2007 - Salmon Fishing in the Yemen (2 page)

For Mary’s anniversary present, I have bought her a subscription to
The Economist
, which I know she enjoys reading but begrudges the cost of buying for herself. She bought me a replacement brush for my electric toothbrush, which is most useful. I never think much about anniversaries. The years pass seamlessly. But for some reason tonight I feel I ought to reflect on what is now many years of marriage to Mary. We married not long after leaving Oxford. It was not a whirlwind romance, but I think ours has been a calm and settled relationship suitable for two rational and career-minded people such as ourselves.

We are both humanists, professionals and scientists. Mary’s science is the analysis of risks inherent in the movement of cash and credit around the world’s financial systems. She has written papers such as ‘The role of SDKs (Special Deposit Reserves) in mitigating unusual flows of non-reserve currencies’ which have attracted a great deal of attention and I enjoyed reading myself, although I could not follow some of the algorithms. Mary has now moved from the more academic wing of the bank into the managerial side. She is prospering, well paid and respected, and likely to go far. The only disadvantage is that we are tending to see a little less of each other as she has to travel a great deal these days.

I made my name with my study ‘The effects of alkaline solutions on freshwater mussel populations’, which introduced some groundbreaking new concepts concerning the mating of freshwater mussels. Since then, my career has developed too. I am not as well remunerated as Mary, but my work gives me satisfaction and I believe I am well thought of by my peers.

Mary and I have chosen not to have children. Our lives are therefore relatively unruffled. I am aware that a childless marriage is sometimes an excuse for selfishness and therefore we both make a conscious effort to engage with our community in the little spare time that we have. Mary gives lessons in economic theory at our local immigration centre to migrants from Chechnya and Kurdistan, who seem to end up in our area. I give lectures to the local humanist society from time to time. Last week I gave the third in a series of talks, ‘Why God cannot exist’, and I like to think that these talks in some way provoke the audience to question the superstitions of earlier eras which still linger on in the religious teachings that regrettably persist in some of our schools.

What else can I say about more than two decades of marriage? We both keep ourselves fit. I go running two or three times a week; Mary does Yoga when she can. We were vegetarians but now eat fish and white meat, and I allow myself alcohol from time to time although Mary does so rarely. We enjoy reading as long as the books are improving or informative, and occasionally go to the theatre or to art exhibitions.

And I fish, an unreconstructed activity of which Mary disapproves. She says fish feel pain whereas I, as a fishery scientist, know that they do not. It is perhaps the one subject on which we have to agree to disagree.

So there it is: another anniversary. This year has been much like the last year, and that year was very like the one before. If I occasionally wish for a little more excitement, a little more passion in our lives, I can usually put this down to neglecting to follow the dietary guideline that people of my blood group (Type A) should follow: not too much meat. Occasionally I fall prey to temptation and eat some beef, and so it is not surprising I then have irrational feelings of…I am not sure what? Am I bored, perhaps? How could I be?

It only takes something like this Yemen salmon project to raise its head to remind me that I have a dislike of the irrational, the unpredictable and the unknown.

§

8 June

We had a departmental meeting today to consider the final draft of my paper ‘Effects of increased water acidity on the caddis fly larva’. Everyone is being very complimentary, especially David Sugden. Is this a peace offering? He has not pressed me again about the Yemen salmon project and I, of course, have done nothing. I have just kept my head down and am waiting for the whole issue to go away. Anyway, the director’s public praise for the work on caddis flies was a pat on the back for my team. In fact, David went so far as to say that, following the publication of my article, there was probably nothing further worth saying about the caddis fly. Praise indeed. At such times I know that the money doesn’t really matter. Mary sometimes complains that I am not paid enough, but there is much more to life than one’s salary. I have moved forward the boundaries of human knowledge about a little brown insect that, insignificant as it may be in itself, is a vital indicator of the health of our rivers.

Both
Trout & Salmon
and
Atlantic Salmon Journal
want a press release.

Mary is in New York. She was home all of Friday and Saturday. Nevertheless, the fridge is empty. I have just been down the street to the late-night Indian takeaway, to buy a few things to eat, and I am sitting here writing up my diary and mopping balti chicken from my lap after some of it slipped off the plastic fork. I have just realised that I forgot to buy any coffee for tomorrow morning.

A last word of self-reproach after a day of professional triumph. How selfish I am, going on about my own success with my caddis fly research—I want to record my admiration for Mary, whose work, which I alluded to in yesterday’s entry and although of a different nature to mine, has attracted comment and admiration at her bank, InterFinance S. A. She is on the fast track at InterFinance. I am a huge believer in women doing well, and to see it happen to one’s own wife in the male-oriented world of finance is very rewarding. The female caddis fly also plays a profoundly important role in her social group.

§

9 June

My bowel movements this morning were somewhat affected by the takeway, perhaps not surprisingly. I did not go for my usual morning run as I felt rather unwell. There was no coffee left in the tin, and the single pint of long-life milk was well out of date. I arrived at the office feeling out of sorts and it took me a while to get into gear.

It is odd how quickly things can change in one’s life. For the last two days I have been contemplating the tranquil and intellectually engaged nature of my life with Mary, and the intense reward I can still derive from a piece of scientific work well done. All that seems, for the moment, as nothing.

I now have to record one of the most unpleasant incidents of my professional career. At 10.00 a.m. I was sitting with Ray, selecting the most visually compelling photographs to accompany the caddis fly article, when Sally came in and told me David Sugden wanted to see me right away. I said I would go along to David’s office in a few minutes, as soon as Ray and I had finished.

Sally gave me a strange look. I remember her exact words. She said, ‘Alfred, the director means
right away
. He means
now
.’

I stood up and apologised to Ray, telling him I would be back in a few minutes. I walked along the corridor to David’s office feeling a little angry. Ours is a consensual department. We are scientists rather than managers. Hierarchies mean little to us, being treated as human beings means everything. David has, on the whole, got the hang of this and although he is a career civil servant he has fitted in quite well. He has certainly been here long enough to know I do not like being bullied or pressurised.

When I entered David’s office I forced myself to smile and keep any sign of annoyance out of my voice. I said something like, ‘What’s the emergency?’

I think it is important to remind David that he is a manager and that I am a scientist. Without scientists, there would be no need for managers.

As usual David’s desk was absolutely clear of paper. A flat-screen computer monitor and keyboard sat on it, otherwise it was several square feet of matt black metal, relieved only by two sheets of paper. He lifted one of them, without inviting me to sit down, as he usually does. He waved it in front of me. I could not see what it was. Then he told me it was my P45. He put it down on the desk and waited for me to say something. At first I did not take in his words, then my heart started hammering. I replied that I did not understand.

David looked at me without smiling. He said, ‘I know you live somewhat in an ivory tower, Alfred, but even you must be aware what a P45 is? You need it for the Inland Revenue and social security people when your employment is terminated by your employer—in this case, us.’

I stared at him. David put down the first piece of paper and picked up the second. He explained that it was a letter, drafted in my name, to Fitzharris & Price. It was a request for a meeting to discuss the Yemen salmon project in the near future. The tone of the letter was apologetic and wheedling, explaining my delay in replying was due to pressure of work and expressing my hope that the opportunity to work together was still there. After I finished reading it I found I was trembling, but whether with annoyance or alarm, I was not sure.

David picked up the P45 again and took back the letter to Fitzharris & Price. He held them up in front of me and explained in a neutral tone of voice, ‘Dr Jones, you can leave the office with your P45 or you can take away this letter and sign it and get it sent by messenger round to Fitzharris & Price. Personally, I am wholly indifferent which you choose to do, but I believe Fitzharris & Price has been told you are the man to talk to, otherwise I have to say I would not have given you the luxury of this choice.’

I looked around me for a chair. I saw one on my left and asked if I could sit down.

David looked at his watch and told me he had an appointment with the minister in half an hour. He said, ‘The minister will be asking me for a progress report on this project. What am I going to be able to tell him?’

I swallowed several times. My legs were trembling. I pulled the chair across, sat in it and said, ‘David, this is wholly unreasonable—’

He interrupted me. ‘Which piece of paper are you going to leave this office with?’

I could not speak. This Nazi behaviour shocked me to the core. I pointed to the letter to Fitzharris & Price.

‘Then sign it now.’

‘May I have a moment to read it?’ I asked.

‘No.’

For a moment I almost lost control. I wanted to crumple the letter up and fling it in David Sugden’s face, but instead I found myself reaching inside my jacket for my fountain pen, and then I pulled the hateful rectangle of paper towards me and signed it.

David immediately took it from me and told me he would send it by messenger himself. He said he had cancelled all my diary appointments by email for the next month. I had one priority, and one priority only, if I wanted to keep my job. I had to meet Harriet Chetwode-Talbot, persuade her that the National Centre for Fisheries Excellence was the only organisation that had any chance of coming up with a proposal for her salmon project, and I had to persuade her that I was the right man for that job.

I nodded. David stood up. He looked for a moment as if he was going to say something by way of apology or explanation. Then he checked his watch again and said, ‘I mustn’t keep the minister waiting.’

I left without saying anything further, I hope with some dignity.

Now, as I record these unpleasant events, I reflect that it would have been nice if Mary had been at home tonight. Sometimes one wants to talk things over with one’s partner. Mary doesn’t like long phone calls. She says phone calls are for information. The trouble is, she isn’t often at home to have the conversations that she doesn’t feel we should have on the phone. But I’m so proud of the way she is getting on.

I hope she will be proud of me when I tell her of the dignified way I stood up to David Sugden’s bully-boy tactics.

§

15 June

I am writing this in the office.

Mary comes home tonight. I find I have been missing her. There is nothing to eat in the entire house. I must remember to call in at Marks & Spencer on the way home. I will buy some ready-to-eat meals. I must remember to get a new pair of pyjamas, as the elastic has gone in my present (Tesco) pair. I have kept a note of the mean time between failure (MTBF) of various things like socks—hole in the heel; pyjamas—elastic cord failure. I am afraid that I can detect a clear downward trend, almost a planned obsolescence, in some of these products. I am hoping Marks & Spencer will be more reliable.

No bowel movement this morning. A sure sign of stress. I did go for a run, however, and burned off some of the anger that has been churning inside me like bile.

This morning I received a phone call. Sally buzzed through to me and said there was a Harriet Someone on the line from Fitzharris & Price, and would I take the call? For a moment, glorious rebellion: I so nearly said, ‘No, tell her I’m busy.’ But instead I told Sally to put the call through—a girl’s voice with what I would call a cut-glass accent asked if she was speaking to Dr Jones.

She was very polite. She apologised for disturbing me, told me she understood I had been very busy with some major projects and said she would not have disturbed me at present except that her client was being very pressing. Then she asked if I recalled her original letter about introducing salmon to the Yemen?

I made an assenting sound at the back of my throat. I did not trust myself to speak. She took this to mean yes and asked when we could meet. For a moment I was tempted to shout, ‘Never!’ but instead I found myself agreeing to go and visit her at her office in St James’s Street the following morning.

‘Will your client be there?’ I asked.

‘No, he is in the Yemen. But he is anxious to meet you on one of his future trips over here. That is, if you agree to take this any further after our meeting tomorrow.’ We agreed on a time to meet at her office in St James’s Street.

Later

Mary has just come home. She arrived at Heathrow this morning about seven and went straight to her office, and of course she has overdone it. She looked at the Marks & Spencer Italian Selection I had purchased and said, ‘I’m sorry, Alfred, I’ve just got no appetite.’