‘You want something to take away the taste of the sand,’ he said. He resumed shovelling.
‘They work hard,’ said the Belgian defensively. ‘I’ve never said they didn’t.’
He looked out across the desert.
‘I was hoping the wind would drop,’ he said.
‘It doesn’t look like it,’ said Owen, uncomfortably aware of the particles of sand stinging his face.
‘What will you do if it gets up?’ asked Mahmoud.
‘That’s just what I’m wondering,’ said the foreman.
A new layer of sand, blown in by the wind, was already covering the track that had previously been cleared.
‘We’ll have to get them back if it gets any worse,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some more men working further up the line. It’ll need two trips.’ He looked out across the desert. ‘Maybe it won’t come to that,’ he said. ‘I hope not. We’ve got to get this line finished.’ The wind now seemed to be dying down again.
‘I’ve got to go up the line,’ said the foreman. He looked at Owen and Mahmoud. ‘What were you here for, anyway?’
‘We were hoping to go to Matariya.’
The foreman looked dubious.
‘I don’t know if that’s a good idea,’ he said. ‘Ever been caught in a dust storm?’
‘Yes,’ said Owen.
‘Well, you’ll know what I mean.’
‘There’s more wind out here than there was in the city,’ said Mahmoud.
‘There’s more wind than there was when I came out first thing. If I were you I wouldn’t risk it. Catch the next buggy back. You lot,’ he called to the workmen, ‘can take a spell. Twenty minutes, mind! No longer!’
He marched off. The men put down their spades with alacrity and gathered in the lee of a small dune. Someone brought out a primus stove and put a kettle on it.
Mahmoud looked at Owen.
‘He’s probably right,’ said Owen.
Mahmoud nodded.
‘The buggy will be back in a bit,’ said the workmen. ‘Come over here out of the wind.’
Owen and Mahmoud lay down beside them on the dune. Several of the workmen took out coloured handkerchiefs and unwrapped bread and onions, which they offered hospitably to Owen and Mahmoud. They declined the food but accepted the hot black tea.
‘Hard work,’ said Mahmoud sympathetically.
‘It is that,’ said his neighbour.
‘The worst thing is,’ said one of the other men, ‘that we’re going to have to do it all again.’
‘This wind, you mean?’
‘It’s not going to amount to anything,’ said one of the other workmen, looking at the sky. ‘It’ll be easy enough to sweep it off the rails.’
‘We don’t want it too easy,’ said someone. ‘The longer this job lasts, the better.’
‘That’s not what the Belgians think!’ said someone.
They all laughed.
‘It’s get-it-all-done-in-a-hurry with them!’
‘That’s why they want this Friday-working.’
‘I don’t agree with that. It’s not going to make much difference to them, but it makes a lot of difference to us. You don’t want back-breaking working every day!’
There was a mutter of agreement.
‘You want to be able to sleep it off, don’t you? I mean, six days a week is all very well, you can cope with that. It doesn’t go on forever, after all. But if you’re doing it every day without a break, it gets on top of you.’
‘There’s not much you can do about it, though, is there? It’s all very well Wahid saying come out on strike, but where will that get us?’
Owen noticed now that Wahid, their spokesman on the previous occasion he had talked to them, wasn’t there.
‘You’ve got to do something!’
‘I don’t know there’s a lot you can do. If you walk out, all they’ll do is get somebody else in.’
‘They might not be so keen. Not if it’s Friday-working.’
‘There’s plenty who’d jump at the chance. It’s only for a month or two, isn’t it? And you get extra money.’
‘You work extra for it, though, don’t you?’
‘There are plenty who wouldn’t mind that. We’ve done all the work; why should we give them the money?’
There was a general mutter of agreement.
‘You’ve got to do something, though.’
‘Yes, but what?’
‘We should get Wahid to speak to them. In everybody’s name.’
‘A fat lot of good that would do! Where did it get Ibrahim that time?’
‘At least he made the point.’
‘Yes, but where did it get us? They went on just the same as they’d always done. If you don’t like it, they said, you know what you can do.’
‘I don’t reckon it’d be so easy for them to say that this time. They’ve got to get the job done quickly. That’s what all this is about.’
‘They’re more likely to get rid of us, then, aren’t they?’
‘No, they’re not. It’d take time to get other men in.’
‘Not that much time. About a day, I’d say. And anyway, where would that get us? Out of a job!’
The discussion continued, not very animatedly. On the whole the workmen seemed resigned to the prospect of Friday-working.
‘After all,’ they said, ‘it’s only for a few weeks, isn’t it?’
The foreman came into view, walking along the track towards them.
The workmen stood up and picked up their spades.
‘Where’s Wahid, then, this morning?’ Owen asked one of them. ‘Isn’t he with you?’
The men looked around.
‘He’s up the line, I think.’
‘Come on, then!’ said the foreman, hurrying up. ‘Back to it!’
The men pointed back along the line. The buggy was approaching, crammed full with men.
‘It’s the next shift,’ said the foreman, relieved. ‘That’s more like it.’
Owen and Mahmoud went back with the buggy. As they left the Pont de Limoun, Owen said:
‘Well, a pity. But not altogether wasted.’
‘No,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Definitely not!’
‘If it’s that kind of information you’re after,’ said the Syndicate’s voice on the other end of the telephone, ‘then the man you want is Salah-el-Din.’
‘Salah-el-Din? The mamur of Heliopolis?’
‘That’s right.’
Owen was surprised. He had been unaware of this side of Salah’s activities.
‘Would you like to speak to him?’
‘Yes. But things are a bit disrupted between here and Heliopolis. The sand-’
‘We can put you through if you like.’
Owen was surprised again. So far as he knew the police station at Heliopolis wasn’t connected up yet.
‘It’s his home number.’
‘Home number!’
Owen had never met anyone with a home telephone before. Even the Consul-General didn’t have one. The Ministries were now connected by phone and so were the banks and some of the biggest companies. It was catching on, no doubt; but telephones at home!
‘Well, yes, please. If it’s not too much of a problem.’
‘No problem at all.’
And in a moment or two he heard Salah’s voice on the line.
Yes, he could certainly supply Owen with the information he needed, would be glad to, in fact. Perhaps they could meet?’
‘I’d come over,’ said Owen, ‘but things are a bit disrupted-’
It was better now, Salah assured him. The Syndicate had pulled all stops out in an effort to get communications working again. The roads were virtually clear, he could come up on the buggy if he liked, and the train to Marg, calling at Matariya, was functioning normally.
Perhaps that would be the best bet, if Owen didn’t mind taking the trouble. He, Salah, would be glad to come into the Bab-el-Khalk, if Owen would prefer. But he had to go over to Matariya Station anyway this morning, to read the owner of the ostrich farm the riot act, and if Owen wouldn’t mind meeting him there-
The sand had, indeed, been removed from the line and the train ran smoothly. The wind had died down and the sky cleared and when Owen got off the train at Matariya he found the air unusually clean and fresh and for the first time felt inclined to believe the Syndicate’s promotional literature about the quality of the atmosphere at Heliopolis.