The previous week we had received a final sign-off from the project engineering team that we were ‘good to go’. Now I was counting the days off on the calendar until the great moment came. I was flying back out to the Yemen two days after this dinner, to make the final, final checks and await the arrival of the sheikh and, after him, the prime minister and his party.

Interrogator:

Tell us about the involvement of the prime minister?

Alfred Jones:

I’ve told you before how my memory operates. Let me tell it as it happened. I’m trying to cooperate. If you did not keep interrupting, it would make it easier for both of us.

Pause while the witness refused to talk for a few minutes. Then he resumed.

I was no longer in any doubt about the success of this project. I believed it would work. I believed it would be a transforming moment in the history of fisheries science, in the history of the species Salmo salar, and in the history of the Yemen. But above all I believed it would be a transforming moment in my own life.

Already I was a quite different person to the Alfred Jones who had started work on this project over a year ago. That man had counted his greatest achievement an article he had written on caddis fly larvae which he had hoped would be published in Trout & Salmon. So far, it had not been. That man had lived trapped in a loveless marriage, for so I now realised it had been, accepting his fate meekly and without question. Then, I had not known the nature of love. Now I knew that I might not know much more about love, but at least I understood I had never known what it was before.

And other things were changing in me.

The first course arrived, and as we ate I asked the sheikh how he had come to learn about fishing in the first place. For some reason there had never been a moment to ask him this question before.

‘Many years ago,’ he said, ‘I was asked by my friend Sheikh Makhtoum, the ruler of Dubai, to go and shoot with him in the north of England. He has a very big estate there, with very many grouse, and I have shot sand grouse at home in the Yemen. I may say, I am a very good shot, or at least I thought I was. But when I got there I found that instead of walking after the grouse or pursuing them from vehicles, one was expected to stand still and wait for them to come to the guns. It was very different. We waited and we waited, and then, just as I had given up hope of ever seeing a grouse, clouds of them started flying past us. And the little brown birds, they flew so fast that I could not hit them for a long time. And I was very ashamed, for in the Yemen I am accounted a good shot.

‘Then Makhtoun said to me, ‘If you think that is so difficult, then you must try salmon fishing, and then you will have tried all these strange British sports, and you will agree with me that they are wonderful!’ So the next day, when we were not shooting, I went with a man to a river not far away, and he showed me where the salmon lay in the water, and he taught me a little bit how to cast, and then I fished. I did not catch anything that day, but by the end of the day, when I was tired and wet and cold, I knew that there was no other sport for me any more. This was what I wanted to do, with every spare minute that God granted me.

‘When I left at the end of my visit, that man came with me. I offered him much money to come, but in the end he came because he could see my love for the fish was as great as his. And the name of that man was Colin McPherson.

‘I have not been asked back to shoot grouse by my friend Makhtoum, but I hope he has forgiven me for taking his man.’

Harriet and I laughed. The plates were cleared away and wine was poured for Harriet and me. The sheikh, as usual, drank water with his food.

‘Now you must return the compliment,’ he said, ‘and tell me, Dr Alfred, where you first learned to fish and who was your teacher. In my pride I also now think I am a good fisherman, may God forgive me, but when I see you cast, I think I see a better fisherman than I am.’

I blushed and muttered a denial.

‘No, no, do not be embarrassed,’ said the sheikh. ‘We are both of us true salmon fishermen and all comparisons apart from that are unimportant. But tell me, and Harriet Chetwode-Talbot shall learn as well, how it was you became a fisherman.’

So I told him about my father, who was a schoolmaster in the Midlands. There was not a salmon within a hundred miles of us, at least not in those days, and he used to take me to Scotland every summer. My mother died when I was young, and my father was too busy to spend much time with me during term time. My aunt took care of me most of the time. But in the summer holidays we would go up and fish on little spate rivers in the north of Scotland, in the Flow Country or on the west coast. In those days it did not cost too much to buy a bit of fishing for a couple of rods for a week. Sometimes we went onto the estuaries of larger rivers where you could buy a ticket and fish for the day. And we used to rent a little bothy and sleep in that, and my father and I would gather up wood and light a campfire, and if we caught a fish he’d show me how to gut it and cook it, and the whole experience just got into my blood. I remember those long summer evenings in the far north, when there was just enough wind to keep the midges away, as the happiest moments of my life.

I stopped for a moment, feeling I was talking too much, but both the sheikh and Harriet were looking at me raptly. I could tell that they too could see what was in my mind’s eye, as nearly as one person can ever see what is in the mind of another. A small boy of twelve or thirteen, standing on the shingle of a wide stream turning silver and gold in the evening light, the bothy behind him, where smoke curls up from a wood fire. He takes his rod up to the vertical and the line flies back over his head. A pause, then a snap of the wrist and the rod whips the line back out, so that it lands light as a feather on shadowed water under the far bank. I remembered the low hills in the distance and the cries of curlews and oystercatchers which had flown in from the nearby estuary, and I remembered the stillness and fulfilment in my heart as I saw the fly come round perfectly, and saw the swirl of the fish following it.

The next course arrived and broke the spell.

‘And your father taught you?’ asked Harriet.

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘He had fished for sea trout in Wales, as a boy. He knew all about it. He was a true expert, a better fisherman than I will ever be. And he taught me the ‘Fisherman’s Rhyme’.’

‘What is the ‘Fisherman’s Rhyme’?’ asked the sheikh. ‘I have never heard of this.’

‘It,’ I explained, ‘is the rhyme that every fisherman chants to himself before he leaves the house, to make quite sure he does not forget anything essential. Do you want to hear it?’

‘Of course,’ said the sheikh. ‘I insist we hear it.’

I glanced apologetically at Harriet and then said, ‘Rod, reel,⁄Flask, creel,⁄Net, fly book⁄And lunch.’

They both laughed out loud, and the sheikh had to have the rhyme repeated to him. Then Harriet said, ‘What happened at your meeting with the odious Peter Maxwell? You haven’t said. Sorry, Sheikh, but he is odious even though I know you are too polite ever to admit it.’

Interrogator:

Please tell us now about your meeting with Peter Maxwell.

Alfed Jones:

As I told you before, it was earlier the same day. Some time at the beginning of July but I can’t remember the date. I went to Downing Street and was shown into his office after only the briefest of waits, which was unusual with him. To my surprise, instead of the usual dark blue suit he was wearing a safari jacket, an open-necked shirt, chinos and desert boots. He stood up, shook my hand and greeted me like an old friend.