Arabic, chiding and soothing their offspring, she called to Clare. “Over here, this is our station.” A queue of mothers holding on to small children awaited them. Some of the children were quiet, perhaps aware of what was about to befall them that morning, maybe overwhelmed. Others were tussling, teasing, laughing, just like children everywhere. One or two wailed, pressing their faces into their mothers’ shoulders.

And so Clare’s day began. She and Hélène worked well together. Initially Clare prepared the polio vaccinations and Hélène administered them, but halfway through the morning they swapped roles.

There was little time to chat, with the steady stream of children to see to. Word had been spread around the camp that the vaccination had arrived. There had been a long wait for it, and there was understandable anxiety about disease breaking out, Hélène explained.

It was good to get into a rhythm, Clare thought, to be able to work alongside someone where the only communication was non-verbal, but it worked.

“Hello, nurse.” A young woman holding the hand of a toddler, a small baby clasped in her other arm, broke into Clare’s reverie.

“Hello, are you here for the vaccination?”

She nodded. Clare wiped her son’s arm with an antiseptic wipe and gently administered the injection. The boy’s facial expression shifted from wary to horrified, then he burst into tears, burying his head in his mother’s long black gown.

“He will be OK.” She rubbed his tousled black hair. “But my baby? Would you look at my baby?” Her eyes were filled with worry as she clung onto the tiny bundle.

Clare glanced at the queue still snaking out of the tent into the now intense midday sun. Not that she could see the sun, but she could feel it through the thick cotton tent, the whirr of a fan inadequate to dissipate the heat. She touched Hélène’s shoulder. “One moment – this lady needs to speak with me.”

Hélène too glanced at the queue, but smiled at Clare and nodded. They were on the same wavelength, Clare thought, knew where their priorities lay. “I’m Clare.” “Haya,” the woman said. “This is Sara.” The baby was tiny – only a few weeks old, Clare assessed her, the dark lashes sweeping her narrow cheeks.

It transpired the baby wasn’t thriving, wasn’t feeding well. She was listless and sleepy. Clare offered some feeding advice and led the young mother over to another station, one manned by a nurse who was weighing babies. Hopefully she was a midwife or health visitor, Clare thought.

“Haya needs some help with feeding,” Clare said to the rather fierce-looking older lady standing behind the table.

The woman glanced at the young mother over half-moon glasses and Clare’s heart sank. If her personality matched the forbidding look on her face, it might explain why Haya hadn’t approached her before.

The confusion and fog of new motherhood could make even a secondtime mother doubt herself, and that was at home. In this busy, alien environment a young mother and her child could so easily slip through the net. And the outcome of that could be tragic, as Clare was very well aware.

“Come, come here,” the older woman said. “Tell me your troubles.” She followed this invitation with a few words in Arabic and led the hesitant Haya and her children to a quieter part of the tent.

Clare was happy to return to her task comforted by the knowledge that, hopefully, you didn’t volunteer to work in a refugee camp if you didn’t have compassion.

We are done,” Hélène announced. “For today. I will tidy up. You may go. I will, how do you say? Let you off – that’s it.”

Now Clare could give in to exhaustion. She didn’t argue with Helene, but left the tent, hoping she would find her way back to the staff quarters.

Noticing more than she had on the rushed walk this morning, she passed men crouching in small groups shaded under the occasional olive tree.

They watched her as she passed by, their gaze curious rather than intimidating. A small boy kicked a rather deflated ball. He was on his own.

Most children Clare had seen were in small groups.

“Hello, which team do you support?” Clare asked as she eased past him on the narrow pathway.

In that ALIEN ENVIRONMENT a mother and BABY could slip through THE NET

“Man United,” he answered, never looking up from his ball control. “Everyone likes Man United.”

Clare smiled. “Can I tell you a secret?” she replied.

This time she had his attention. He held the ball steady under his bare foot. “I prefer Aston Villa.” He grinned. “Like Prince William,” he said. Clare was amazed. How did he know who Prince William was – never mind who he supported? “I’m Clare.” “Rafiq,” he replied. “You’re new,” he stated. “Over there, look.”

She glanced in the direction he was pointing, towards a rocky ridge.

“Up there is the sunset. You will like it. Everyone does.”

“Do you go up there with your family, your friends?” Clare asked, conscious again that he was on his own. How old was he? Nine? Ten?

“I need to go and score a goal against Aston Villa.”

He ran off, raising a cloud of dust as his ball hit the ground. “I thought you were resting?” Hélène, breathless, had caught her up. “I was – then I met Rafiq and we stopped to chat.” “Rafiq? Man United Rafiq?” “Yes, why?” “Nothing – just don’t get too involved. We must stay neutral, you know? Go, get some rest.”

Hélène too disappeared down the track, and Clare watched her go, puzzled by her warning.

Clare fell onto her bed, hoping for a brief nap. But she couldn’t settle. The events of the day played over in her head. And Rafiq, the young lad, intrigued her.

Maybe if she went to watch the sunset he’d be there. Pulling on boots, she left the tent and scrambled over rocks until she reached the plateau. People were dotted along it, some alone, some in groups, most of them staff or volunteers.

Now she had a quiet moment she thought of Dom, wishing he could be with her. She hadn’t wanted them to part on poor terms. This was only temporary, after all. She’d assured him she’d be back, but that she’d had to do this first. And when she returned, she hoped they could negotiate their future together.

He’d such firm ideas about where they were heading, especially for such a kind and gentle man – but she had ideas too. Compromise was important in a relationship, wasn’t it?

“Hello, it is a beautiful sight, no? May I join you?”

It was Khalid – the man who had collected her from the airport. This was her first sight of him today.

“Of course – please do.” She was happy to see him.

He sat on a rock nearby, close enough so they could converse, but not so close as to break any unwritten rules.

“I hope your first day in the camp has gone well,” he said. “Busy,” she replied. “Yes,” he smiled, creases forming around his kohl-lined eyes. “We are always busy. There is much to do. My family lives over there.” He pointed into the distance. “My mother and my sisters, their husbands. My father is no longer with us.” “I’m sorry,” Clare said. He shrugged. “It happens. But there are times, like this, when we must rest, just be, thank Allah for our blessings.”

She glanced across at him. He was attractive; his face long and slim with a small beard, his lips full. And he was a thoughtful man too, she was discovering.

“I met a boy today,” Clare said, still curious about Rafiq. “He supports Manchester United,” she smiled.

“That boy, he is one of a kind. He’s trouble, like many of them.”

Kahlid’s tone had changed, and he waved his hand dismissively.

Clare was astonished at how quickly he’d shifted from contemplative and kind to – well – almost cruel.

“I’m tired,” she said, not knowing how else to react. “I must go.”

He nodded his goodbye, still gazing at the sunset that was now almost on the horizon as she clambered down the rocks, slipping on sand, puzzled at his attitude and the swift change in him.

She heard the squeaking as she entered her tent, and froze. Then, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness she saw it. A rat. Right in the middle of the floor, sitting there, boldly returning her gaze. Rodents had always terrified her. What could she do? She didn’t want to scream. To look weak. She was in the Jordanian desert. She was going to encounter problems; with people, with wildlife. She’d already faced challenges today, hadn’t she? And she’d been no stranger to them before she came away.

Clare edged back to the doorway, and lifted the heavy fabric. The rat remained in place, as though in charge, ready to stand its ground. Clare stepped forward, hissed like her cat would have done and stamped her foot. Miraculously the rat shot out of the door – apparently terrified and, Clare hoped, not to return.

Clare sat on her bed, smiling in the dark. If she could deal with a rat, she could deal with anything.

On the whole it had been a good first day. She was here, in Jordan, following her dreams. She’d already been able to help people. The next few months would be full of challenges, she was sure – but she resolved to meet them head-on and with a smile on her face.

“At TIMES we must REST, just be, thank Allah for our BLESSINGS”