Arden

by Nick Corbett

  “This is Joe, the gentleman you wanted to see, Foreign Secretary!” Fiona projects her voice like an actress on the stage. She touches Joe’s arm gently, thoughtfully, as she leaves the room.

  On the other side of the vast room, two men are talking intently to each other. They are very smartly dressed in pin-stripe suits. Joe instantly recognises the younger man as James Montgomery, the new Foreign Secretary. His face is little changed from the night of the party, all those years ago. Perhaps he is just a little plumper, and has a few grey hairs. The Foreign Secretary perches himself on the edge of an enormous walnut desk.

  “Just a tick, Joe!” he says, giving him a cursory glance.

  James’s colleague looks old enough to be his father. As they continue their conversation, Joe allows his eyes to wander. The room is palatial. It’s a geographer’s heaven. The lower halves of the high walls are dark linen-fold wood panelling. The upper sections are covered in green embossed wallpaper. Large historic maps hang everywhere. Above is a lofty barrel-vaulted ceiling, with a Victorian painting of the world. The countries of the old British Empire are highlighted in pink. There is an enormous globe in the middle of the room. Most splendid of all, one side of the room has a very tall Gothic window. It looks as if it belongs in a cathedral. It reveals a vision of the River Thames, a splendid panorama. A yellow tugboat is towing a long line of cargo barges.

  James smiles warmly as he steps forward and shakes hands.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you again, Joe. We did meet didn’t we? At the auspicious occasion of my cousin’s eighteenth birthday party, isn’t that right?” He speaks quickly and precisely. Joe notes that James’s voice has changed. It’s deeper, more powerful, and every word is clipped. Joe nods and smiles in agreement. James introduces his colleague.

  “This is Tristram Fortesque, my Permanent Secretary.”

  Joe still feels nervous. He opens his mouth to offer a greeting; a surprisingly high-pitched squeak comes out.

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  James continues. “Thanks so much for coming at short notice. I expect you’re wondering what this is all about?”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “Okay. I recently visited Lullingdon. I know you’re good friends with Luke and the family. Has David mentioned anything to you?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “It’s a wonderful place isn’t it, Lullingdon?”

  “Yeah, I love it, but I haven’t been there for a long time.”

  “It’s the best bit of Warwickshire.” James can see that Joe is distracted by the view of the river, so he guides him over to the massive window. “Let’s look at the view.”

  “This room’s very impressive.”

  “What, this? Oh, it’s just a meeting room really. You should see the real Foreign Office, have you been there?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, we’ll have to arrange a tour for you Joe, it’s quite special.”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  Then Joe nearly jumps out of his skin. There is a thunderous, brassy chime from Big Ben. Nine more chimes reverberate around the room. Undeterred, James points out the geography of the city from their vantage point. After the last chime, James speaks in a more serious tone.

  “Can I speak to you candidly, Joe?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think it was Edmund Burke who said, ‘All that’s necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.’ I suppose I became an MP because I wanted to make things better, especially for the worst off. It probably sounds a bit supercilious, but I think we all have a duty to do the right thing. Would you agree?”

  “Er, yeah.” Joe’s wonders what supercilious means.

  James continues. “I’ve got a proposal for you. It includes a significant element of personal risk.”

  Joe now feels hot around his neck, collar feels too tight, James’s voice becomes more distant.

  “I only want you to do this if you absolutely believe it’s the right thing for you to do. Is that agreed?”

  Joe looks perplexed. “Okay,” he says and he prepares to say no to whatever the request is.

  “Have you ever been to Lebanon?”

  “I haven’t, no.”

  “Have you ever been in a refugee camp?”

  “No, never.”

  “Have you seen anything on the news recently about the assassination of the Lebanese Prime Minister?”

  “Yes, I did see something about that. I’ve got a friend who works out there. Actually, she works in a refugee camp. I was a bit concerned.”

  “Ah, yes, Hannah.”

  Joe is amazed to hear the Foreign Secretary mention her name.

  James continues. “Do you know anything about the role of Syria with regard to the internal governance of Lebanon, and the implications for the Middle East Peace Process?”

  Joe stalls for time. “Could you repeat the question, please?”

  8 Escape from Lebanon

  It is a dry, pleasantly hot spring day. Friends greet each other in the street with kisses and handshakes. The architecture, the people, it’s all very chic. It could be Paris, but it isn’t. A young man leads his girlfriend towards the outdoor photography exhibition. The exhibits are arranged upon tall grey panels, like gravestones; they march down a cobbled street. At the bottom of the hill, stands a stone clock tower, gleaming white in the sunshine. Bells chime musically; it’s midday. People gather in huddles around the photos, beaming faces. Strangers share comments. The photos show images of the earth taken from the air. The exhibition has travelled around the world. It arrived here in downtown Beirut a few days ago.

  On the opposite side of the street is a long line of dining tables, outside numerous cafés. A heady smell of herbs and grilled meat wafts down the hill. It lures a trickle of shoppers, tourists and office workers. They begin to occupy the seats under canvas parasols, shaded from the sun. Beneath one of these parasols sits Joe. He isn’t alone. He is with an elegant middle-aged woman, and a similarly-aged man, both from Holland. The three of them sit together as any group of friends might, sipping coffee, chatting.

  “How was your meeting with the developers, Joe?” asks the woman.

  “Really good. I’m so impressed with what they’ve done in the city centre. There’s beautiful new architecture, restored historic buildings, investment in streets and squares.”

  “Will it help strengthen civil society?”

  “Yeah, investing in the public realm will help.”

  The woman is pleased. Her name is Ingrid. She has high cheekbones and perfectly-manicured blonde hair, a regal demeanour. She wears a long thin cotton coat over a beige trouser suit. She sits with her long legs resting together, takes another sip of coffee. She looks confident and authoritative, and she is. Now Ingrid picks up her papers, holds them at arm’s length, so she can read them without putting on her glasses. She speaks in a very refined accent, clipping and cutting every word;

  “Do you realise, we three are the Anglo-Dutch Committee of Investigation into the Spending of United Nation’s Funds for the Relief of Refugee Children in the City of Beirut?”

  “Catchy title,” says Joe.

  “Very grand isn’t it? Is it really possible to do all of that in one day, Mike?”

  Mike, the distinguished Dutchman sitting next to Ingrid, laughs.

  “Nothing happens very quickly in Lebanon, I can assure you of that.”

  Joe begins to fidget nervously. “She’s going to be here any minute now.”

  “Don’t worry. She’s going to have a very nice surprise when she sees you, my dear,” says Ingrid.

  “She’s certainly going to have a shock.”

  “Stay calm, remember what we’ve agreed,” says Ingrid. “Don’t tell her any of the details until we’re all in the car. Then we tell her about the boy.”

  Mike interjects. “It’s okay to speak in front of Philippe, our driver; he’s completely trustworthy. Just say the minimum necessary. Do everything
we were told in the briefing.”

  Joe nods dutifully. Suddenly there’s a loud bang. Joe jumps to his feet.

  “What was that?” Joe’s Dutch colleagues aren’t so alarmed. Mike looks very sophisticated in his light summer suit. He slowly pushes his sunglasses up above his thick grey hair, looks around.

  “It’s just a car exhaust backfiring. Sit down and relax Joe.”

  “Oh, sorry, I’m so jumpy.” He scratches the back of his neck, tries to regain his composure.

  “Why don’t you tell me some more about the developments you’ve seen in the city, Joe?” says Ingrid.

  Joe is too agitated to chat. Mike tries to help him get over his jitters. He leans forward inquisitorially;

  “Tell me more about your young friend, what’s she like, exactly? How does she look?”

  “She’s very pretty.”

  Mike leans even further forward. Joe looks pensive.

  “I’ve met her a few times,” says Ingrid. “She’s good at her job, highly respected by the UN and local embassies. It isn’t easy for a single young woman out here.”

  Ingrid is a member of the Dutch parliament. Her colleague, Mike, is from their Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Joe met them both for the first time the previous day in The Hague. After a day of briefings, they were driven to Amsterdam. They departed a cold, wet Schiphol Airport late last night. They arrived at a warm, sunny Beirut Airport early this morning.

  An old, battered, brown Mercedes strains to reach the top of the hill. It stops abruptly beside the café. People sitting at the tables stop talking, they turn to look. The woman passenger sitting in the back of the Mercedes leans forward to speak to her driver. She hands him some cash. She wears large sunglasses that almost cover her small face. Her blonde hair is pulled back, covered by a baseball cap. The Mercedes pulls off noisily, leaving the female passenger standing at the roadside. Everyone stares at her because, even with unflatteringly baggy clothes, she looks like a film star. There’s another bang. Joe jumps again.

  “Sorry!” he splutters.

  The Mercedes has left an unpleasant trail of black smoke. One of the diners on another table gesticulates angrily, his fist in the air, but the car has already disappeared over the brow of the hill. Joe’s Dutch colleagues stand to attention. They are both around six feet tall. Joe takes a few steps backwards, hidden by a half-closed green parasol.

  Ingrid stretches out her elegant hand to greet the woman, who takes off her sunglasses and smiles warmly. She is beautiful. Her bright green eyes dazzle in the sunlight.

  “Oh! At last we meet again Hannah, I’m so pleased to see you!” says Ingrid.

  “It’s so good to see you, Ingrid.” Rather than shake Ingrid’s hand, Hannah gives her a little hug. A flustered Ingrid kisses Hannah on both cheeks. Ingrid then introduces Mike.

  “He’s my colleague from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Now! I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  “Oh, what is it?”

  “We need a city planner to assess the condition of the camp. We’ve got someone you know.”

  “Who?”

  Joe steps out from behind the parasol.

  “Oh, my goodness, it’s Joe! Ooooh!”

  Hannah’s face is contorted with utter disbelief. Joe opens his arms and Hannah falls into them. It takes them several minutes to get over the shock of seeing each other. They keep just looking at each other, smiling, shaking their heads in disbelief. It’s left to Ingrid to maintain some order.

  “Now, Hannah, please pay attention. Thank you so much for agreeing to show us around the refugee camp. I’m so pleased we’ll get some time to be with the people, especially the children.”

  “It’s a pleasure.”

  Now Hannah turns to Mike.

  “It’s good to meet you, Mike. What do you do in the Ministry?”

  “I’m a diplomat.”

  “Have you been to Beirut before?”

  Mike chuckles. “Oh yes, I know the city pretty well. I was based here for a time in the 1980s. It was very lively back then,” he says knowingly.

  “Mike’s from a well to do banking family in The Hague,” adds Ingrid.

  “There’s no need to give away all of my secrets,” replies Mike. “Why don’t you tell our young friends about your past, Ingrid?”

  Ingrid rolls her eyes, looks down at her feet. “Oh, no, they’re not interested in me.”

  “Oh, yes we are!” says Hannah.”

  Hannah already knows quite a bit about Ingrid. They first met a few years ago at a fringe event at a Middle East Peace Conference. They sat together at lunch, talked for ages about refugee children. Hannah turns to Joe.

  “I can tell you that Ingrid was a pop star in Holland in the seventies.”

  Ingrid laughs out loud, turns to Joe. “I’m a grandmother now.”

  “Ingrid’s much better known these days for campaigning for refugee children,” adds Mike.

  Ingrid raises her hands. “That’s enough talk about me! Shall we order something to eat?”

  Hannah shakes her head. “Please don’t eat anything. Lunch is being provided in the camp. They’ve put a lot of work into it. Don’t spoil your appetites.”

  “Well, can we get you a coffee at least, Hannah?”

  “Oh, go on then, yes, that’d be lovely.”

  Hannah and Ingrid smile at each other. Ingrid repeats the word lovely as if she’s heard it for the first time, finds it intriguing. Mike is up, talking to a waiter.

  “Now then, Hannah,” Ingrid speaks in a business-like tone, “I was serious, you know, when I said we want to get involved in doing something practical. We’re agreed on that aren’t we?” Ingrid makes a quick sideways glance at Mike. He nods enthusiastically.

  “We don’t want to get in the way, but we do want to help,” Ingrid explains, “We definitely want to meet some of the children too.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t let you down. There’s a community hall, well, no, it’s a shack really. Anyway, I’ve spoken to the camp leaders, they’ve agreed we can help with painting it.”

  Ingrid puts her hand to her mouth, looks at Mike with wide eyes. He is unsure of how to respond.

  “Lovely!” says Ingrid.

  Hannah glances at Ingrid’s expensive clothes, looks at Mike’s summer suit.

  “They’ll have overalls won’t they?” asks Ingrid.

  “I’m not sure, sorry.”

  Mike leans forward with a serious expression.

  “Hannah, due to the assassination of the Lebanese Prime Minister, it was very difficult for us to get clearance to come on this trip. Can you tell us, how do you perceive the atmosphere of the city to be?”

  Hannah looks equally serious. “People are talking about the assassination, about links with Syria. It feels as if something’s changed in the city.”

  “How do you mean; what’s changed?” asks Mike.

  Hannah stares into her coffee for a moment, looks up. “Since I first arrived, three years ago, people have been growing in confidence. They talk more about their civil rights. People have been mixing more easily, especially in the city centre. I’ve seen men from different religious backgrounds playing cards together in the squares.” She pauses for a moment. “Since the assassination, things have felt uneasy. People are prepared to make a stand for their rights. Just coming here today, I passed groups of people carrying the Lebanese flag. I haven’t seen anything like that before.”

  Ingrid looks concerned. “Well, we aren’t here to do politics on this trip. We’re here to listen and to learn. We want to help the refugee children.”

  “Yeah, that’s good,” replies Hannah with a smile. “Really, I don’t do politics. It’s far too confusing. I just try to get on with people, whatever their background. Please don’t talk about politics at all when we’re in the camp.”

  The others nod earnestly.

  Hannah rummages in her bag. “Have you all got your itineraries for the day?”

  “Yes, I’ve got all of my paperwork he
re,” replies Ingrid.

  “Good. Shall we order a taxi to the camp?”

  “No, no, transportation’s all arranged,” says Mike. “We have use of my Ambassador’s car and his driver for the day.”

  “Are we all going to fit in, Mike?” asks Ingrid

  “Yes, we’ll all fit in,” he replies. “It’s a Range Rover, the best of British. It’ll be here any minute.”

  Joe excuses himself to visit the bathroom.

  While they wait, Hannah chats with Ingrid and Mike about the day’s arrangements.

  “Will you be able to help us with language translation Hannah?” Ingrid asks.

  “Yeah, although I’m not fluent in Arabic. I can handle most of the day-to-day stuff, though.”

  Mike looks up from his mobile phone. “Please excuse me Hannah, I need to ask Ingrid about a government matter. Ingrid doesn’t appear to be particularly pleased about this. Mike begins speaking to her in the guttural tones of the Dutch language. Hannah isn’t sure what she should be doing while this conversation is going on. She turns away, goes through her bag again, finds her morning’s post.

  There is a postcard with a picture of two elderly women trying to do an aerobics workout. It’s from Cathy. The greeting says:

  “It was so great to see you Hannah. Loads to tell you about marriage plans! Will you be my Chief Bridesmaid? When can we talk? Stay safe. Lots of Love, Cathy (PS: The picture reminded me of us in the school gym).”

  Hannah laughs. Her recent London stay-over with Cathy gave her a much-needed break. She worries about things a lot more these days, even getting old and the ticking of her body clock. She’s works too hard and doesn’t see enough of her friends. She is so pleased to have Joe with her now, and here’s this postcard from Cathy. She smiles at the thought of Cathy getting married; doesn’t like the title, Chief Bridesmaid.