Paul Torday - Salmon Fishing in the Yemen

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.

Later

Tonight Mary was back home before me. I am writing this in the spare bedroom. At first she was sweet. When I arrived home there was the smell of something delicious coming from the kitchen. Mary can be quite a good cook when she wants to be, which is not all that often. She was whisking up a sauce and wearing an apron. I kissed her hello and asked her what she was cooking. She told me it was pasta with scallops, and that there was a bottle of white wine in the fridge.

This was unprecedented. As I have noted, Mary never drinks in the week and not often at weekends.

‘I’ll just go and change,’ I said. ‘You must have come home early?’

‘Yes, I’m off to Geneva again in the morning so I thought it would be nice for us to have a proper dinner together before I go.’

Ah, so that was it. When I came downstairs dinner was ready, and two glasses of white wine were misting on the kitchen table.

‘This is really good,’ I said, after a mouthful. And it was. Mary shook her head and said something about being out of practice.

I sipped my wine and asked, ‘Do you still have no idea how long you are in Geneva for?’

‘Well, that’s just it,’ she said, putting her fork down. ‘I told you before that I’m standing in for someone who fell ill and died. They want me to stay there for at least a year, not just on a temporary basis. They’ve been very impressed with my work.’

I said it seemed a bit hard on me that she was the only person in the bank they could find to send out there. Mary frowned and said, ‘Why not me? I’m very good. It’s a great opportunity. It’s promotion, even if the salary isn’t very different.’

It was happening again. Mary could have been one of Napoleon’s generals: for her, attack was not just the best form of defence, but the only form of defence. We began to argue. Despite my intention to keep the conversation at the calm, rational level I prefer I too became annoyed. I remember saying, almost shouting, that I didn’t think she had spent five minutes considering what my feelings might be. So she told me how selfish I was and how little account I took of her career, and how I was always impossible to talk to because I thought of nothing but my bloody, bloody fish.

‘I must have told you a dozen times, if I get offered the job in Geneva as a permanent position, the next step is almost certainly a senior posting to London. I’ve told you a dozen times,’ she repeated.

‘At least a dozen,’ I said. This was not helpful of me, but I couldn’t stop myself.

‘Oh, I’m sorry if I’ve been boring you. Well, here’s a bit of news which I won’t repeat too often because I won’t be here to repeat it. I’m going to Geneva tomorrow. I will be away for at least six months before I am entitled to any leave. I can’t come home at weekends because they work Saturday mornings in the bank. If you want to come and see me, my address and some other notes for you are on my desk in the study.’