The rearmost suite, which had been designed originally for use by the Queen and her husband on state visits, was to be used now by the Prime Minister and Margaret. The steward, an RCAF flight sergeant, helped strap them into two of the deep soft seats, then discreetly disappeared. Outside, the deep, muted throb of the four Rolls-Royce motors increased in tempo as they began to taxi towards the airport perimeter.
When the steward had gone James Howden said sharply, 'Was it really necessary to encourage Warrender in that absurd conceit of his about Latin doggerel?'
Margaret answered calmly, 'Not really, I suppose. But if you must know, I thought you were being extremely rude and I wanted to make amends.'
'Goddammit Margaret!' His voice rose. 'I had good reason to be rude with Harvey Warrender.'
His wife removed her hat carefully and placed it on a small table beside her seat. The hat was a wispy affair of black velvet and net which she had bought in Montreal. She said levelly, 'Kindly don't snap at me, Jamie. You may have had reason, but I didn't, and I've said before I'm not a carbon copy of your moods.'
'That isn't the point at all,..'
'Yes, it is the point!' Now there was a flush of red in Margaret's cheeks. She was always slow to anger, which was the reason their quarrels were comparatively rare. 'Judging by the way you behaved with the reporters just now, I'd say that Harvey Warrender isn't the only one to be accused of vanity.'
He asked abruptly, 'What do you mean?'
'You were angry with that Mr Tomkins just because he wasn't silly enough to be taken in by all your pompous nonsense about fairness and humanity. If you want to know, I wasn't either.'
He expostulated, 'Surely, at least here, I'm entitled to some loyalty.'.
'Oh, don't be ridiculous,' Margaret flared. 'And for goodness' sake stop talking to me as if I were a political meeting. I'm your wife, remember? - I've seen you undressed. It's perfectly obvious what's happened. Harvey Warrender has put you in a difficult position...'
He interjected, 'It's an impossible position.'
'Very well, impossible. And for some reason you feel you must back him up, but because you don't like doing it you're taking your bad temper out on everyone else, including me.' Unusually, with the last words there was a catch in Margaret's voice.
There was a silence between them. Outside the engines' tempo increased for take-off; the runway slid by and they were airborne, climbing. He reached for Margaret's hand. 'You were quite right. I was being bad-tempered.'
This was the way most of their arguments ended, even the serious ones, and there had been a few in their married life. Invariably one of them saw the other's point of view and then conceded. James Howden wondered if there really were married couples who lived together without quarrelling. If so, he thought, they must be dull and spiritless people.
Margaret's head was averted but she returned the pressure of his hand.
After a while he said, 'It isn't important about Warrender - not to us, I mean. It's hampering in some ways, that's all. But things will work out.'
'I expect I was being a bit silly too. Perhaps because I haven't seen much of you lately.' Margaret had taken a tiny square of cambric from her bag and delicately touched the corners of both eyes. She went on slowly, 'Sometimes I get a terrible feeling of jealousy about politics, a sort of helplessness in a way. I think I'd prefer it if you had another woman hidden somewhere. At least I'd know how to compete.'
'You don't have to compete,' he said. 'You never did.' For an instant he had a pang of guilt, remembering Milly Freedeman.
Abruptly Margaret said, 'If Harvey Warrender is so difficult, why give him the Immigration Department? Couldn't you put him somewhere where he'd be harmless - like Fisheries?'
James Howden sighed. 'Unfortunately Harvey wants to be Immigration Minister and he still has influence enough to make his wishes count.' He wondered if Margaret really believed the second statement, but she gave no sign of questioning.
The Vanguard was turning south on to course, still climbing, but less steeply now. The mid-morning sun shone brightly through the port side windows and, to the right, visible from both seats, Ottawa lay spread like a miniature city three thousand feet below. The Ottawa River was a slash of silver between snow-clad banks. To the west, near the narrows of Chaudiere Falls, faint white streamers pointed like fingers to the Supreme Court and Parliament, dwarfed and puny from above.
The capital slid out of sight below, leaving flat open country ahead. In ten minutes or so they would cross the St Lawrence and be over New York State. A guided missile, Howden thought, would cover the same ground, not in minutes but seconds.
Turning from the window Margaret asked, 'Do you think that people outside have any idea of all the things that go on in government? The political deals, favours for favours, and all the rest.'
Momentarily James Howden was startled. Not for the first time he had the feeling that Margaret had dipped into his thoughts. Then he answered, 'Some do, of course - those close to the inside. But I imagine that most of the people don't really, or at least don't want to know. And there are others who wouldn't believe it if you produced document proof and swore out affidavits.'
Reflectively Margaret said, 'We're always so quick to criticize American politics.'
'I know,' he agreed. 'It's quite illogical, of course, because in proportion we have as much patronage and graft as the Americans, perhaps even more. It's just that most times we're a good deal more discreet and every now and then we offer up a public sacrifice of somebody who became too greedy.'
The seat-belt sign above their heads had gone out. James Howden unsnapped his own belt and reached across to help Margaret release hers. 'Of course, my dear,' he said, 'you must realize that one of our greatest national assets is our sense of self-righteousness. It's something we inherited from the British. You remember Shaw? - "There is nothing so bad or so good that you will not find an Englishman doing it; but you will never find an Englishman in the wrong." That kind of conviction helps the national conscience quite a lot.'
'Sometimes,' Margaret said, 'you sound positively gleeful about the things which are wrong.'
Her husband paused, considering. 'I don't mean it to seem that way. It's just that when we're alone I try to drop pretences.' He smiled faintly. 'There aren't many places left nowadays where I'm not on show.'
'I'm sorry.' There was concern in Margaret's voice. 'I shouldn't have said that.'
'No! I wouldn't want either of us to feel there was something we couldn't say to each other, no matter what it was.' Fleetingly he thought of Harvey Warrender and the deal between them. Why had he never told Margaret? Perhaps he would someday. Now he continued, 'A good deal of what I know about politics saddens me. It always has. But then I get to thinking of our mortality and human weakness, remembering there has never been power with purity - anywhere. If you want to be pure, you must stand alone. If you seek to do positive things, achieve something, leave the world a mite better than you found it, then you must choose power and throw some of your purity away. There's no other choice.' He went on thoughtfully, 'It's as if we're all together in a strong-flowing river; and though you'd like to, you can't change its course suddenly. You can only go along, and try to ease it slowly in one direction or the other.'
A white intercom telephone near the Prime Minister's seat pinged musically and he answered it. The aircraft captain's voice announced, 'This is Galbraith, sir.'
'Yes, Wing Commander?' Galbraith, a veteran pilot with a reputation for solidity, was usually in command on VIP missions out of Ottawa. He had flown the Howdens many times before.
'We're at cruising height, twenty thousand, and estimating Washington in one hour ten minutes. Weather there is sunny and clear, temperature sixty-five.'
'That's good news,' Howden said. 'It'll be a taste of summer.' He told Margaret about the Washington weather, then said into the phone, 'I understand there'll be a luncheon at the embassy tomorrow. Wing Commander. We shall expect to see you.'
'Thank you, sir.'
James Howden replaced the telephone. While he had been speaking the RCAF steward had reappeared, this time with coffee trays and sandwiches. There was also a single glass of grape juice. Margaret pointed to it. 'If you really like that so much, I'll order some at home.'
He waited until the steward had gone, then lowered his voice. 'I'm beginning to loathe the stuff. I once said I liked it and word seems to have passed around. Now I understand why Disraeli hated primroses.'
'But I always thought he loved primroses,' Margaret said. 'Weren't they his favourite flower?'
Her husband shook his head emphatically. 'Disraeli said so just on one occasion, out of politeness to Queen Victoria, who had sent him some. But afterwards, people showered primroses on him until the mere sight of one could drive him to distraction. So you see, political myths die hard.' Smiling, he took the grape juice, opened a door of the rear of the cabin and poured it down the toilet.
Margaret said thoughtfully, 'You know, I sometimes think you're rather like Disraeli, though a little fiercer perhaps.' She smiled. 'At least you have the nose for it.'
'Yes,' he agreed, 'and this old craggy face of mine has been a trademark.' He fondled his eagle-beak nose, then said re-miniscently, 'It used to surprise me when people said I appeared fierce, but after a while, when I learned to switch it on and off, it became quite useful.'
'This is nice,' Margaret said, 'being by ourselves for a while. How long do we have before Washington?'
He grimaced. 'No longer than this, I'm afraid. I have to talk to Nesbitson before we land.'
'Do you really, Jamie?' It was more an entreaty than a question.
He said regretfully, 'I'm sorry, my dear,'
Margaret sighed. 'I thought it was too good to last. Well, I'll lie down so you can be private.' She got up, gathering her bag and hat. At the doorway of the little bedroom she turned. 'Are you going to bully him?'
'Probably not - unless I have to.'
'I hope you don't,' Margaret said seriously. 'He's such a sad old man. I always think he should be in a wheel chair with a blanket, and another old soldier pushing.'
The Prime Minister smiled broadly. 'All retired generals should be like that. Unfortunately they either want to write books or get into politics.'
When Margaret had gone he buzzed for the steward and sent a courteous message asking General Nesbitson to join him.
Chapter 3
'You're looking extremely fit, Adrian,' James Howden said.
From the depths of the soft chair which Margaret had vacated earlier, his pink pudgy hands nursing a scotch and soda, Adrian Nesbitson nodded in pleased agreement. 'I've been feeling first-class these past few days. Prime Minister. Seem to have thrown off that damned catarrh at last.'
'I'm delighted to hear it. I think you were overdoing things for a while. In fact we all were. It made us impatient with each other.' Howden studied his Defence Minister carefully. The old man really did look healthier, distinguished even, despite increasing baldness and the trace of resemblance to Mr Five-by-Five. The thick white moustache helped; carefully trimmed, it added an aura of dignity to the square-jawed face which still retained a hint of soldierly authority. Perhaps, Howden thought, the course he had been considering might work. But he remembered Brian Richardson's warning: 'Go easy on the bargaining; the old boy has a reputation for straightness.'
'Impatient or not,' Nesbitson said, 'I still can't share your views on this Act of Union idea. I'm sure we can get what we want from the Yanks without giving so much away.'
James Howden willed himself to calmness, ignoring, in his mind, a ground swell of anger and frustration. Nothing, he knew, would be achieved by loss of control, by shouting aloud as impulse urged: 'For God's sake wake up! Wake up and acknowledge the obvious: that it's desperately late and there isn't time for ancient weary nostrums.' Instead he said placatingly, 'I'd like you to do something for me, Adrian, if you will.'
There was a trace of hesitancy before the old man asked, 'What is it?'
'Go over everything in your mind: what the situation is likely to be; the time we have available; what was said the other day; then the alternatives, and your own conscience.'
'I've already done it.' The answer was determined.
'But once again?' Howden was at his most persuasive. 'As a personal favour to me?'
The old man had finished his scotch. It had warmed him and he put the glass down. 'Well,' he conceded, 'I don't mind doing that. But I warn you my answer will still be the same: we must keep our national independence - all of it.'
'Thank you,' James Howden said. He rang for the steward and when he appeared, 'Another scotch and soda, please, for General Nesbitson.'
When the second drink arrived Nesbitson sipped it, then leaned back, surveying the private cabin. He said approvingly, with something of the old military bark in his voice, 'This is a damn fine setup, PM, if I may say so.'
It was the opening James Howden had hoped for.
'It isn't bad,' he acknowledged, his fingers toying with the fresh glass of grape juice which the steward had brought, along with the Defence Minister's scotch. 'I don't use it a great deal, though. This is more the Governor General's aeroplane than mine.'
'Is that so?' Nesbitson seemed surprised. 'You mean that Sheldon Griffiths gets to ride around like this?'
'Oh yes, whenever he wants.' Howden's voice was elaborately casual. 'After all, the GG is Her Majesty's representative. He's entitled to rather special treatment, don't you think?'
'I suppose so.' The old man's expression was bemused.
Again casually, as if their conversation had reminded him, Howden said, 'I expect you'd heard that Shel Griffiths is retiring this summer. He's had seven years at Government House and feels he'd like to step down.'
'I'd heard something of the sort,' Nesbitson said.
The Prime Minister sighed. 'It's always a problem when a Governor General retires - finding the best man to succeed him: someone with the right kind of experience who is willing to serve. One has to remember that it's the highest honour the country can award.'
As Howden watched, the older man took a generous sip of scotch. 'Yes,' he said carefully, 'it certainly is.'
'Of course,' Howden said, 'the job has disadvantages. There's a good deal of ceremonial - guards of honour everywhere, cheering crowds, artillery salutes, and so on.' He added lightly, 'The GG rates twenty-one guns, you know - as many as the Queen.'
'Yes,' Nesbitson said softly, 'I know.'
'Naturally,' Howden continued, as if thinking aloud, 'it needs a special brand of experience to handle that kind of thing well. Someone with a military background usually does it best.'
The old warrior's lips were slightly parted. He moistened them with his tongue. 'Yes,' he said, 'I expect that's true.'
'Frankly,' Howden said, 'I'd always hoped that you might take it on someday.'
The old man's eyes were wide. 'Me?' His voice was barely audible. 'Me?'
'Well,' Howden said, as if dismissing the thought. 'It's come at the wrong time, I know. You don't want to leave the Cabinet and I certainly wouldn't want to lose you.'
Nesbitson made a half-movement as if to rise from the cabin seat, then subsided. The hand which held the glass was trembling. He swallowed in an attempt to keep his voice under control and succeeded partially. 'Matter of fact, been thinking for some time of getting out of politics. Sometimes a bit trying at my age.'
'Really, Adrian?' The Prime Minister allowed himself to sound surprised. 'I'd always assumed you'd be working with us for a long time to come.' He stopped to consider. 'Of course, if you did accept, it would solve a lot of problems. I don't mind telling you that as I see it, after the Act of Union there'll be a difficult time for the country. We shall need a sense of unity and a continuance of national feeling. Personally, I see the office of Governor General - assuming it's entrusted to the right hands - as contributing a great deal towards that.'
For a momen
t he wondered if he had gone too far. As he had spoken, the old man's eyes had risen, meeting his own directly. It was hard to read what they contained. Was it contempt; or unbelief; or even both, with a mingling of ambition? One thing could be counted on. Though in some ways Adrian Nesbitson was a fool, he was not so obtuse that he could fail to grasp what was being offered: a. deal, with the highest possible price for his own political support.
It was the old man's assessment of the prize that James Howden counted on. Some men, he knew, would never covet the Governor Generalship on any terms; for them it would be a penalty rather than reward. But to a military mind, loving ceremony and pomp, ii was the glistening ultimate ideal.
James Howden had never believed the cynic's dictum that all men have their price. In his lifetime he had known individuals who could not be bought, either with wealth or honours, or even the temptation - to which so many succumbed -to do good for their fellow men. But most who were in politics had a price of one kind or another; they had to have in order to survive. Some people preferred to use euphemisms like 'expediency' or 'compromise', but in the end it amounted to the same thing. The question was: had he gauged correctly the price of Adrian Nesbitson's support.
The inner struggle was written on the old man's face: a sequence of expressions, swift-changing like a child's kaleidoscope in which doubt, pride, shame, and longing were conjoined ...
He could hew the guns in memory ... the bark of German 88s and answering fire ... a sunstreaked morning; Antwerp behind, the Scheldt ahead ... the Canadian Division clambering, clawing, moving forward; then slowing, wavering, ready to turn away...
It was the pivot of battle and he had commandeered the jeep, beckoned the piper, and ordered the driver forward. To the skirl of pipes from the back seat he had stood, facing the German guns, leading, cajoling, and the wavering ranks had reassembled. He had urged stragglers on, cursing with foul oaths, and the men had cursed him back and followed.
In High Places Page 21