Amanda nodded her agreement. “Could you let me know what the clinic is going to charge this time? I’m sure they are suffering from inflation like the rest of us.”
“Yes, I will look into that, Miss Wallace,” said Elizabeth, just managing to keep her temper as she showed Amanda to the door. Once her patient had left Elizabeth picked up the confidential file from her desk, walked over to the cabinet, and flicked through S, T, U, until she found the right slot. Perhaps she should have been sterner with her but she was convinced that it would have made little difference. She paused, wondering if having the child might change the woman’s cavalier attitude to life.
Charles returned home after the debate feeling pleased with himself. He had received praise for his latest speech from every wing of the party, and the Chief Whip had made it quite clear that his efforts on the Finance Bill had not gone unnoticed.
As he drove back to Eaton Square he wound down the car window and let the fresh air rush in and the cigarette smoke out. His smile widened at the thought of Amanda sitting at home waiting for him. It had been a glorious couple of months. At forty-eight he was experiencing realities he had never even dreamed of in fantasy. As each day passed he expected the infatuation to wear off, but instead it only grew more intense. Even the memory the day after was better than anything he had experienced in the past.
Once the Holbein had been restored to his dining room wall Charles planned to talk to Amanda about their future; if she said “Yes” he would even be willing to grant Fiona a divorce. He parked the car and took out his latch key, but she was already there opening the front door to throw her arms around him.
“Why don’t we go straight to bed?” she greeted him.
Charles would have been shocked had Fiona uttered such feelings even once in their fifteen years of married life, but Amanda made it appear quite natural. She was already lying naked on the bed before Charles could get his waistcoat off. After they had made love and she was settled in his arms Amanda told him she would have to go away for a few days.
“Why?” said Charles, puzzled.
“I’m pregnant,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’ve already booked myself into a clinic. Don’t worry. I’ll be as right as rain in no time.”
“But why don’t we have the baby?” said a delighted Charles, looking down into her gray eyes. “I’ve always wanted a son.”
“Don’t be silly, Charlie. There’s years ahead of me for that.”
“But if we were married?”
“You’re already married. Besides, I’m only twenty-six.”
“I can get a divorce in a moment and life wouldn’t be so bad with me, would it?”
“Of course not, Charlie. You’re the first man I’ve ever really cared for.”
Charles smiled hopefully. “So you’ll think about the idea?”
Amanda looked into Charles’s eyes anxiously. “If I were to have a child I do hope he’d have blue eyes like yours.”
“Will you marry me?” he asked.
“I’ll think about it. In any case, you may have changed your mind by morning.”
Raymond drove Kate to Heathrow. He was wearing the pink shirt she had chosen for him; she was wearing the little red box. He had so much to tell her on the way to the airport that she hardly spoke at all. The last four weeks had gone by in a flash. It was the first time he had been grateful for being in Opposition.
“It’s all right, Carrot Top. Don’t fuss. We’ll see each other whenever you come to New York.”
“I’ve only been to America twice in my life,” he said. She tried to smile.
Once she had checked her eleven bags in at the counter, a process that seemed to take forever, she was allocated a seat.
“Flight BA 107, gate number fourteen, boarding in ten minutes,” she was informed.
“Thank you,” she said and rejoined Raymond, who was sitting on the end of an already crowded tubular settee. He had bought two plastic cups of coffee while Kate had been checking in. They were both already cold. They sat and held hands like children who had met on a summer holiday and had now to return to separate schools.
“Promise me you won’t start wearing contact lenses the moment I’ve gone.”
“Yes, I can promise you that,” said Raymond, touching the bridge of his glasses.
“I’ve so much I still want to tell you,” she said.
He turned toward her. “Vice-presidents of banks shouldn’t cry,” he said, brushing a tear from her cheek. “The customers will realize you’re a soft touch.”
“Neither should Cabinet ministers,” she replied. “All I wanted to say, is that if you really feel …” she began.
“Hello, Mr. Gould.”
They both looked up to see a broad smile spread across the face of someone whose tan proved that he had just arrived from a sunnier climate.
“I’m Bert Cox,” he said, thrusting out his hand, “I don’t suppose you remember me.” Raymond let go of Kate’s hand and shook Mr. Cox’s.
“We were at the same primary school in Leeds, Ray. Mind you, that was a million light years ago. You’ve come a long way since then.”
How can I get rid of him? wondered Raymond desperately.
“This is the missus,” Bert Cox continued obliviously, gesturing at the silent woman in a flowery dress by his side. She smiled but didn’t speak. “She sits on some committee with Joyce, don’t you, love?” he said, not waiting for her reply.
“This is the final call for Flight BA 107, now boarding at gate number fourteen.”
“We always vote for you, of course,” continued Bert Cox. “The missus”—he pointed to the lady in the flowered dress again—“thinks you’ll be Prime Minister. I always say—”
“I must go, Raymond,” said Kate, “or I’ll miss my flight.”
“Can you excuse me for a moment, Mr. Cox?” said Raymond.
“Delighted. I’ll wait. I don’t often get a chance to have a word with my MP.”
Raymond walked with Kate toward the barrier. “I am sorry about this. I’m afraid they’re all like that in Leeds—hearts of gold, but never stop talking. What were you going to say?”
“Only that I would have been happy to live in Leeds, however cold it is. I never envied anyone in my life, but I do envy Joyce.” She kissed him gently on the cheek and walked toward the barrier before he could reply. She didn’t look back.
“Are you feeling all right, madam?” asked an airport official as she went through the security barrier.
“I’m fine,” said Kate, brushing aside her tears. She walked slowly toward gate fourteen, happy that he had worn the pink shirt for the first time. She wondered if he had found the note she had left underneath the collar. If he had asked her just one more time …
Raymond stood alone and then turned to walk aimlessly toward the exit.
“An American lady, I would have guessed,” said Mr. Cox rejoining him. “I’m good on accents.”
“Yes,” said Raymond, still alone.
“A friend of yours?” he asked.
“My best friend,” said Raymond.
When ten days had passed and Elizabeth had not yet heard from Miss Wallace she decided she had no choice but to contact her direct. She flicked through her personal file and noted the latest number Amanda had given.
Elizabeth picked up the phone and dialed. It was some time before anybody answered.
“730-9712. Charles Seymour speaking.” There was a long silence. “Is anyone there?”
Elizabeth couldn’t reply. She replaced the receiver and felt her whole body come out in a cold sweat. She closed Amanda Wallace’s file and returned it to the cabinet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SIMON HAD SPENT nearly a year preparing a White Paper entitled “A Genuine Partnership for Ireland” for consideration by the House. The Government’s aim was to bring north and south together for a period of ten years at the end of which a more permanent arrangement could be considered. During those ten years both sides wou
ld remain under the direct rule of Westminster and Dublin. Both Protestants and Catholics had contributed to “the Charter,” as the press had dubbed the complex agreement. With considerable skill, patience, and fortitude Simon had convinced the political leaders of Northern Ireland to append their names to the final draft when and if it was approved by the House.
He admitted to Elizabeth that the agreement was only a piece of paper, but he felt it was a foundation stone on which the House could base an eventual settlement. On both sides of the Irish Sea politicians and journalists alike were describing the Charter as a genuine breakthrough.
The Secretary of State for Northern Ireland was to present the White Paper to the Commons when Irish business was next scheduled on the parliamentary calendar. Simon, as the architect of the Charter, had been asked to deliver the winding-up speech on behalf of the Government. He knew that if the House backed the concept of the document he might then be allowed to prepare a parliamentary bill and thus overcome a problem so many other politicians had failed to solve before him. If he succeeded Simon felt that all the sacrifices he had made in the past would prove worthwhile.
When Elizabeth sat down to read through the final draft in Simon’s study that evening even she admitted for the first time that she was pleased he had accepted the Irish appointment.
“Now, embryonic statesman,” she continued, “are you ready for your dinner like every normal human being at this time in the evening?”
“I certainly am.” Simon moved his copy of the 129-page Charter from the dining room table to the sideboard, planning to go over it yet again once he had finished dinner.
“Damn,” he heard Elizabeth say from the kitchen.
“What is it?” he asked, not looking up from his toy, like a child studying a jigsaw and wondering where a colorless piece fitted in.
“I’m out of Bisto.”
“I’ll go and buy some,” Simon volunteered. The two policemen on the door were chatting when the minister came out.
“Come on, my wife needs a packet of Bisto, so affairs of state must be held up for the time being.”
“I’m very sorry, sir,” said the sergeant. “When I was told you would be in for the rest of the evening I allowed the official car to go off duty. But Constable Barker can accompany you.”
“That’s no problem,” said Simon. “We can take my wife’s car. I’ll just find out where she’s parked the damn thing.”
He slipped back into the house but returned a moment later. “Been in the force long?” he asked Constable Barker as they walked down the road together.
“Not that long, sir. Started on the beat just over a year ago.”
“Are you married, Constable?”
“Fine chance on my salary, sir.”
“Then you won’t have encountered the problem of being Bisto-less.”
“They’ve never heard of gravy in the police canteen, sir.”
“You should try the House of Commons sometime,” said Simon. “I don’t think you’d find it any better—the food, that is, not to mention the salary.”
The two men laughed as they headed off toward the car.
“What does your wife think of the Mini Metro?” the constable asked as Simon put the key in the door.
Like everyone else in Beaufort Street, Elizabeth heard the explosion, but she was the first to realize what it had to be. She ran out of the front door in search of the duty policeman. She saw him running down the road and quickly followed.
The little red Metro was scattered all over the side street, the glass from its windows making the pavement look as though there had been a sudden hailstorm.
When the sergeant saw the severed head he pulled Elizabeth back. Two other bodies lay motionless in the road, one of them an old lady with the contents of her shopping bag spread around her.
Within minutes, six police cars had arrived and Special Branch officers had cordoned off the area with white ribbon. An ambulance rushed the bodies to Westminster Hospital. The job of picking up the remains of the police constable needed a very resolute man.
Elizabeth was taken to the hospital in a police car, where she learned that the old lady had died before arrival while her husband was on the critical list. When she told the surgeon in charge that she was a doctor he was more forthcoming and answered her questions candidly. Simon was suffering from multiple fractures, a dislocated hip, and a severe loss of blood. The only question he was not willing to be drawn on was when she asked about his chances.
She sat alone outside the operating theater waiting for any scrap of news. Hour after hour went by, and Elizabeth kept recalling Simon’s words: “Be tolerant. Always remember there are still men of goodwill in Northern Ireland.” She found it almost impossible not to scream, to think of the whole lot of them as evil murderers. Her husband had worked tirelessly on their behalf. He wasn’t a Catholic or a Protestant, just a man trying to do an impossible task. Although she couldn’t help thinking that it was she who had been the intended target.
Another hour passed.
A tired, gray-faced man came out into the corridor through the flapping rubber doors. “He’s still hanging on, Dr. Kerslake. Your husband has the constitution of an ox; most people would have let go by now.” He smiled “Can I find you a room so that you can get some sleep?”
“No, thank you,” Elizabeth replied. “I’d prefer to be near him.”
She rang home to check the children were coping and her mother answered the phone. She had rushed over the moment she had heard the news and was keeping them away from the radio and television.
“How is he?” she asked.
Elizabeth told her mother all she knew, then spoke to the children.
“We’re taking care of Grandmother,” Peter told her.
Elizabeth couldn’t hold back the tears. “Thank you, darling,” she said, and quickly replaced the receiver. She returned to the bench outside the operating theater, kicked off her shoes, curled her legs under her body, and tried to snatch some sleep.
She woke with a start in the early morning. Her back hurt and her neck was stiff. She walked slowly up and down the corridor in her bare feet stretching her aching limbs, searching for anyone who could tell her some news. Finally a nurse brought her a cup of tea and assured her that her husband was still alive. But what did “still alive” mean? She stood and watched the grim faces coming out of the operating theater and tried not to recognize the telltale signs of despair. The surgeon told her she ought to go home and rest: they would have nothing to tell her for several hours. A policeman kept all journalists—who were arriving by the minute—in an anteroom off the main corridor.
Elizabeth didn’t move from the corridor for another day and another night, and she didn’t return home until the surgeon told her it was all over.
When she heard the news she fell on her knees and wept.
“God must want the Irish problem solved as well,” he added. “Your husband will live, Dr. Kerslake, but it’s a miracle.”
“Got time for a quick one?” asked Alexander Dalglish.
“If you press me,” said Pimkin.
“Fiona,” shouted Alexander. “It’s Alec Pimkin, he’s dropped in for a drink.”
She came through to join them. She was dressed in a bright yellow frock and had allowed her hair to grow down past her shoulders.
“It suits you,” said Pimkin, tapping his bald head.
“Thank you,” said Fiona. “Why don’t we all go through to the drawing room?”
Pimkin happily obeyed and had soon settled himself into Alexander’s favorite chair.
“What will you have?” asked Fiona, as she stood by the drinks cabinet.
“A large gin with just a rumor of tonic.”
“Well, how’s the constituency faring since my resignation?”
“It ticks along, trying hard to survive the biggest sex scandal since Profumo,” chuckled Pimkin.
“I only hope it hasn’t harmed your election chances,” said Alexa
nder.
“Not a bit of it, old fellow,” said Pimkin, accepting the large Beefeaters and tonic Fiona handed him. “On the contrary, it’s taken their minds off me for a change.”
Alexander laughed.
“In fact,” continued Pimkin, “interest in the date of your wedding has only been eclipsed by Charles and Lady Di. Gossips tell me,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself, “that my Honorable friend, the member for Sussex Downs, made you wait the full two years before you could place an announcement in The Times.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said Fiona. “Charles didn’t even answer my letters during that period, but lately when any problem’s arisen he’s been almost friendly.”
“Could that be because he also wants to place an announcement in The Times” said Pimkin, downing his gin quickly in the hope of being offered a second.
“What do you mean?”
“The fact that he has lost his heart to another.”
“Another?” said Alexander Dalglish.
“No less—” Pimkin paused as he sipped pointedly at his empty glass “—than Miss Amanda Wallace, only daughter of the late and little-lamented Brigadier Boozer Wallace.”
“Amanda Wallace?” said Fiona in disbelief. “Surely he’s got more sense than that.”
“I don’t think it has a lot to do with sense,” said Pimkin holding out his glass. “More to do with sex.”
“But he’s old enough to be her father.”
“If that is the case,” said Pimkin, “Charles can always adopt her.”
Alexander laughed.
“But I am informed by a reliable source,” continued Pimkin, “that marriage is being proposed.”
“You can’t be serious,” said Fiona flatly.
“The subject has most certainly been broached for she is undoubtedly pregnant and Charles is hoping for a son,” said Pimkin in triumph as he accepted his second double gin.
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