‘I don’t understand the word “pervert” but I’m sure from your facial expression that I agree with you,’ laughed the stranger. ‘Aziz’s father may well be a “pervert” but unfortunately he is also head of all Yemen’s security services and perhaps even the most powerful man in the country at this time. Isn’t that right, my friend?’
‘Yes,’ answered a surly Aziz from the far side of his camel, ‘and I must warn you Madam Roza that he does not like western women, especially if they have broken his favourite toy.’
‘What? Did you forget to tell him that it was you who forgot to check the water?’ I protested, hastily skirting his beast in order to confront him face to face, aghast at his treachery.
‘But what choice did I have if I wanted to live? I had to tell him you insisted on driving but had never driven an automatic before…’
Immediately, I was back planning my swift departure from Yemen, the incipient tenderness I was feeling towards the stranger relegated to a back-burner. The reception staff at the Aden Sheraton would probably be able to arrange me a direct flight from Aden to London or, failing that, via Djibouti or Addis Ababa. Whatever happened, especially since I lacked a Yemeni visa, I must avoid Sanaa. I scowled at Aziz: ‘I thought you were my friend!’
Once again the mysterious stranger rode to the rescue, retrieving the situation by placing a hand on our shoulders and reminding us that we were all extremely tired and hungry. Very shortly, he told us, we’d be returning the camels to the farm that had so kindly lent them to him. There we’d find his own LandCruiser precisely where he’d left it the previous evening, complete with a picnic breakfast he’d prepared for us. Had I ever tasted a special Yemeni honey bread? No. Well, I must. There was no time to lose. Aziz, at pains now to make amends, timidly observed that the camel farm was no distance at all from Silent Valley which was on our way back to Aden, if I was still interested in seeing the cemetery…
‘After everything I’ve been through, a meal, a shower and some sleep is all I’m interested in!’ I answered him huffily.
‘Just as you wish, Mrs Flashman,’ said the stranger, before commanding our camel to its knees in readiness for re-mounting. ‘I would like you to know that I regard it as a very special honour to put myself at your service.’
‘Oh?’ I stopped mid-mount in profoundest puzzlement, ‘Were you at Rugby too then? – by the way,’ I added in a whisper for his ears only, ‘it’s “Miss”, not “Mrs”.’
‘Forgive me, please,’ he said, gracefully handing me into the saddle, ‘No, I did not go to Rugby; I was educated in Saudi Arabia.’ I came to know of your ancestor and his adventures while attending a summer language school in Brighton. One of the teachers made us read about him in class. I think he didn’t know how to teach English so he made us laugh with those colourful tales…’
At the mention of Brighton the penny had dropped. I was, I was sure, face to face - or rather by now, snugly settled back to front, my back pressed close against his chest - with none other than the author of the original letter to the Daily Register. Thrilled, my heart pumping fit to burst, I invested my next words with all the wealth of significance I could muster: ‘Sheikh al-Abrali,’ I began, my lips only millimetres from his ear, ‘I want to thank you from the depths of my being for inspiring my visit to your homeland and awakening in my bosom an ardent dream of renewed friendship and understanding between our two peoples during this time of trouble and strife between the Moslem and the Christian worlds…’
I surprised even myself with my lofty sentiments. It’s only with hindsight now that I can see how this top flight of rhetoric must have helped germinate the seed of a notion already sown in his mind.
Chapter Nine
The view through the tinted windscreen of Sheikh Ahmad al-Abrali’s champagne-coloured LandCruiser – another luxurious chill-cabinet on wheels - was failing to recommend further investigation of south Yemen’s dry-roasted terrain. There was nothing to see out there; no trees, no animals, no dwellings, nothing but mile after mile of rusty Mars-scape and the surprisingly decent, if entirely unmarked road we were on. It came as something of a relief therefore to discern a few splashes of colour and even some action, up ahead.
‘There is something happening at Silent Valley today,’ said Aziz, leaning forward from his back seat, squinting though the glare ‘- but I cannot see what it is – it may be a big accident…’
‘Here, these might help…’ I said, passing him the beloved and extremely valuable pair of binoculars I never leave home without, the only tangible legacy I have of my famous forebear, the very same binoculars that accompanied him to the First Afghan War. Aziz was sceptical of their usefulness but Sheikh Ahmad was so moved by my tale of their provenance that he insisted on stopping the car to take a closer look at their solid brass fittings and anciently worn leather strap and case. ‘This is a real treasure!’ he breathed, his liquorice black eyes shining at me with real excitement. I’d waited all my life to find just one person who worshipped even half as ardently as I did at the altar of Sir Harry and now, just like buses, two had come along in the space of less than twenty-four hours! I’d have to keep an eye out for a third.
Aziz was pleasantly surprised: ‘….oh – not bad at all,’ he pronounced, twiddling the vintage knobs with his chubby fingers ‘ – I can see a few cars, some police cars, many people, bright, things flashing… one person – male or female, I don’t know, but very stout, in a high hat, like a Mexican from a cartoon …and a man in a long dress…’ Neither he nor Sheikh Ahmad could imagine what sort of event we might be witnessing, but they were both so intrigued I relented and agreed to delay my ablutions at the Sheraton a few minutes more.
I turned out to be better qualified than either of my dragomans to interpret the scene awaiting us at Silent Valley. Parked off road in the sand by the low concrete wall that surrounded the cemetery was a line of three mini-buses, around which were clustered perhaps forty elderly foreign men, many of them in pastel cotton casuals and sun hats and many more in old army uniforms, medals, berets and all. Some were walking with the aid of sticks, one or two struggling with Zimmer frames that were proving worse than useless in that sandy terrain, but a few had handier shooting sticks to take the weight off their feet. A surprising number were heavily burdened with brass instruments whose metal, shining brightly in the burning morning sunshine, accounted for the flashing lights Aziz had seen earlier.
Lined up in front of the small coach that had transported all those old men to that remote spot were two other vehicles: a white LandCruiser bristling with aerials and a battered Peugeot estate. A middle-aged westerner in a Panama hat, creased cream suit and dusty brogues was levering his hefty torso out of the first, flanked by what I imagined must be members of his security detail. Still less appealing a sight though was the disgorged cargo of the second vehicle: the Revs. He was robed for duty in a white surplice, she for comfort in a flaming orange tent and yes, a sombrero.
‘What we have here,’ I informed my companions as we slid to a halt on the other side of the road, ‘is a British service of remembrance, probably for veterans of our campaigns out here, to commemorate the 50th anniversary of our pull-out from Aden. The man getting out of the LandCruiser will be the British Ambassador. That strange couple standing beside the Peugeot are, without a shadow of a doubt, the Anglican vicar to Aden and his wife…’
An orgy of hand-shaking, video-filming and back-slapping ensued which, along with my sighting of Mrs Rev, put the dampers on any desire I might have had to leave the sanctuary of our vehicle. I explained to my friends that turning up to such an event with smears of camel dung down my front might be seen as letting the side down, but Sheikh Ahmad declared himself absolutely determined to, as he put it, ‘pay my respect to the British Queen and demonstrate that we south Yemenis have no hard feelings towards her – the reverse…’ I decided that in such a noble cause, for such a person as Sheikh Ahmad, I should swallow both my usual pride in my appearance and my dread
of Mrs Rev. It went without saying however that Aziz, blood-spattered and far from fresh-smelling, must wait behind in the car.
I was glad I’d decided to accompany the sheikh because I soon found myself having to take charge of a uniquely British situation. At the entrance to the cemetery the Ambassador’s security guards moved suddenly and swiftly to prevent Sheikh Ahmad from accompanying me inside. ‘Sorry sir, it’s a Brits only do,’ they said firmly directing him back to the car.
‘Excuse me! I’d like to know what gives you the right to tell my friend where he can and can’t go in his own country.’
‘Security concerns ma’am – heard of al-Qaeda? – passport please.’
I handed it over, but only because he’d said ‘please’. Good manners should always be rewarded, I think.
‘Roza Flashman, eh? The name’s got a familiar ring about it. Sounds like something out of a comic, doesn’t it?’ he joked with his colleague. ‘You’ve heard of Batman and Superman and Spiderman – now, here comes Flashman – Flashman the Flasher!’ While the louts laughed their blockheads off together, I was pleased to sense that beside me Sheikh Ahmad was bridling on my behalf. ‘No, I’m serious – you ever been in the news, love?’ one of the oafs went on, oblivious.
‘If you don’t give me back my passport this instant, I’ll see to it that you’re both “in the news” for racial and sexual harassment!’
‘Keep your hair on!’ said the smaller one, sheepishly. ‘We was only having a laugh!’
Am I mistaken in thinking that the collective psyche of the average Brit male is that of an eleven year old boy – smutty, clumsy, facetious, often sentimental, full of bravado but shamefully ignorant? I don’t think I am!
‘No need to get your knickers in a twist, love’ said the other, proffering my passport without extending his arm towards me.
‘Go fuck your niece,’ I said, snatching it from him.
‘What did you just say?’
‘Good luck and peace,’ I giggled, in shame-faced recognition of the fact that I had descended to their level, grabbing Sheikh Ahmad’s hand and nimbly sidestepping them to enter the cemetery.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Sheikh Ahmad, shaking his head and bewilderment. ‘I thought my English was good but what was that about hair and knickers and a niece? Why did they insult you and your name? What was so funny about the word ‘flasher’? I remember there was a British floor-cleaning product called Flash…’
‘I’ll tell you later,’ I said, hoping he’d forget all about it and spare me the embarrassment of having to describe a flasher. ‘The service should be starting soon,’ I said hastily trying to put as much distance as I could between myself and Mrs Rev, and gently pouring cold water on Sheikh Ahmad’s idea of greeting the ambassador. ‘No, trust me – not the right moment - why don’t we just wander over here for a moment and look as if we’re busy reading the headstones, and then leave? Probably better not to attract any more attention. Actually, while we’re here I might as well try and photograph the graves of some friends of a friend of my brother’s who are buried here. I did promise but now I can’t for the life of me remember any of their names…’
I was distracted. The sight of me, a lightly soiled but nevertheless still strikingly elegant western woman, purposefully perusing the rows of identical grey headstones in the company of a magnificently proportioned native, was exciting an annoying amount of curiosity. Far too many heads were turning, possibly even the dreaded sombrero-d one, by the time a pair of old men approached us.
‘Are you looking for someone?’ said the taller one.
‘Yes, actually – my brigadier great uncle,’ I blurted, saying the first military rank that sprang to mind, fearing another inconvenient interrogation, ‘I believe he’s buried here…’
‘Only one person of that rank here - must be ‘Pinky’ Winchelsea,’ said his side-kick, leading the way to a large grave in the far opposite corner of the cemetery, almost to the edge where the last line of stones ran out.
Standing there with bowed head and hands folded in that roasting midday heat, beside a confused Sheikh Ahmad, I waited for our guides to leave us alone again. The first screeching strains of Abide With Me were what finally broke up the party, summoning us all back in the direction of the entrance.
‘That was really your great uncle?’ asked Sheikh Ahmad.
‘Well, yes and no – well no – not really…’ I hated him catching me out in a lie, but he didn’t seem to think any the worse of me. I think he was finding me intensely amusing. I wasn’t used to people laughing at me. In Sheikh Ahmad’s company I felt a bit skittish, oddly – with hindsight, dangerously - carefree.
There could be no leaving now the service had started, so we took our places among that throng, as far as we could get from the ambassador who was parked by the carefully tended single green shrub adorning the middle aisle of the cemetery and from the Revs, but not so far that I couldn’t observe the Rev struggling to find his place in his prayer-book and his wife squat beneath her sombrero. While the band parped its way through another solemn hymn and the Rev murmured a few holy nothings I allowed my mind to wander and wonder – chiefly about what it might be like to be kissed by Sheikh Ahmad, now that I knew what it was like to be in his arms.
A sharp jab from his elbow jolted me out of my reverie. He was drawing my attention to what the taller of the two veterans who’d guided us to the grave of the unknown brigadier was saying in his speech: ‘…interested to learn that we are lucky enough to have here with us today – quite by chance – the great-niece of Brigadier Percy – or ‘Pinky’ as he was known to his many friends - Winchelsea whom many of us respected so highly as an exceptional leader. I haven’t asked her, but I’m sure she’d be honoured to say a few words for us on behalf of the younger generation..’
I’ve never been one to pass up a chance to say a few appropriate words on any subject, on any occasion, a habit formed while still at Widderton’s tiny primary school where I was deemed the only child fit to be wheeled out to meet governors and school inspectors. On this occasion, I was more than pleased to seize the opportunity to impress Sheikh Ahmad, knowing there are few things quite as conducive to sexual attraction as seeing someone one’s physically attracted to get up and strut their stuff in front of a crowd. Think of all those schoolgirls swooning over the Beatles.
Stepping forward into the empty space in front of the ambassador I began: ‘If only my grandfather could have been here today, because he loved nothing better than the company of simple, hearty soldiers like your good selves’ …. Pausing for dramatic effect I noticed a few outsize hankies at the ready. ‘We all know that empire and patriotism are practically dirty words these days and the spirit of self-sacrifice as rare as wild boar in Surrey among any but those serving in our still first-class armed forces, but they were eternal truths and virtues that I know all of you and my dear departed Perks, as we children used to call him, held dearer than life itself and, in his case, bequeathed to me…’ I could have gone on and on about duty and fair play because those hankies were proliferating and I was going down a storm. However, it was infernally hot there in Silent Valley and I was in ever more urgent need of a wash.
Naturally, I was also keen to get away without Mrs Rev taking me to task for helping myself to her curtains and comestibles. I didn’t underestimate her; she wasn’t the kind of woman to let a little light-fingeredness pass. I knew I couldn’t face explaining the whole histoire to Sheikh Ahmad, with whom I was then making a beeline for the exit. We were within fifty yards of the LandCruiser and safety when the ambassador ambushed us to offer me his congratulations: ‘Well done and thank you! I think you’ve really made their day,’ he said, indicating the old men.
‘It was nothing really – a pleasure - lovely occasion, ‘ I said politely, flattered by the plaudit but making it clear I was in a hurry to leave.
Sheikh Ahmad, however, had no particular reason to make haste and delayed our departure with an inconvenient
intervention. ‘Good day to you sir!’ he began, his hand extended for the diplomat to shake, ‘I am Sheikh Ahmad al-Abrali and I have been wishing to meet you for a long time.’
‘Och!’ replied that emphatically Scottish ambassador, swiftly retreating a couple of steps and keeping his hands to himself.
‘Yes!’ said Sheikh Ahmad, moving his extended hand to the area of his heart, as if he’d wanted it there all along, ‘I would be most grateful for an opportunity to speak at more length with you, in a more appropriate setting of your choosing, but at your earliest convenience.’
‘Ah! Unfortunately, that will be impossible,’ replied the ambassador, his face a darkening shade of fuchsia and his eyes flickering nervously, ‘but can I have a private word with you?’ Taking me firmly by the elbow, he led me a couple of paces away, out of the sheikh’s earshot and offered me a lift back to Sanaa with him. ‘In the interests of your personal security, given that the political landscape here at the moment is complex and highly unpredictable thanks in large part to men like your companion,’ he said, ‘I would strongly recommend that you…’
‘Really? Oh, gosh!’ I gushed, surprised and playing for time, ‘How frightfully kind of you to worry about me. It’s a lovely idea and it would save me a lot of ‘fannying about’ as my nanny used to say, but actually, I’m with these people who have just risked their lives to rescue me from some kidnappers, so I’m not sure…’
Only then did I become aware of something on the periphery of my line of vision: a gigantic orange object, Mrs Rev. Swiftly interposing herself between myself and the ambassador like a barrage balloon, she urgently muttered something in the diplomat’s ear. I guessed it was something along the lines of ‘You’ll find you want to give this one a wide berth; she’s a petty thief who’ll have the shirt off your back before you can say “Ramadan”!’ The shocked frown on the now purpling face of our man in Sanaa and a sudden coughing seizure that might have been the onset of apoplexy, didn’t need the accompanying sound-track: ‘Change of plan – don’t seem to have room for another passenger after all.’
A Foreign Affair Page 7
