by Duncan James
***
Then they both met Tony Weaver over a pint in the Officer’s Mess at Lisburn.
James knew the PM quite well, as a matter of fact. Indeed, it was he who had suggested to James that it might be a very good career move if he went to Northern Ireland. He hadn’t been in Parliament all that long, and for the Prime Minister himself to suggest an appointment as a junior Minister was something ambitious politicians couldn’t refuse. Not that James liked it - Northern Ireland, that is. He would have preferred some rather quieter backwater, like Transport or Trade and Industry, to be honest. But this was not to be sniffed at, so he went.
He had been quietly chatting to Bill Clayton in a crowded corner of the bar. They’d met several times before, and had, in fact, become quite friendly. They were deep in quiet discussion when the Prime Minister hove into view, empty glass in hand.
“You chaps are looking a bit intense,” said Weaver. “Might I enquire what about?”
James introduced him to Clayton. Bill saw the empty glass, and set off to refill it and his and James’s. He’d been looking for an excuse.
“Interesting chap, that is, Prime Minister,” said James. “I came across him some time ago. He’s certainly got his head screwed on and seems to know everything there is to know about what’s going on around here. Delightfully un-stuffy for an Army officer, if you know what I mean.”
“I’ve certainly met a few of the more pompous variety this morning,” said Weaver. “What were you on about just now?”
“Oh! The usual thing,” replied the junior Minister. “How to sort this mess out - you know!”
“Is that all!” laughed the PM. “You’d better let me in on the secret, if you really do think you’re on to something.”
“Well, it’s odd actually that, although we’re from quite different walks of life, so to speak, we do seem to have been thinking along much the same lines. Put my political assessment with his military judgement of what is possible, and we are beginning to arrive at something quite interesting, although probably totally impractical.”
Bill Clayton came back with the drinks, hotly pursued by a rather flushed looking civil servant.
“Could you spare a moment, Prime Minister? I’d rather like...”
“Actually, not now if you don’t mind,” interrupted Weaver, “I’d rather like to finish this conversation before I start another one. If you don’t mind.”
An even more flushed civil servant backed off, hovering near enough to keep away others anxious ‘to have a word’, or ‘catch the Prime Minister’s ear’, but without being near enough to actually overhear Weaver’s conversation.
Weaver turned to Clayton, thanking him for his newly charged glass.
“The Minister was telling me that you have been reaching some exciting conclusions between you, Major. I’m interested,” said Weaver. “Anything you can share with me?”
Clayton looked at Anchor, aghast, wondering what on earth he had said to excite the PM’s interest.
“If you insist, Prime Minister, then of course I’d be happy to share my thinking with you,” said Clayton. “But I must emphasise that they will be my own thoughts and not reflect any official thinking whatsoever.”
“Understood,” said Weaver.
“And they are,” continued Clayton, “unrefined to say the least. Simply an expression if you like, of what could be done, given the political will, and providing total secrecy could be guaranteed. Much of what I have in mind might not be strictly legal or within the bounds of what’s possible in a democracy.”
“Much the same in my case,” said James Anchor. “I hadn’t meant to suggest, Prime Minister that we had developed any profound thinking about the future of the Province - only that we had discussed some rather revolutionary ideas which, on the face of it, might just be capable of being put into effect. But Bill and I had agreed that it would be impossible to share our thoughts with anyone publicly, let alone consult with others. Now you want us to share them with you, of all people!”
“We’ll both get the sack,” grumbled Clayton.
The Prime Minister could see that he meant it.
“James, you know that I have always held you in the highest regard,” confided the Prime Minister. “It’s because I think you have a brilliant political career ahead of you, that you’re here in the first place, young as you are. So if you think that what you and Major Clayton have been discussing is worth discussing, then I think it’s probably worth listening to.”
“Thank you for that, Tony,” said Anchor. “But the bar is no place to even outline our thinking. Is there anywhere else, Bill?”
“Certainly. Come into the Mess Secretary’s office next door. If he’s in I’ll kick him out. We can shut the door, and we’ve got about five minutes before lunch, that’s all.”
“To solve the problems of centuries,” mused Weaver, as they moved out of the bar into the small next-door office.
On their way, Bill grabbed a colleague by the arm.
“Charlie, stand outside this bloody door and don’t let anyone come in - not even the General. Give us a knock when they go in for lunch. If anyone asks, tell them the PM and the Minister wanted a private word. No need to let on that I’m here, too. OK?”
A rather bemused subaltern, who was on his way to do something far more worthwhile, like catch another quick half before lunch, came smartly to attention and nodded. He wasn't quite sure what to do if challenged, as he didn’t even have his hat on, never mind a gun.
But the moment the door shut, a slim young fellow in a dark suit joined him.
“I’ll stand guard with you,” he said, showing his Special Branch ID card. “PM’s personal protection,” he said. “There are others outside, and I’m armed, which you probably aren’t. So what shall we talk about”?
Charlie felt better, but he knew another beer was out of the question this side of lunch.