2007 - Salmon Fishing in the Yemen (7 page)

Mary often says it has been a long day. She seems to think she is the only one who gets stuck late in the office, who has to sit through tedious meetings resisting the urge to drum one’s fingers or doodle all over the agenda. We all get tired. I had a bubble of excitement inside me, a picture captured within that bubble of the sheikh in his white robes speaking of visions of shining salmon rivers in his quiet voice, of the black waters of his own river in the Highlands, of the sea trout that lurked there. I wanted to talk about the private jet that flew us there, of the grave and immaculate butler Malcolm, of the bubbles in the champagne. Somewhere in this picture, seen through the wrong end of a telescope, was Harriet, beautiful in her evening gown, head on one side, leaning forward to listen to the sheikh saying something. I wanted to share all this with Mary. I wanted to share my scientific excitement with her, the thought that with Sheikh Muhammad’s money I could do something different, something that had never been done before; change the rules of the game.

But she wasn’t interested, and the picture in the bubble darkened and went out, and I buried it deep within me. It’s the first time I haven’t shared something important with her. She just didn’t want to know.

Later over supper I found out what was on her mind.

‘They want me to move to Geneva,’ she said. She didn’t look at me when she spoke, but concentrated on getting her pasta round her fork.

‘Move?’ I asked, putting my own fork down.

‘Move, yes, as in relocate.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the man who went absent on sick leave won’t be coming back.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he’s dead.’

I considered this; it seemed conclusive. So I asked, ‘For how long?’

‘I don’t know. At least for six months.’

‘Well, obviously that is impossible,’ I said, and then wished I hadn’t.

‘Why is it impossible?’ asked Mary quietly, fixing me with a level stare and sitting upright.

‘Well, I mean, how can you? We’ve got a life here. My work is here. Our home is here.’

Mary was silent and ate some more pasta. Finally she said, ‘I’ve sort of told them I’ll do it.’

Well of course, after that I spoke my mind, and then Mary spoke hers. Now she is asleep in the spare room and I am sitting here writing my diary, and in a minute I will put down my pen and lie on our bed with my eyes open, grinding my teeth.

Extracts from the diary of Dr Jones: marital issues may have clouded his judgement

§

28 July

Today, like the last few days, has been spent mostly in meetings with Fitzharris & Price, either with me going to Harriet’s offices or she visiting NCFE. There were cost estimates to prepare, project plans to be drawn up, equipment suppliers to be located. At first we held our meetings in Smith Square, but David Sugden had a way of suddenly appearing in my office and asking to look at what we were doing. This took up a great deal of time, especially as he liked to explain to us how to do things which we had almost always already done.

He has a way of looking at Harriet that I do not quite like. This evening he said to me, after she had gone back to her own offices, ‘Bright girl, that, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, she seems very able.’

‘I suppose she’s a chartered surveyor by profession. She must find all this is taking her a bit out of her depth?’

I don’t know why I resented his remark. Perhaps it was the tone, not the words. ‘I think she is coping. She has a well-ordered mind.’

‘Attractive girl, too,’ he suggested.

When I did not reply he rubbed his hands together for a moment, looking at the lino floor of the corridor where he had stopped me on my way from the meeting room to my office. Then he asked if Harriet was married. As a matter of fact, I knew the answer to that one and told David that she was engaged. He said nothing further and returned to his office.

The reason I know Harriet is engaged is that she took me out to lunch today. We had spent the morning looking at spreadsheets and both of us needed a break, so when she suggested lunch (a meal I do not normally indulge in) for once I was quite ready to accept.

We found a Middle Eastern restaurant nearby, which seemed an appropriate choice. I ordered a salad and some water. Harriet ordered a salad and a glass of white wine. When it came she held the glass up and looked over it at me and said, ‘A toast—to the project.’

I raised my glass, but she wouldn’t allow me to drink a toast with mineral water, so wine was ordered, despite my telling her I never drank in the day, and then we raised our glasses and both said, rather solemnly, ‘To the project.’

Our eyes met as we sipped our wine together, and I looked away, embarrassed without knowing why. Harriet was undisturbed, and put her glass down and asked me if I was married. When I told her I was, she asked, ‘What does your wife do?’

‘Mary? She’s in finance with a big international bank.’

‘A career woman like me,’ said Harriet, smiling.

But Mary wasn’t like Harriet; she would never have ordered a glass of white wine at lunch, much less persuaded me to have one.

‘Alcohol is all very well in its place,’ Mary used to say, ‘and as far as I am concerned, during weekdays its place is in a bottle and nowhere else.’ And Mary didn’t dress like Harriet or, frankly, smell like Harriet. Mary didn’t believe in smart feminine clothes or perfume. Mary wore baggy brown linen work suits at home and grey ones at the office. She smelled clean, of rather antiseptic soap. She was always neat and tidy…To my dismay I found I was comparing the two women and the comparison was unfavourable to Mary. What was so wrong with wearing an elegant calf-length dress, rather than a suit that looked as if it had been designed by a junior member of the Chinese communist party? What was wrong with smelling faintly of peaches ripening in a greenhouse, instead of something that recalled a mild industrial disinfectant?

We talked for a moment about Mary, and her endless travelling.

The salad arrived, and I concentrated for a moment on chasing an olive around my plate with my fork. Then I decided it was my turn to keep the conversation going and asked Harriet if she was married.

‘No, but I will be next spring.’

‘Oh, have you just become engaged?’

‘It hasn’t been in the papers yet, but it will be as soon as Robert comes back.’

‘Comes back from where?’

Harriet put her knife and fork down on her plate and looked down for a moment, then said quietly, ‘From Iraq.’

‘What’s he doing out there?’ I said, watching her. Her smiling, easy look had gone and now her lips were compressed and she had turned pale. I suddenly realised she was on the verge of tears. In a panic I tried to make a joke: ‘Well, perhaps we can get a contract to introduce salmon into the Euphrates, and then you can join him out there?’

Whatever the merits of this remark, it did the trick. Harriet looked startled and then smiled. I don’t think she thought I was the sort of person who made jokes, and she would have been right. We talked about Robert and his adventures for a while.

‘He wasn’t expecting to go to Iraq,’ Harriet told me. ‘We were going to take a week’s holiday in France together before I became totally buried in the salmon project. Then he got a call and the next thing I heard he was ringing me from Frankfurt airport, to tell me what had happened and that he was already on his way.’ We sat in silence for a moment. Then she said, ‘The worst thing is the letters. Either they arrive weeks late or not at all. And when you do get them they are so heavily censored it is impossible to know what Robert was trying to say.’

After that, she didn’t seem to want to say any more about it. It was odd. A few minutes ago Harriet and I had been, in one sense, perfect strangers. I had spent time with her over the past week or two, quite a lot of time, but it had all been very professional. My admiration for her ability was unbounded, but I had been completely ignorant of her personal circumstances and perhaps would never have asked her a single question about herself if she had not suddenly suggested lunch.

Then I checked my watch and saw it was nearly two o’clock. We paid the bill and hurried back to the salmon project.

§

22 August

I’m working all hours, from seven in the morning until seven or eight at night. I’m mostly too tired to write up my diaries. I want to keep a record somehow now that, at last, I’m engaged in work of such immense significance. It’s nearly a month since my last entry and the Yemen salmon project is growing. We are spending real money: not hundreds, not thousands, not tens of thousands; we are spending so much money, so fast, that a firm of accountants has been hired. They have put financial controls in place and they prepare budget reports which go to the sheikh which I feel sure he never looks at. I flew to Finland for two days of talks with some specialist manufacturers of fish farm equipment, to discuss the design of the holding tanks in the Wadi Aleyn. I flew to Germany to talk to a company which manufactures tanks used to transport tropical fish, and we discussed how to design and build the transport pods which would take the first salmon out by plane to the Yemen. Mary flew to New York, and then back to Geneva to attend enigmatic-sounding conferences on risk management. Harriet flew to Glen Tulloch to meet the sheikh and then out to the Yemen with him to discuss matters unknown to me. Everyone was flying everywhere. Everyone except David Sugden.

He was, I think, becoming a little jealous of the way the project was growing, sending its tendrils into every corner of NCFE. There were groups of people building mathematical models to show what happened to oxygen levels in water at high temperatures; others were investigating the possible microbiological impact on the salmon of local Yemeni bacteria; another group had formed a committee to write a paper entitled ‘Vision 2.020: can the Atlantic salmon (
Salmo salar
) colonise the southern Indian Ocean?’ The idea was that my salmon in the Wadi Aleyn might one day run down the wadi to the sea and swim south across the equator, and down to the edges of the Antarctic Ocean, past the Kerguelen Islands, to feed on the giant shoals of krill at the edges of the polar ice cap.

I think it was that paper that tipped David Sugden over the edge. He came storming into my office today and said he wanted a word with me. I was on the phone to Harriet but told her I would call back, and hung up.

He pulled up a chair and sat down. He was angry, but trying not to show it. ‘This salmon project is totally out of control,’ he began.

I asked him in what way.

‘People are spending money like water. You’ve been on three overseas trips this month alone.’

‘It’s not our money, of course,’ I said. ‘The sheikh sees all the bills and all the projected bills and the reporting accountants check everything, and I’m not aware that he’s unhappy. And I can’t invent a technology for transporting salmon to the middle of a desert without talking to the equipment suppliers. We can’t buy this stuff out of the classified ads in
Trout & Salmon
magazine, you know.’

It gives me some pleasure to talk to David like this. I know there’s nothing he can do about it. The sheikh is backing me first, the agency second. Harriet has made that clear several times, and David knows it as well as I do. Feeling unable to pursue the point about the money any further, David started to complain about the committee writing a vision paper on Atlantic salmon in the Indian Ocean. ‘What happens if it all goes horribly wrong and gets into the press?’

‘If all what goes horribly wrong?’

‘This stuff about Atlantic salmon actually spawning in the wadis of the Yemen and then migrating to the edge of the Antarctic Ocean. The idea of Atlantic salmon swimming around somewhere south of the Cape of Good Hope is such an outrageous proposition, it could destroy the credibility of our centre for ever if the press got hold of it.’

I looked at him. This was the man who a few weeks ago had told me he would fire me if I didn’t come up with some ideas for the salmon project.

I was saved from answering by the phone ringing. I picked it up to tell the switchboard to hold my calls but a smooth voice said, ‘It’s Peter Maxwell here, director of communications from the prime minister’s office. Is that Alfred Jones?’

I said hello and put my hand over the mouthpiece and mouthed ‘Peter Maxwell’ at David Sugden. He sat up straighter in his chair and reached for the phone.

Maxwell said, ‘I gather David Sugden’s in there with you?’ then asked to be put on the speakerphone.

I hit the button and put the phone back in its cradle. Peter Maxwell’s voice came from the speaker now—oily but somehow also steely. ‘Hi, Fred. Hi, David. Can you hear me okay?’ We both said we could.

‘Guys, I’m going into the prime minister’s morning briefing meeting in a few minutes. Can you give me a heads-up on the project? How’s it all going?’

David said, ‘We’re on track, Mr Maxwell.’

‘A little more detail would be good.’

‘I’ll let Alfred talk you through that. He’s more involved with the nuts and bolts than I am.’

‘Nuts and bolts are what I want,’ said Peter Maxwell cheerfully. So I gave him a quick summary of the work going on.

‘Good stuff, Fred. Can you put all that in an email to me just after we finish this conversation. Have you got a pen? Here’s my email address.’

I wrote it down and then Maxwell said, ‘The PM is interested in this project. He wants to see it succeed. I’ll get myself more involved once you’re a bit further down the road with it all. David, for the moment I want you to come and give me a monthly briefing, starting one month from now, or sooner if there are any dramatic developments. Talk to my secretary and get dates and times from her. And I want everyone in your centre to keep away from the press. Nothing about the Yemen salmon project must get into the public domain unless my office clears it first. Okay?’

After that conversation with Peter Maxwell, David Sugden’s mood changed. Monthly briefing meetings at Number 10 were not something he had ever dreamed would come his way.

He left my office glowing with pleasure.