Interview with Dr Alfred Jones: his meeting with Mr Peter Maxwell and Sheikh Muhammad
Interrogator:
Describe the circumstances of Mr Peter Maxwell’s interview with Sheikh Muhammad.
Dr Alfred Jones:
It wasn’t so much an interview. This is what I’d call an interview, with all these endless questions you chaps want to ask. I don’t know what good it will all do.
Interrogator:
Of course we’d like to conduct these interviews in a friendly and cooperative way, Dr Jones. But we can do this all quite differently, you know.
Alfred Jones:
Well, I didn’t say I wouldn’t cooperate, but let me tell you about it in my own way. It was quite a long time ago now, you know. I can’t always remember every little detail.
Interrogator:
You tell it any way you want to. But miss nothing out.
Alfred Jones:
I’ll do my best. As far as I remember, after the sheikh arrived he and Peter Maxwell had a private conversation. I wasn’t included. This was political stuff, I imagine, and I was simply a humble fisheries scientist. I was left to myself for an hour or two. As far as I remember, I went up to my room and wrote up my diary, which you have already helped yourself to. I can’t remember exactly what I wrote but I know I was feeling fairly depressed. It was a gloomy day and I was feeling wretched. My wife hadn’t exactly walked out on me, but it felt as if she had.
Even Harriet wasn’t considered important enough to be included in that part of the proceedings, although she was around. She was up at Glen Tulloch before Maxwell and I got there.
Interrogator:
Harriet? You are referring to Ms Chetwode-Talbot?
Alfred Jones:
Of course. Then we were called into the sheikh’s office and I was given to understand that I was expected to make a formal report to the sheikh on the progress of the Yemen salmon project to date. I wasn’t looking forward to it. A few days before, I’d received some email correspondence from my boss David Sugden which indicated a fundamental obstacle. David had told me he would manage the supply side of the project, that is, the supply of live Atlantic salmon. Of course, as usual, he hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. He had no idea where we were going to get the salmon from at all.
Interrogator:
So you went into the sheikh’s office? Who was present at this meeting?’
Alfred Jones:
Yes, we went into the sheikh’s office and sat down around a long mahogany table. It was more like a dining-room table than an office table, and the only thing at all office-like in the room was a large desk with a plasma screen on it in one corner of the room. Malcolm the butler served us all with tea in china cups and then withdrew, and the sheikh gestured to me to start talking. So I did my best to bring him up to date. Peter Maxwell told us he was there as an ‘observer’. He had apparently already told the sheikh of the prime minister’s support and enthusiasm for the project, but he repeated this for the benefit of Harriet and me, and the sheikh murmured some word of thanks. Then Maxwell sat back in his chair looking bored and impatient while I made my report.
‘The pods for the transport of the salmon have been designed and tested. We are using Husskinnen, a Finnish environmental engineering specialist, to do the feasibility and test work. Broadly speaking, we are comfortable with our estimates on cost and we believe the salmon will survive the journey without undue stress from vibration or noise, as the design insulates the pod from the aircraft itself.’
I ticked an item on my list and looked around for questions. Apart from the sheikh, Harriet Chetwode-Talbot and Peter Maxwell were the only other people in the room, as Malcolm had left by then. Nobody said anything.
‘We have analysed the water samples sent to us from the Wadi Aleyn and from the aquifers. Of course I need to take a team out there on a field trip to get a proper idea of conditions and the challenges we will face, but the initial samples suggest no factors, other than extreme heat and lack of dissolved oxygen, which might pose a threat to salmon.’
Peter Maxwell took out his Blackberry and started scrolling through his emails.
‘The design of the holding pens is now in its fifth revision, Sheikh, and I regret to say that our original estimates on cost look a bit optimistic. There is a probable overrun of 20 per cent on our original budget for this phase. The engineering firm Arup is in charge of this part of the project.
‘Broadly speaking, we envisage a series of concrete basins adjacent to the wadi. These will fill from rainwater, and the water levels will be maintained by additional water pumped from the aquifer. The basins will be partly covered by an aluminium mesh canopy, which will allow some sunlight through but reflect most of the heat, and this should help keep the water temperature within a manageable range. In addition, we will have heat exchangers along the walls of the basin to help take out excess heat. We have to ensure a balance between keeping the salmon comfortable and ensuring the temperature gradient when they finally enter the wadi is not too steep. We will have bubblers around the walls of the basin to ensure there is enough dissolved oxygen in the water to keep the fish alive. Interestingly, both Air Products and BOC have bid for the oxygenation equipment on a below-cost basis, as they want the publicity. We will need planning permission to install these basins and I presume we will also need an environmental impact assessment carried out.’
With a slight gesture of his hand, the sheikh indicated the absurdity and irrelevance of an environmental impact assessment. Then I reached the part of the project that concerned me most. It was a real snag. We couldn’t get hold of any salmon. I think I already told you that David’s confidence he could deliver on this part of the project had been misplaced.
Interrogator:
We have seen the relevant email correspondence.
Alfred Jones:
Then you’ll know how David managed to upset in a very short time most of the people who could have helped us. We had been in talks with the Environment Agency and the Scottish Environment Protection Agency, and we couldn’t find a single river in England, Wales or Scotland prepared to allow us to take away any of their salmon. I remember Tom Price-Williams, the man I spoke to at the Environment Agency, turning pale when I suggested it at one of the meetings David sent me to…to try and smooth things over after he’d already made a complete hash of things.
‘Take salmon out of their rivers and send them to Saudi Arabia?’ said Tom. ‘You don’t know the fishing community. They’d sooner sell their children into slavery.’
‘It’s the Yemen, actually,’ I told him.
‘They’d be up in arms,’ he said. ‘They care more about those fish than anything. I wouldn’t rule out guerrilla warfare if we attempted any such thing.’
I described all this to the sheikh. Peter Maxwell looked up from his Blackberry and the sheikh frowned. Harriet already knew, as I had told her about it on the plane. There was more bad news. Even if the Environment Agency or the Scottish Environment Protection Agency let us take some salmon parr from some of the more abundant rivers, there was another fundamental snag.
Those salmon parr will have never been out to sea, and if we grow them to smolts, their instincts will urge them to head for saltwater, where all salmon spend two to three winters before returning to their home river to spawn. So we might spend millions on rearing salmon from juvenile fish and sending them out to the Yemen, and find that when we release them into the wadi, instead of turning upstream they might, as it were, turn left for the Indian Ocean and vanish for ever. This would ruin the whole project.
I said, ‘So the next thing was, we discussed with the environment agencies the prospect of trapping returning salmon which have grown up in the Tyne or the Tweed or the Spey, have matured and have come back to their rivers to spawn. The agencies absolutely refused to contemplate this. Firstly, to trap mature salmon and then export them to the Middle East would be in breach of the agencies’ statutory duty to protect their fisheries. It would require an act of Parliament to amend their mandates in order for them to do this. And, as Tom told me, there would probably be a popular uprising.’
‘Let’s not go there,’ said Peter Maxwell. He was now following the discussion, and the words ‘act of Parliament’ had him sitting bolt upright, his ears twitching like a hare’s. ‘That’s not an option.’
‘I’m sure not,’ I agreed, ‘and in any case, the agencies wouldn’t apply for one. The other problem the agencies would encounter if this course of action was suggested is open warfare from the angling community. Not a fisherman in the country would allow a single returning salmon he is hoping to fish for to be extracted from the river before he has had a chance to try for it, and then be shipped to the Yemen. It simply couldn’t happen.’
‘And,’ said Peter Maxwell, ‘the whole point of this project, as far as the government is concerned, is to win goodwill in the Middle East. I’ll be perfectly frank about that, Sheikh Muhammad. And that only works if, while we are doing that, we don’t create a corresponding or greater amount of ill will at home. Ill will among voters. So, the bottom line is, we need another solution or else we need to scrap the project.’
There was a silence around the table. Harriet looked at the papers on her desk and said nothing. Peter Maxwell looked from face to face as if daring anyone to challenge him.
‘Mr Maxwell,’ said the sheikh mildly, ‘of course this project will continue, and of course it will succeed. I have great confidence in Dr Alfred. If he comes to me with a problem, I know that he will already have found the solution to that problem. Is that not so, Dr Alfred?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘I have a solution. But I’m not sure if you will like it.’
Interrogator:
And what was that solution?
Alfred Jones:
I’ll get to it. After the meeting we went upstairs and bathed and changed, and then came down for dinner.
Interrogator:
Did Peter Maxwell say anything further that you can recall over dinner?
Alfred Jones:
I don’t think anybody spoke a great deal that evening. Dinner was a formal, silent occasion. Malcolm waited on us, treading soft-footed behind our chairs and serving us with what I remembered from my last visit to Glen Tulloch: the most delicious food accompanied by the best wines. For me, it might have been ashes on my plate, vinegar in my glass. I pushed the food around and sipped at my wine without tasting it. Even Peter Maxwell didn’t have much to say, after one or two unsuccessful attempts to draw the sheikh on the subject of his feelings of friendship towards the UK.
I saw Harriet glance at me once or twice, and I realised my expression must be giving away something about how miserable I felt. I have never been very good at hiding my feelings. For a while there was no sound except the clink of cutlery. The sheikh never minded whether one spoke or not; he did not feel the need to entertain, or to be entertained. The sort of social conversation we need, like we need air to breathe, was foreign to him. There were things to be discussed or there were not. There were stories to be told or there were not.
Peter Maxwell couldn’t stand it. I could see he liked being the centre of attention, and one or two further conversational gambits, this time mostly directed at Harriet, had gone nowhere.
Finally he said, ‘Sheikh, as you know, the prime minister is a passionate fisherman. That is to say, he would be, if he ever got the free time.’
The sheikh smiled and said, ‘I am sorry he has not the time. It must be very sad to love something so much and never do it.’
‘Well, the prime minister is a very busy man. I’m sure you understand. But, if you get the salmon project to work, he’d really love the chance to come and see it in action.’
‘Your prime minister is most welcome, if he ever finds some free time,’ said the sheikh.
‘What I really mean is,’ said Peter Maxwell, ‘that an official invitation from you some time nearer the launch date would be looked on very favourably by Number 10.’
‘Who is this Number 10?’ asked the sheikh, pretending to look puzzled.
‘I mean by the prime minister’s office.’
‘Of course, the prime minister is most welcome then or at any time. He has only to say, and we will receive him in our modest home and he can join with us and enjoy his passion for fishing for as much time as his busy life will permit him to stay. You, too, are most welcome, Mr Maxwell. Are you also a passionate fisherman?’
‘I don’t know how,’ said Mr Maxwell. ‘Never had the time to try. I’d like to come, though. May I take it that we have your invitation to attend the opening of the Yemen salmon project, whenever that might be?’
‘Of course, of course,’ said the sheikh. ‘We would be greatly honoured.’
‘And, Sheikh,’ said Peter Maxwell, ‘of course I don’t know how long Jay can stay until we can look at dates with you, but I presume if I give you some dates he currently has free, we could work the project launch timetable around that?’
‘Dr Alfred and Ms Harriet Chetwode-Talbot are the guardians of the project, Mr Maxwell, and you must speak with them about dates and arrangements of that kind.’
Peter Maxwell looked at me and said, ‘You’ll keep me in the loop, Fred.’ It was an order, not a question. Then he turned back to the sheikh and said, ‘One last thing, Sheikh. Jay—the prime minister, I mean—thinks it would be a great idea for the project if he could be photographed beside you with a rod in his hand. Maybe we could organise for him to catch a salmon, or something, while he’s there. We sort of imagine that if he can fly into Sana’a, catch a helicopter down to the site, maybe spend twenty minutes meeting the project team and getting a few handshake photos, maybe present some sort of award, then twenty minutes with you guys—I mean you, Sheikh, and some of those people we saw out on the lawn earlier today—all with fishing rods. We could get some more group photos. It would be great if everyone was wearing full tribal dress with those dagger things. Maybe Jay could do a quick change into some sort of kit, you know, like he was an honorary tribesman…’
I felt myself blushing on behalf of Peter Maxwell but the sheikh only smiled and nodded. ‘And will the prime minister be able to spare twenty minutes to catch a salmon with me?’
‘We’ll have to work up a schedule but, yes, we need a good photo of Jay catching a salmon. Maybe the first salmon ever caught in the Arabian peninsula. That would be great publicity for the project. Of course, we’d let you use the photos in all your marketing literature.’
‘Sometimes it takes a little longer to catch a fish,’ said the sheikh. ‘Even here, in Glen Tulloch, where we have many salmon, it may take hours or days before one is caught.’
‘I’ll leave that to Fred,’ said Peter Maxwell. ‘He’s the salmon expert. But, Fred, the prime minister is going to expect to hook a fish. I don’t much care how you do it, but you need to make sure that happens.’
I just stared at him, but the sheikh spoke before I could say what I felt like telling Peter Maxwell to go and do. ‘I am sure Dr Alfred will find a way of keeping your prime minister happy. If he is a passionate fisherman, as you say, then he will be happy whatever happens, and it will give me great pleasure to greet him in the Wadi Aleyn and to welcome him as our guest, and to fish with him on our new river. Perhaps Dr Alfred can find him a fish. It will be as God wills.’
‘Great,’ said Peter Maxwell. ‘We think this project is an excellent idea, Sheikh, very imaginative and innovative, and the prime minister is delighted you are using British engineers and scientists to achieve your goals. We very much want to be a part of it, so that the Yemen nation can understand that we British are a sympathetic ally, pro-democracy and pro-fishing, ready to share our technology to help aspiring Yemeni anglers fulfil their dreams.’
He looked around the table as if he had made a speech, to see what effect it had had on us. I suppose it was a sort of speech. The sheikh nodded and said, ‘I am not a political man, Mr Maxwell, just someone who wants to share the joy of salmon fishing with a few of my tribe, and show them what can be done if there is faith enough.’
‘With your faith and our technology, we will have salmon leaping all over the place,’ said Peter Maxwell, ‘and you can expect a lot of high-rolling, big-spending tourists coming in to benefit from the Yemen salmon experience, I am sure. It will repay your investment many times. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few emails I need to deal with before I go to bed.’ And he picked up his Blackberry and went upstairs.
‘I do not think Mr Maxwell quite understands us yet,’ said the sheikh when Peter Maxwell had left the room. ‘But perhaps, one day, God will reveal himself to him and help him understand.’
The three of us sat together for a while longer, the candles on the dining-room table burning low. Being with Sheikh Muhammad had a calming effect on me, especially now we were without the abrasive presence of Peter Maxwell. For a while no one spoke.
I wondered if the sheikh would say something more about Peter Maxwell, for although he had shown not the least sign of it, I was sure he disliked him. Instead he surprised me by turning his eyes upon me and saying, ‘You seem sad, Dr Alfred.’
I did not know what to say. I flushed again and was thankful that in the candlelight the change in my colour was probably not obvious. I saw Harriet look from the sheikh to me, intently.
‘Oh…nothing. A few problems at home, that’s all,’ I said.
‘You have illness in your home?’
‘No, it’s nothing like that.’
‘Then do not tell me, for it is not my affair. But I regret to see your sadness, Dr Alfred. I would rather see you with an untroubled spirit and with your whole heart and mind bent upon our project. You need to learn to have faith, Dr Alfred. We believe that faith is the cure that heals all troubles. Without faith there is no hope and no love. Faith comes before hope, and before love.’
‘I’m not very religious, I’m afraid,’ I said.
‘You cannot know,’ said the sheikh. ‘You have not looked inside yourself, and you have never asked yourself the question. One day, perhaps, something will happen that will cause you to ask yourself that question. I think you will be surprised at the answer that comes back.’
He smiled, as if he realised the conversation was getting a little deep for the time of night, and then made a gesture with his hand. Malcolm materialised from nowhere, startling me, for I was absorbed in what the sheikh was saying, without understanding him. The butler must have been standing in the shadows of the dining room, watching, perhaps listening. He pulled back the chair as the sheikh stood up. Harriet and I both got up at the same time.
‘Good night,’ said the sheikh. ‘May your sleep bring you peace of mind.’ Then he was gone.
Harriet and I walked slowly up the staircase together without speaking. On the landing, she turned to me and said, ‘Fred, if ever there’s anything you want to talk about…talk to me. I can see things are not right with you. I hope you can count me as a friend. I don’t want you to be unhappy either.’ She leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek and I smelled her warm perfume. Her hand brushed mine for a moment. Then she turned away.
‘Thanks,’ I said to her, as she walked down the corridor to her room. I don’t know if she heard me.
I thought for a while about my life as I undressed in my bedroom. It was warm, and a fire still burned low in the grate. I hung my borrowed evening clothes in the wardrobe and changed into my borrowed pyjamas and, having brushed my teeth, climbed between the white linen sheets of the enormous, soft bed.
What a strange evening it had been.
I remember thinking as I lay in bed that everything about my life is strange now. I am sailing in uncharted waters and my old life is a distant shore, still visible through the haze of retrospection, but receding to a grey line on the horizon. What lies ahead, I do not know. What had the sheikh said? I could feel sleep coming upon me fast, and the words that came into my mind, my last waking thought, were his but also seemed to come from somewhere else: ‘Faith comes before hope, and before love.’
I slept better that night than I had done for a long time.
Interrogator:
Describe how you found the salmon?
Alfred Jones:
It is not my happiest memory. The chartered helicopter came to pick us up after breakfast the next morning and the sheikh, Harriet, Peter Maxwell and I climbed in and buckled our straps. The blades started turning and then, in a moment, the grey roofs and soft green lawns of Glen Tulloch were slipping sideways below us. We flew amongst the scurrying rain clouds and over the brown moors beyond the house, which sloped gradually upwards to become craggy mountains.
Then the helicopter found a line of lochs heading southwest. I think it must have been the Great Glen. Low clouds brushed against the helicopter and obscured the view from time to time until suddenly the sky cleared and it seemed as if we were flying straight into a brilliant sun. Below us now, sheets of water alternated with the spongy greens and browns of headlands, and I saw we were losing height and approaching the shore of a sea loch. I glimpsed the structures I expected to see below us.
We landed in an empty car park next to some Portakabins. Beyond them was a jetty with a couple of boats tied up, and beyond that, metal structures in the loch glinted in the sunlight. As the rotors stopped spinning, a door in one of the Portakabins opened, and two figures in oilskins and hard hats came out to greet us.
When we were on the ground the first of them shouted above the engine noise, ‘Dr Jones? Dr Alfred Jones?’
The pilot cut the engines and I said, ‘That’s me. Archie Campbell?’
‘Aye, that’s me. Welcome to McSalmon Aqua Farms, Dr Jones.’
I presented Peter Maxwell and Harriet and the sheikh to him. The sheikh was wearing a beret and a military-looking pullover with epaulettes, and khaki drill trousers. Harriet and I were in waxed jackets and jeans. Peter Maxwell was wearing a white trench coat over his suit and looked, I thought, like a private detective from a bad film.
Archie Campbell gestured behind him to the cages moored in the loch.
‘You want a tour?’
‘That was rather the idea.’
We went into the Portakabin and were handed cups of hot Nescafe. Then Archie Campbell said, ‘Well, now. Let me tell you what we do here. We raise the finest, freshest salmon that money can buy. Don’t believe what they tell you. There’s nothing wrong with farmed salmon. And at least you know where they’ve been, not like the wild ones which could have swum through anything!’
He roared with laughter to show it was a joke. On the wall of the cabin was a laminated chart showing the different stages of rearing farmed salmon: the freshwater hatchery where the broodstock was reared to become alevins, then fry; the cages where the salmon parr were released and grown to smolts; the big cages further out in the saltwater of the loch where the smolts were ranched to become mature salmon. Archie led us through all this and then, when it was obvious we had had enough, suggested a tour by boat.
There was a converted fishing boat tied up to a jetty; we climbed in and slowly chugged out into the middle of the loch. Now that we were close we could see the metal structures were a series of booms which formed the tops of deep cages moored to the bed of the loch. The water inside these booms was frantic with movement, boiling with the desperate churning of tens of thousands of fish which all wanted to be somewhere else. Every few seconds a fish would leap out of the water as if it was attempting to escape or climb some fish ladder or run up some waterfall that its instincts or its race memory told it should be there. I could hardly bear to look. Here was a creature whose most profound instincts urged it to swim downriver until it could smell the saltwater of the ocean and then find the feeding grounds of its ancestors in the far north of the Atlantic, where it would live for the next two or three years. And then, by an even greater miracle, it would return south, travelling past the mouths of all of the rivers where it might have been born until something made it turn north again, searching the coastal waters until it smelt or sensed in some other way the river waters that led to the place where it had been spawned. But these salmon spent their whole lives in a cage a few metres deep and a few metres wide. ‘Look at the little darlings,’ said Archie Campbell fondly. ‘Look at all the exercise they get. Don’t tell me they aren’t every bit as fit as wild salmon.’
The water around the cages was cloudy with effluent, debris of all sorts floating past. The sheikh looked around him with growing dismay. Then he turned to me and said, ‘This is the only way? The only way?’
‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘The only way.’
‘And how many was it you will be wanting, Dr Jones?’ asked Archie Campbell.
‘We’re still working on numbers. Think along the lines of five thousand, if you can.’
‘It’s a big order. We’ll need notice.’
‘I know,’ I said.
On the flight back to Glen Tulloch the sheikh said nothing for a while. I knew this was not what he had envisaged. He had imagined silver fish which had run home from the storm-tossed waters of the North Atlantic, fresh as paint, surging miraculously up the waters of the Wadi Aleyn. He had not imagined these sea lice-infested creatures, born and raised in the equivalent of a gigantic prison.
But that was what we were going to have to use; there was no other solution. Eventually, the sheikh smiled a bitter smile, turned to Peter Maxwell and said, ‘You see, Mr Maxwell, how our project answers to the wishes of your government? How well it matches your policies? We will liberate these salmon from captivity. We will give them freedom. And we will give them a choice. We will release them into the waters of the wadi, and they can vote to turn one way to the sea, or the other way to the mountains. I think that is very democratic, is it not?’
Peter Maxwell, I remember, chewed his lip and said nothing.