‘I have been here often before,’ growled Price, ‘in the time of your predecessor.’
‘You know the house? Then I mustn’t ramble on. We are both busy men and my private secretary told me you wanted to speak to me about something important and confidential. It must be important to bring you here in your machine on a Sunday afternoon.’ He gazed benevolently at the squat, tough-looking figure now lounging in an armchair opposite him, trying to disguise his dislike of what he saw.
‘It is important and it is confidential,’ Price began and his host raised a delicate hand to his face to hide the wince at the harsh South African intonation. ‘Have you had a chance to read what we published today in the Review section of my newspaper?’
‘The Review section? Let me see. Ah, yes, my private secretary showed it to me. The extracts from the diaries of a literary fellow? Yes, I have glanced at them and noted certain references to some of my ministers. I must tell you, Mr Price, that I consider the publication of a public person’s private sexuality unnecessary – unless his lifestyle affects the performance of that person’s public duties. But I suppose this is the stuff modern readers enjoy.’
‘The view my newspapers take is that the public has a right to know what kind of men are running the country.’
‘In the days when a man was liable to blackmail if exposed as a homosexual I suppose that might have been understandable, but that is not the case today. Nowadays, Mr Price, we live in a very different kind of society. You refer, I suppose, to the paragraphs about Peregrine McClaren?’
‘And to another minister, a woman.’
‘Dear me, I didn’t read as far as that.’
‘There are also references to a third minister, the Minister for Defence Procurement,’ said Price. ‘The references to him are different. They suggest that he was associating in an improper manner with one of the manufacturers with whom his ministry does business.’
‘An improper manner?’
‘The inference is that there was some financial link between them. These references I have deliberately allowed to be published. If that minister chooses to sue, so be it. I would welcome it. But, Prime Minister, I must tell you that there were parts of the diary that we did not publish.’ He leant forward and added conspiratorially, ‘I had them removed from the text.’
‘And why was that?’
‘Because they referred to you, Prime Minister.’
‘To me?’
‘Yes, in the original manuscript the diarist wrote about overhearing a conversation in which Richard Tancred spoke about you. I had that excised.’
The Prime Minister’s delicate white hand was once again before his mouth. ‘But why was that?’
Price looked down at his own hands, at the gnarled, stubby fingers. ‘When I decided to publish the diary, I realised that there were certain references to certain persons who might take exception to what was published about them and might even sue for libel, mostly men and women in society and their past or present sexual relationships. I don’t care a jot if any of them sues. They’d be made to look very foolish. My people are looking into all that. I have no doubt that if it should come to an action at law we would be able to prove the truth of what was published. I have no worry about them. And, frankly, I’d welcome a writ from Richard Tancred if he were so foolish as to sue. But—’ He paused, then he went on. ‘But I wouldn’t like your other two ministers to sue. If they do, of course I’ll take ’em on but three ministers suing would seem like a confrontation between the News Group and your government, which I do not want. As I said, generally we support the government. I exclude the Minister for Defence Procurement of whom we’ve never approved, and whatever he chooses to do, I don’t care a jot. So I hope you’ll see that the other two ministers keep out of it.’
Both remained silent for a moment. Then the Prime Minister said ‘You were, I believe, going to tell me what it was that Richard Tancred is reported to have said about me, which you decided to excise.’
‘Yes. It’s in the original manuscript.’ There was another pause.
‘Well,’ the Prime Minister said wearily, ‘you’ve come all this way to tell me so you’d better say what you want to say.’
‘The diarist reports Tancred as saying, to use his words, that for many years you had been engaging in a long-standing love affair with someone in your constituency.’
There was another silence, a longer one this time. Then the Prime Minister smiled. ‘I am flattered that anyone should attribute to me, at my time of life, such prowess.’ He shook his head. ‘You were wise, Mr Price, to have excised such a silly falsehood from the diary of this absurd author.’
‘That is why I had it removed,’ Price stated. He sat back in his chair. ‘However, I have to warn you that what was in the diary was seen by some of my confidential staff. I have, of course, sworn them to secrecy.’
After a while the Prime Minister mused, almost to himself, ‘Calumny, Charles de Gaulle said to Georges Pompidou, is the fate of statesmen. But in the words of his compatriot, Beaumarchais, playwright and pursuer of Queen Marie Antoinette, “Calumny, calumny, something will always stick”.’
‘I shall see that my people keep silent,’ said Price. He paused and eyed the figure slumped in the armchair opposite him. ‘I hope’, he said at last, ‘you will see that Mr McClaren and the Baroness Oxborrow do nothing silly in the courts.’
The Prime Minister’s eyes were fixed on Price. ‘I am obliged to you, Mr Price, for telling me all this, including that absurd report about me personally in which there is not a scintilla of truth and which you so properly decided not to print. You showed great judgement.’
‘Thank you,’ Price replied.
‘And I agree with you that it is never best for people in public life to resort to the courts, however wounding the criticism levelled against them. That will be – that always has been – my advice. I am sure that Mr McClaren and the other minister would feel as I do. As to Richard Tancred—’
Price interrupted him, ‘I do not mind what he does. As I said, I would welcome a writ from him.’
The Prime Minister nodded. ‘So I heard you say.’ He rose from his chair. ‘But now,’ he went on, ‘as you have troubled to come all this way, the least I can do is to offer you a cup of tea.’ He rang the bell.
Digby Price also rose to his feet. ‘I am not a tea drinker, Prime Minister.’
‘A whisky and soda then?’
‘No, I have to get back to London.’
‘In your machine?’
‘In my machine.’
Alan Prentice entered the room.
‘Mr Price’, the Prime Minister said, ‘has to return urgently to London. He cannot stay even for tea. Escort him, Alan, to his machine.’
Digby Price and Wilson remained silent in the noisy cabin as the helicopter brought them back to London. It was only when they were in the car driving them from the Battersea heliport that Wilson leant forward and closed the glass partition separating them from the chauffeur, ‘Well, sir,’ he asked, ‘how did it go?’
‘He got the message,’ Price said grimly.
The following morning, Monday, was to be devoted by the Prime Minister to visits in his constituency before he returned to Downing Street. Accordingly only his detective accompanied him when he left Chequers and was driven to the county town which he had represented in Parliament since he had first arrived as a shining and enthusiastic young candidate over thirty years before. He’d cut a fine figure then, handsome, athletic with all the energy and idealism of youth, and from the start he had literally cut a swathe through all the feminine hearts which made up the bulk of the constituency workers and officials. There was much disappointment some five years later when he married the frumpish but well-connected and rich daughter of an earl. Nevertheless he retained through all the following years the devotion of the ladies who formed the backbone of the local party.
On this morning his first visit was, however, a municipal duty: to open the
new town library where, as his car drew up, he was met by the mayor in his chain of office looking, as he felt, supremely self-important. His wife, the mayoress, was looking acid. She was not a supporter of the Prime Minister or his political party but she was obliged to be present and she stood beside her husband outside the doors of the library surrounded by aldermen and councillors and town officials. Before them had gathered a small crowd and the usual battery of cameramen. After a felicitous speech into a microphone, in which the Prime Minister welcomed the opportunity to join in such an agreeable task in such agreeable company, he declared the new library open and with the municipal group in close attendance he toured it, chatting to the staff, posing politely at all the demands of the photographers and making sure that the library staff were included in the pictures. This pleased them and infuriated the mayoress. After a glass of sweet sherry the Prime Minister made his excuses and departed for the local headquarters of his constituency party where there were gathered a group of constituency workers, mostly women, those devoted admirers who had so happily supported him for thirty years.
At the head of the group to greet their Member of Parliament, now to their pride also their Prime Minister, was his political agent, Aidan Wills, a solemn, rather lugubrious, grey-haired man in his mid fifties. With him was his wife, Penny, a large, bosomy and friendly woman with handsome features, dark hair and a bright complexion.
The Prime Minister greeted Aidan with a hearty handshake and his wife with a kiss on the cheek, before similarly embracing the woman Chairman of the Party Association and several others. A modest buffet luncheon had been prepared; the Prime Minister made a speech, expressing his regret that his duties now prevented him from visiting the constituency as often as he had in the past and thanking them for the work they had done to ensure that he and the party now formed the government of the country. After toying with a sausage roll and accepting a glass of Spanish red wine, which he soon abandoned, he passed into the inner office where he remained with Aidan signing various constituency letters. They were joined by Penny. The Prime Minister asked Aidan if he would mind stepping out and making sure that his driver and personal detective were offered a sandwich. Aidan left the room and the Prime Minister was alone with Penny.
He was seated in a chair at the desk. She came behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. He raised his and covered hers, and patted them. She lowered her head and kissed his cheek. ‘I have heard that there might be people, unfriendly people, coming round asking questions,’ he said.
‘What of it?’ she asked, her head still resting against his cheek.
‘They could be seeking information, gossip and letters. Have you any letters?’
‘No. I promised you I would destroy them and I have. You needn’t worry.’
‘They’ll offer money.’
She straightened. ‘If I’d wanted money, I’d have got it before now. If I were going to betray you, I could have done it years ago.’
‘They’ll have a lot of money. They believe they can get anything with money.’
‘Not me,’ she said. ‘They’ll never get me.’
‘What about Aidan?’
‘Aidan,’ she scoffed. ‘He has kept his head turned away for over twenty years. He’ll not change.’ She laid her head against his cheek once again. ‘Darby and Joan.’ She giggled.
Aidan came back into the room. ‘Your driver says you ought to be leaving.’
The Prime Minister rose. ‘Then I must say goodbye to my dear friends.’ He took Aidan’s hand and gave Penny a chaste kiss on the cheek. ‘Goodbye.’
Perry McClaren had spent the weekend at his cottage near Petworth. For once he’d been alone, studying his departmental papers and preparing for a Cabinet Committee at No. 10, to be chaired by the Prime Minister on the following Monday. The Sunday newspapers were not delivered and he did not trouble to fetch them. He returned to London early on Sunday afternoon. In the car he listened to music on tape and did not hear any of the news bulletins. As a result he did not see the Sunday News, nor learn about the publication of the diaries of Francis Richmond until he was back in his flat in Islington. It was only then that he read what Francis Richmond had written about him. It wasn’t long thereafter that the doorbell rang. From the upper window he looked down to the street below. He could see the reporters’ cars and the small group outside the front door. He drew the curtains. He would face them, and his colleagues, in the morning.
On Monday afternoon, after his return to London from his visit to his constituency, the Prime Minister chaired the Cabinet Committee, which included Perry McClaren among the ministers attending. That morning Perry had been collected from his flat by his official car and walked, stony-faced and silent, through the group of reporters, one of whom yelled out, ‘Is it true you’re gay, Minister?’ He had not replied and was driven away rapidly. At the Ministry he remained in his office, attended by his private secretary and later by the Permanent Secretary, preparing for the afternoon’s Cabinet Committee. No one said a word about the weekend press. At No. 10, when the ministers assembled outside the Cabinet Room, no one actually spoke to him. Was that, he wondered, because of what they had read about him? Or was it because they didn’t care? Or, which was equally possible, was it because none had reason to speak to him before they went in to the meeting?
Within a few minutes the ministers were ushered into the Cabinet Room and sat round the oval table facing the Prime Minister who was in his usual seat, his back to the fireplace, facing the windows overlooking the garden and the Horseguards beyond. When Perry’s turn came to speak he did so quietly but with authority. The Home Secretary, who was seated next to him, disagreed with what Perry recommended. Perry maintained his stance and repeated his opinion. After others had expressed their views, some siding with Perry and some with the Home Secretary, the Prime Minister summed up. He said that having regard to the opposition of the Home Secretary, he would invite the Minister to take another look at the issue and report back later in the week. The business then concluded. As the ministers gathered together their papers and prepared to leave the Prime Minister called out, ‘Perry, would you mind staying for a moment?’
Some of the ministers exchanged glances as they filed from the room.
‘Come and sit here, next to me,’ the Prime Minister said and Perry took a chair beside him at the centre of the table.
‘I have, of course, read the extracts from the diary that silly fellow wrote and that awful newspaper saw fit to publish. I hope you will not let what was in the paper disturb you.’
Perry looked down at the Ministry file he was still holding in his hand. ‘It was not very pleasant to read in print.’
‘Perhaps not,’ the Prime Minister went on, ‘but today times are very different from the past when, as you may remember, poor old Willie Beauchamp, persecuted by that brute of a brother-in-law, Bendor, was forced to flee the country. Thankfully, that’s the past. There’s none of that nowadays. I wanted you to know, my dear fellow, that you have my complete confidence. You are doing excellent work, you are a valued member of my cabinet and I don’t want you to do anything silly.’
Perry looked up. ‘Anything silly, Prime Minister?’
‘Yes, make an issue of it. I value your work and your comradeship, and I wanted to assure you that what has been published makes not a jot of difference to the regard in which I hold you.’
‘My colleagues and the public, Prime Minister, may not think as you do.’
‘To the devil with them. But I don’t think any would. There’s no cause for’ here the Prime Minister paused for a moment – ‘for the issue of writs or the courts or any of that nonsense. However, I’m sure you’re not thinking about anything like that. If I, as an older man, may be permitted to advise, the dignified course is to say and do absolutely nothing. Treat it with contempt.’
‘I had considered demanding an apology—’
‘But why, my dear fellow? That is precisely what the wretches want. No, no. Lega
l action by a politician is rarely sensible. You have made an excellent impression as a minister and it would be a tragedy if you were provoked into doing anything of that kind.’
‘Your advice is to do nothing?’ Perry enquired.
‘Exactly. Ignore it. Treat it as the ramblings of a malicious, minor literary gossip, which no one should take seriously. You are a good minister, and that is what public service is about and what the country needs.’
‘But I never said what Richmond said that I did.’
‘Of course not. No one will believe that you did. You must not waste time worrying over such a farrago of nonsense.’
There was a silence for a time. Then Perry said, ‘Very well, Prime Minister, I shall do as you say.’
‘Excellent. It is very cruel but the last thing we want is writs and actions in the law courts.’ The Prime Minister rose, as did Perry. The Prime Minister took him by the arm. ‘Courage and dignity, that’s what is needed. Now, before you leave, let me offer you a whisky and soda.’
When Perry McClaren left Downing Street an hour later the reporters had vanished, believing that he must have departed through the Cabinet offices into Whitehall.
The Prime Minister sent for Alan Prentice. ‘The under-secretary who was also written about in the newspaper? Baroness What’s-her-name?’
‘Oxborrow. The Chief Whip has spoken with her. She will take no action.’
The Prime Minister nodded.
‘The Minister for Defence Procurement’, Alan said, ‘is in the Far East. He will be back the day after tomorrow.’
‘Speak to his Private Office, will you. I’d be obliged if he would call upon me the moment he returns.’
How, he asked himself when he was alone, did Richard Tancred come to know about him? It had begun so long ago. The passion was long spent. He could trust Penny with his life. Indeed, he would have to, at least with his political life. She would not betray him. But how, he wondered, had this come to haunt him after all these years?
The Richmond Diary Page 7