Birds of the Nile (2 page)

She’d been coming to him for just over a month now. Her visits had been sporadic at first but as their relationship had gradually re-established itself, they’d become more regular. She’d only ever meant to call the once, just to say hello and to see if he had news, but she’d immediately taken pity on him and felt compelled to return. When it became clear that they shared a mutual interest, she would make the journey daily if there was something to report. Even if not, he knew that she’d not leave it long before boarding a cross-town bus and mounting the stairs to his flat to give that precious hour that meant so much to him.

Their first meeting was filled with emotion. She’d turned up entirely unannounced and that was a surprise in itself. Even before he’d left the Embassy he’d been unused to receiving visitors. True, Carpenter would occasionally drop by, lumbering up the stairway armed with his usual bottle of whisky (‘the quinine of the desert’ as he called it) and insist on a couple of drinks – but beyond the routine calls of the cleaner and the laundryman, he passed his days alone. Who wanted to spend time with him, now he’d so little offer? The fact that it was her of all people to break the mould only seemed to heighten his strength of feeling.

I never thought I’d see you again…

Strictly speaking, he couldn’t, but what he meant was her presence, her touch, her feel. He could tell that she’d changed. She no longer wore jeans (he could hear the swish of her skirt as she came in at the door) and the clump of her Cuban heels had been replaced by the scuff of soft-soled shoes. Her voice had mellowed as if in the year since they’d last met, her youthful confidence had been squeezed out of her and the girl he remembered (she’d been no more than that at the time) had become a woman. Her hair would be different now and he imagined she’d let it grow long. Sometimes, all he wanted was to reach out and
touch it…

His condition had come as a shock to her. She wasn’t prepared for it and there had been tears, hot on her cheek and the back of his hand.

She’d brushed them off saying, “Sorry, I had no idea…”

“…that I was blind? Did no-one tell you?”

You’d have thought someone at the Embassy would have made her aware and explained it to her (why hadn’t Carpenter done so for God’s sake?) – but apparently not, so she’d been forced to find out for herself. To see him so reduced had brought out an overwhelming sense of compassion in her. So despite her intention to make just the one visit, when that first meeting ended and she began to take her leave, she’d accepted his invitation straight away.

“You will come back, won’t you?” he’d said.

“Yes, yes, I will,” she’d responded instead of a perfunctory
Of course
.

A few days later she’d returned and their newfound friendship began.

At first they’d filled their time with small talk. There’d been much to catch up on – his enforced retirement and loss of sight, her experiences in America and the reasons for her return – all had to be talked through. But he knew there’d come a point when these topics would be exhausted, there’d be a lull in the conversation and she’d ask the inevitable question. Although when she did, it was couched in the most general of terms.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen any of the others, since?”

He braced himself for her reaction, knowing he’d have to contend with her disappointment when he told her, no, she’d been the first. There’d been a protracted silence while she’d digested the news, then they’d resumed where they’d left off, politely, as if to cover over the point.

After two or three of these get-togethers she made a
suggestion. She’d clearly thought about it in advance as she introduced it carefully into the conversation. She must have felt that she wanted to be of service to him in some way and had realised how inappropriate it would be for her to offer to cook or clean or wash his shirts. Besides, these were matters that were already taken care of.

“Why don’t you let me read to you?”

“I’d be pleased if you would,” he’d replied.

As opposed to chores, this was a pleasure she could readily provide.

To begin with, she came armed with a newspaper and gave him snippets of the latest events. But he was already up to date with affairs, the small radio in the corner of the room tuned permanently to the BBC. He clearly wanted more than that and when she’d gone on to ask him his favourite author so she could bring a copy on her next visit, he’d immediately pushed himself up out of his wicker chair and tapped his way across to the bookcase on the other side of the room (he used a thin cane in the flat rather than the stout white stick he took outdoors). He reached up and took down a small volume before returning to his seat and handing it to her.

“Here, this will be fine.”

She’d expected something classical, Dickens perhaps, or Austen – or in the case of poetry, Shelley or Keats, but she was presented with a complete surprise. The work he’d given her was a small reference book, filled with a mixture of text and coloured plates. On closer inspection she could see it was worn and well-thumbed, but even then she thought that in his blindness he’d made a mistake. She read out the title to confirm his choice.

“‘A Photographic Guide to Birds of Egypt and the Middle East’ by Cottridge and Porter. Is that really what you meant?”

“Exactly.”

Then, still puzzled, but somewhat reassured, “So where should I start?”

“At the beginning…”

He didn’t want to sound facetious, but neither did he want to miss a single word.

So she simply turned to the first page and began.

“‘In terms of its birdlife, Egypt is one of the better-studied countries in the Middle East. A large number of species have been recorded, and the country list stands at over 470. Because of its strategic geographical position…’”

He took a long, slow breath as he heard the words he’d read himself so often before. She was not yet halfway through the opening paragraph and the memories were flooding back – and she’d not even got to the birds!

She paused, thinking there was something wrong.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, absolutely fine. Please continue.”

Now that he’d got her started, he’d no thought of stopping her.

At their next meeting, after she’d completed the preface and the introductory chapter, they moved on to the catalogue of species with its individual descriptions and coloured plates. It was divided into sections, beginning with ostriches and grebes, and at first he allowed her to read right through, letting each description illuminate the picture in his mind. It was when she reached herons, egrets and storks that he asked her to adopt a different approach, omitting the title at the top of each page so he could make a guess from her verbal depiction. In her desire to please him, she was happy to comply.

“‘A plump heron, which is much smaller than Grey Heron, and in adult plumage is easily distinguished by its grey plumage with black crown and back. In flight the bird’s appearance is largely grey…’”

It sat on the stern rail of an old felucca moored beneath the steps at the back of Elephantine Island. Stock still, it stared at him, its long
white crest plumes fluttering in the breeze
.

“Night Heron.”

“Yes, well done.”

She nodded and moved on.

“‘A small, dark, coastal heron. The adult is identified by its black crown, bluish-grey upperparts, paler greyish neck and under-parts. At close range, note its rather marked facial pattern…’”

The boat had come to a halt next to a mangrove swamp. Crouched beneath the overhanging branches he’d seen the bird before it had suddenly taken fright and rushed for cover, extending its long yellow legs
.

“Striated Heron.”

She soon came to understand the depth of his knowledge and the reading of the book became like a game to them. She’d try to disguise the descriptions as much as she could, challenging him to reach his conclusions. From time to time she’d skip a section and move to something new and out of context with a view to catching him off guard.

“‘A large waterbird, as big as a chicken, and easily told by its stout bright red bill, pinkish red legs and bluish-green plumage. Those occurring in Egypt are of the green-backed form…’”

Her attempt at deception had made him laugh.

“That’s unfair! It’s Purple Gallinule, by the way.”

He could see it now just as clearly as he had then, a great fat bird
,
strutting through the reedbed, tugging at the vegetation
.

After she’d failed repeatedly to catch him out, she asked the obvious question.

“You know these birds?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You’ve seen them all?”

He nodded. He had – and so could she have done if she’d only taken the trouble to look but she’d had no interest in such things at the time. Her mind had been engaged elsewhere, as far from
the study of birds as it was possible to be, and they’d had no meaning for her. They had no meaning for her now, but for him they were everything – they were the world in his head, the world beyond Cairo, the world he could no longer see. And besides, they served to remind him of the trip they’d taken in each other’s company just over twelve months before…

It had begun amidst the smog and sultry heat of a late November morning at the Embassy building in Cairo. The pile of papers which had been steadily accumulating on Blake’s desk during the previous fortnight had finally started to annoy him. His in-tray was full to overflowing. God knew what was in there – memos from the First Secretary, the quarterly report of The Council, there might even be something on the Trade Exhibition he was organising in Alexandria. But whatever it was, there was far too much of it. Soon he’d have to have a blitz and get rid of it all – otherwise he wouldn’t be able to function.

It amazed him how much paper there was for him to deal with. In this age of computers and electronic communication you’d have thought there’d have been less of it, but the reality was quite to the contrary. Computers meant protection, encryption and the constant need to avoid hacking – so in the end it was simpler just to send someone a piece of paper. There was something solid and dependable about paper, you could rely on it being in no more than one place at any one time – unlike an email, which once you’d committed it to cyberspace could simultaneously be anywhere and everywhere.

The Diplomatic Service was an empire built on paper, a position it was not going to give up lightly. Procedures, manuals, circulars – tome by mighty tome it was an edifice studiously erected over the years. Minions in Whitehall depended on it, minions the world over depended on it – you couldn’t simply dismantle it at the touch of a keyboard. Like so much else in the organisation, paper was both a strength and a weakness.

The Service was full of contradictions. Blake felt it was like Marmite – you either loved it or you hated it. Yesterday, when he’d walked to work through the busy streets of Cairo and had entered the building, cool and elegant despite the heat, he’d loved it. Today, faced with a mound of meaningless paper he’d
somehow have to plough through, he hated it. And yet, for the sake of his job he would manage it. As Oscar Wilde would have said – there was only one thing worse than being in the Diplomatic Service and that was being out of it. If you wanted to survive, you just couldn’t have it both ways.

In the end he decided to delegate – Carpenter could be called on to assist. For the moment, his colleague had excused himself from the room and Blake took the opportunity to split the accumulated pile and pass half across to the other’s tray. To solve the problem it would have to be shared – and in this respect, Carpenter was your man. Carpenter had a strange and enviable way of dealing with paperwork – a way which, given his own inherent sense of responsibility, Blake could not bring himself to employ. His in-tray was invariably empty and his desk perpetually clear, although he himself never seemed to do any work. Carpenter, it seemed, was not the working kind.

Large, shambolic and untidily dressed, it occurred to Blake that if Carpenter were an animal, by appearance he resembled a bear. But by nature he was quite the opposite and rather than grump and growl, he would amble cheerily about the building dispensing his particular brand of bonhomie. A constant optimist, he could be relied on to see the upside of any situation and was always supportive – but when it came to work, he was a sloth. Nevertheless, he had his advantages and dealing with paperwork was one of them.

Having relieved himself of half his load, there was no time for it to dwell on Blake’s conscience as he’d hardly completed the move before Carpenter reappeared.

“I see the postman’s been while I was away.”

“Indeed he has,” said Blake, unrepentant.

“No problem,” said Carpenter, surveying the burgeoning contents of his in-tray on an otherwise empty desk. “I’ll soon get rid of that. Oh, and by the way, the First Secretary wants a word.”

“What, now?”

“Now, later, whenever you’ve got a moment.”

Carpenter was typically vague – precision was not one of his strong points.

Blake opted for now. Audiences with the First Secretary were not often granted and it paid to respond straight away. And if it meant he could defer tackling the paper…

“Sit down.” The First Secretary motioned toward the empty chair on the other side of his polished mahogany desk. “Take a seat.”

There was something about the repeated invitation that suggested to Blake this was not going to be an ordinary conversation. What else did the man expect him to do, other than sit down? He was not so revered that you felt obliged to stand in his presence. Blake still thought it best to comply. To be truthful, he needed the rest.

The First Secretary shuffled his papers as he prepared himself for whatever was to come. It felt like a five-minute wait at the least and Blake noticed that he coughed twice during the course of it as if he were reluctant to start things off. Eventually Blake decided to help him with what was obviously a burden.

“I suppose this is to do with my note about the Brotherhood.”

“Well, no, actually. But now you come to mention it, it did raise a few eyebrows.” This was clearly a diversion, although the First Secretary seemed glad of the opportunity to expound. “I thought your comments were rather ill-judged, quite frankly.”

A few years ago, Blake would have bristled. Now such responses were like water off a duck’s back. Truth was a commodity in short supply in diplomatic circles – but if they didn’t want to listen when it was on offer, so be it.

The First Secretary warmed to his theme.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, the last thing HMG wants is for Egypt to become The People’s Republic of Islam. It’ll turn into another Iran and God knows where that will lead. There’ll be state-sponsored terrorism and we can’t afford for al-Qaeda to
gain a stronghold in North Africa. The Americans will be horrified, the Israelis will see themselves surrounded and they’ll think the West has abandoned them – then it won’t be long before somebody presses a button.”

Blake sighed with frustration. He could always rely on the First Secretary to peddle the official line, but it was still a disappointment. The situation as he saw it was somewhat different.

“It may interest you to know that in Egypt, the Brotherhood has nothing to do with al-Qaeda. I thought I’d made that absolutely clear.”

“You may be right, but it isn’t the sort of thing HMG wants to hear. Anyway, I don’t know where you get this kind of nonsense.”

The First Secretary waved his hand toward his pile of papers as if he were warding off a fly.

Blake took umbrage.

“I mix with people. I hear things. Something’s been going on and it’s coming to a head. What would you have me do? Leave it unreported?”

The First Secretary leant purposefully forward and put both arms on the polished mahogany desk. In Blake’s experience this was usually a sign of irritation.

“Look, Blake, I don’t care what you get up to in your spare time but while you’re here as a member of the Trade Section, you shouldn’t concern yourself with these political issues.”

That old chestnut – the Trade Section, commerce and the grubby business of making money. For Blake it was as dry and as dusty as the desert beyond Giza. He’d left Cambridge with a degree in Ancient History yet he’d been reduced to organising trade missions in a back office in Cairo.

“You don’t do yourself any credit with these constant excursions off message,” the First Secretary continued. “You’re seen as something of a sympathiser, you know.”

And thereby a threat
. That was the clear implication, although
it came as no surprise to Blake – he’d heard it countless times before. It probably helped to explain his current position in the Trade Section.

“But that wasn’t why I asked you here.” The First Secretary deliberately cleared his throat. “I’ve been looking at your file. I see you’ve an important birthday coming up.”

He gave a wry smile of expectation which to Blake looked distinctly like a smirk.

So that was it – that damned birthday! Blake had tried to deny its existence and had done his best to put it out of his mind. Secretly, he’d hoped they’d do the same and fail to notice so it would somehow slip by without comment. Apparently not.

“We’ll be sorry to see you go, of course.”

Somehow Blake doubted it – on the contrary, they couldn’t get rid of him quick enough. It was frightening how easily such words could slip off a diplomat’s tongue. Old habits died hard. Fortunately, Blake had already prepared a response in case of such eventualities.

“Actually, I was hoping for an extension. I thought perhaps I could stay on for a while – at least until the Alexandria project’s been concluded. I’d like to see it through if I could.”

“Impossible, I’m afraid.” The First Secretary shook his head. “As you know, London’s in a complete flap over these budget cuts. We daren’t spend a penny more than we have to, and to be frank,” (he looked around as if he were about to divulge some great national secret) “we’re going to have to lose a few people. So as much as I’d like to keep you on…Anyway, Carpenter can take care of Alexandria – he’s not got much on at the minute.”

Carpenter never did have much on…

Blake digested the news.

“So that’s it then?”

“I’m dreadfully sorry, but there’s no choice. Rules are rules, I’m afraid.”

Blake did not need reminding – a lifetime of drafting agreements
and protocols was never going to convince him otherwise. Yes, rules were rules, but that was the thing about bureaucracies – decisions were made by people who didn’t know what they were doing and carried out by people who didn’t care. And there was no bigger bureaucracy than Her Majesty’s Foreign and Commonwealth Office.

Having dropped his bombshell, the First Secretary was keen to move on.

“Done anything about your pension?”

“No, I thought I’d wait…”

Now Blake shook his head. Of course he hadn’t. It would only have attracted attention and the last thing he wanted was to advertise the fact he was nearing retirement.

“Speak to the Management Section, they’ll help you sort it out. I’ll give them a ring and let them know you’re coming.”

The First Secretary’s offer was followed by a protracted silence. The interview was over and all he wanted now was for Blake to take his leave. But Blake was not in the mood to comply so easily and sat with his arms folded, looking defiantly out of the window. Two or three storeys below them, at the end of the manicured lawn, the Nile flowed sluggishly by, brown and muddy, while the sails of the feluccas moored next to the Corniche shivered in a gust of winter wind.

Suddenly, the First Secretary was standing up. He cleared his throat once more and extended his hand.

“I’ll see you before you go, naturally.”

Naturally…

The First Secretary had achieved his objective and so tried being jolly – which, under the circumstances, was weak and always doomed to failure.

“Well, what do you plan to do with your retirement? You must be looking forward to it.”

“I don’t know,” Blake mumbled in the direction of the lavishly carpeted floor. “I’ll find something, I suppose.”

Although in reality, he wasn’t looking forward to it at all.

He went straight back to the office. Carpenter was sitting in his customary position, his hands clasped together behind his head, staring out at the same view Blake had been contemplating just a few moments before. While he’d been away, the in-tray on Carpenter’s desk had been completely cleared and the wastepaper basket next to it was now full.

“God knows how anyone makes a living in this wretched country,” said Carpenter, scathingly. “I’ve been watching those boat johnnies down on the quayside. I don’t believe they’ve moved a muscle in the last twenty minutes. For the life of me I can’t see how they get by.”

Blake elected to let this blatant piece of hypocrisy pass without comment. To point it out now would have served no useful purpose.

“Anyway,” said Carpenter, turning to face his visitor. “So how was the Old Man?”

“I wouldn’t go there if I were you,” said Blake, trying to warn him off. It was a touchy subject.

Carpenter ignored the message and remained curious.

“Oh, really? Why’s that?”

“Well it seems that I’m the one who’s old. I didn’t tell you, but I’ll be sixty in a couple of weeks.”

He’d learnt not to trust Carpenter with all his secrets. He was old school tie and a ‘good sort’, but in his desire to be affable, prone to indiscretions.

“Good Lord! I’d never have guessed. You’ve kept that pretty quiet, old boy. This calls for a celebration.”

He reached for the bottom drawer of his desk where he kept the bottle and two glasses he used for ‘office emergencies’. Blake held up a restraining hand.

“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. There’s really nothing to celebrate. They’re making me retire early and it’s something I’d
hoped to avoid.”

“Retire? You lucky dog! If they made me an offer like that I’d be off out of here like a shot, I don’t mind telling you.”

Carpenter had a wife and two children and the comfort of a fireside somewhere in England to go home to. Blake, on the other hand, did not.

“So what are you going to do with yourself, old boy, now that you’ll have all this time on your hands?”

Exactly…
What was he going to do with himself? It was the second time he’d been asked that question in the last half an hour and as yet, he still had no sensible answer.

He looked hopefully at the clock hanging above the row of filing cabinets. There were another forty-five minutes before he could reasonably take lunch and, unable to settle, he spent the time fidgeting at his desk, ruminating. Why was it, he asked himself, that whenever you reached the bottom of the cup, the dregs always tasted so bitter?

His birthday was actually in the second week of December. The natural thing would have been to work through to the Christmas break, but his request for this was denied and with its age-old propensity for being exact, the Civil Service insisted on his immediate departure. As a result he was obliged to forego access to the seasonal round of parties and receptions – a right which in previous years he would have scorned, but whose loss he now resented. But that was the point – when something you didn’t value was taken away, it merely made things all the more galling.