Chapter 29

Well, Mrs. Azziz.’ Phipps finally said, holding her momentarily with an oblique gaze. These were his first words to her, spoken from a safe position behind his big, sturdy desk It was a brief sentence but seemed sufficient for him and he waited for his visitor to say something back.

Fareeha flinched in the lamplight.

Phipps had barely opened his mouth as he thumped up the staircase and along the corridor in his heavy boots and had only muttered a few terse syllables at the crippled teenager as he twisted his heavy key in the lock. The boy was obviously hurt by the barbed utterance and crestfallen he had limped away. Phipps had continued his silence as he lit the oil lamps in the room and made for his desk.

‘The boy seems nice,’ Fareeha said, nodding through the closed door, towards the fading clumps of the custodian’s slow march.

Phipps said nothing.

‘I’ll be crossing the Gulf tomorrow,’ Fareeha tried again. ‘The soil tester—I’ll be able to pick up for you—if it’s not too short notice.’

Phipps turned his face square onto hers; it had blackened, ‘Tomorrow? But . . .’

‘On the boat,’ she added quickly, ‘It’ll take a day or two to get there and I’ll have to stay there for a week—probably longer.’

Phipps dropped his eyes and muttered numbers, ‘Two, three . . . seven, eight, nine, ten . . .’ He lifted his eyes. ‘Might be alright; but it all depends on my bloody phone.’ He looked over at a shelf next to the window. ‘Piece of rubbish,’ he scoffed. He then turned around to the back wall of his office and from a narrow table he picked up a large pitcher with his right hand and a tall glass with his left. He poured and raised the glass to his lips, turning halfway back towards his guest as he did so.

Fareeha forgot herself and stared at the dishevelled Englishman as he drank greedily. He did indeed look thirsty. His soiled, sweat-stained shirt was ripped open at his neck, revealing blistered, red skin; its sleeves were rolled high up his arms, showing blotches and scratches. His nose, cheeks, chin, and forehead were all likewise raw and peeling, the scarlet colour of fresh beetle blood. But what held her eyes after she had scanned his ruinous body was the crystal clear water as it disappeared through his chapped lips.

‘Phipps caught her eye and pulled the empty glass away from his mouth; he hissed like a refreshed camel and then said. ‘Oh . . . I’m sorry; would you like a glass?’

Fareeha at once looked away, but only briefly: she looked back and nodded. ‘Thanks; it’s been a hot day.’ Her hands went up to her chin and she loosened the knot of her headscarf.

Phipps refilled the same tall glass and carried it around the desk. Leaving the water in front of her, he continued to the shelf near the window, from which he picked up a clunky telephone. ‘I can hardly get through to New York from here,’ he said.

Fareeha left the glass where it was and turned towards him. ‘New York? I thought . . .’

The aerial that telescoped from the head of the telephone quivered in front of Phipps’s weathered face as his blue eyes narrowed on her. ‘New York . . . no, I . . . I mean London.’ The phone began to slip from his left hand and he quickly brought up his right to catch it. He turned away and replaced it on the shelf. ‘I can only use the bloody thing in the middle of the night.’ He puffed air through his nose. ‘Two fifteen to be exact, not a second before; and then it works for only a minute or two. Last time I tired I got nothing at all. Must be something to do with the satellites, I suppose.’ He turned back to face her. ‘And when the batteries finally go flat . . . well, I’ll be completely cut off.’ The corners of his mouth curled and a smile dashed across his red face.

‘I certainly hope you can send one more message,’ Fareeha said and then she told him which port she was going to.

‘Yes, let’s hope.’ The grin had vanished and his face lay expressionless as he thought for a moment. ‘What time will you be leaving?’

‘Afternoon, any time past four.’

‘Good. With a bit of luck I’ll be there with a number for you. Someone over there. I’ll try and get the details tonight.’ He turned back towards the telephone with a dirty look.

Fareeha’s eyes went back to her glass of water.

Phipps bounded back across the office and put the sturdy desk once again between them. He took a fresh glass from the table behind it, poured himself another drink from the pitcher, and guzzled it down. He then put his hands on his hips and stared at his guest: visiting time seemed to be over.

Fareeha stepped forward and reached for her glass. ‘I’d better drink this,’ she said. She stared into the limpid water as she raised it to her lips, marvelling at its cleanliness and transparency. She sipped and held the sweet liquid in her mouth for a moment before swallowing. It cooled her throat and she felt it running down into her empty stomach. The next sip was bigger and she swallowed it more quickly. Then another, and another, until she was drinking swiftly, draining the glass to its very bottom. Pulling the glass away from her lips, she left a trickle of water on her chin, which she heeled away with her right hand.

She could do nothing about the smile that spread instinctively across her face; and overwhelmed, she dropped herself into a chair.

Phipps kept a beady eye on her.

‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘that was wonderful. But it’s not from the city, is it?’.

Phipps shook his head.

‘I haven’t had a good drink of water for weeks.’

Phipps frowned and reached behind for the pitcher. ‘More?’

‘I’d love a drop more, thanks.’ She reached for the knot of her headscarf and pulled it looser. The chair felt comfortable and she pushed herself back a little. She watched him bend over the desk for her glass, which he pulled back and set under the raised jug. ‘Aren’t you afraid, all out here on your own in this dreadful place?’

His arm jolted and a little water missed the glass and spilt onto the woodwork. He scowled at the mess but quickly finished filling the glass. Straightening his back, he said, ‘Afraid?’ then shook his head. ‘This is the best job I’ve ever had. Nobody to bother me. Even the boss can’t call me.’ He manufactured a grin on the bottom half of his face, and flashed his eyes across at the near-useless telephone. He then began to slide the glass across the desk, but something in its wake attracted his attention and he stopped to wipe at the wooden surface. ‘Just a bit dusty, that’s all,’ he said, raising his hand and rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. He wiped whatever it was onto his shirt then put the same hand to his blistered nose. ‘And a bit sunny.’

Fareeha raised a hand to her own nose in sympathy but she didn’t comment on his skin; instead she asked him about his mistaken identity. ‘So nobody else has come up here looking for a doctor?’

Phipps, still standing, was scratching at a blotch of tender, red skin on his forehead. He pulled his hand away and shook his head. ‘In fact,’ he began with a sigh, ‘they’re still coming and I am still offering quack remedies to an assortment of strangers with the most peculiar problems.’

Fareeha widened her eyes, wanting more, but he wasn’t looking at her. ‘What kind of problems?’ she was forced to say.

Phipps glanced at her then took his eyes back to his empty glass. ‘I was awakened this morning by a young woman hammering on the door; burst in here she did with her hands clutching her belly. I thought for a terrible moment that she was pregnant or having a miscarriage—the look on her face terrified me.’

Fareeha shuffled to the edge of her chair. ‘What was it?’

‘No idea,’ he said matter-of-factly. Could have been just colic or a rotten egg. I gave her something to settle her stomach and told her to go to the hospital if it doesn’t get any better.’

‘She won’t do that.’

Phipps looked up.

‘Go to the hospital, I mean. People here never got to the hospital.’

He looked away. ‘Well, I wish they wouldn’t keep coming here either—I’m not a bloody doctor and I cant help.’ At last he sat.

‘But you are helping us . . . in another way, I mean.’ Fareeha slid her hands along the arms of the chair, as if she were going to get up. But Phipps spoke again, and this time his voice had softened, lost some of its menace:

‘Suppose so,’ he said, slowly. ‘And today wasn’t a bad day, really.’

Fareeha put her hands back into her lap.

Phipps peered into his long, empty glass. ‘Now I need something a bit stronger.’ He looked up. ‘Would you care for a whisky, or something?’

Fareeha raised her chin and shook her head strongly. ‘No, no, thanks,’ she said.

‘No, of course not. How stupid of me,’ Phipps said, reaching down and opening a cupboard at the bottom of his desk. He pulled out a bottle of Scotch and briefly looked around him, before screwing off the cap and pouring a generous measure into the used glass before him. The splash of whisky looked silly in the bottom of such a big receptacle. There was no ice. ‘Cheers,’ he murmured, lifting the refreshment to his thin lips.