by Unknown
Uther sighed. ‘Do try not to preach, my boy. You are beginning to sound like Merlin.’
‘You can jeer as much as you like, father,’ said Arthur angrily. ‘But the fact is, you have blood on your hands. Now I know what those men, women and children in the K.O.E. died for. They died for an arms deal. Your arms deal. That makes you as guilty as Sadiq.’ He could hardly conceal his disgust.
Uther mangled a notepad, wishing it were his son’s neck. ‘Being a major in the army does not qualify you to pronounce on foreign policy,’ he said coldly.
‘Nor does it disqualify me from having an opinion.’
Uther was wondering what lay behind Arthur’s protests. Being young, he was naturally a bit of an idealist, one of youth’s more boring afflictions. Yet there had to be more to it than that, some hidden agenda. He thought he knew what it was. ‘Best stick to things you understand, my boy. Politics is not for you.’
‘I have no interest in politics,’ Arthur assured his father, ‘I’m a soldier.’
A hostile glare. ‘If you want to continue being a soldier, you had better learn to do what you are told. If you had done so on this occasion, several men in your troop would still be alive.’
The blood rose in Arthur’s face. ‘If my troop had not intervened, a thousand innocent civilians would have been slaughtered. And you were willing to let that happen, something your constituents might be interested to know.’
Uther scorned the implied threat. ‘Do you really think so? You know your problem, Arthur? You don’t understand human nature. You think the man in the street gives a toss who lives or dies in the Kingdom of the Euphrates? Of course he doesn’t. You want to know what he cares about? He cares about jobs, pay packets, mortgages, interest rates, vacations, the price of booze and cigarettes and petrol. Our arms trade with Sadiq is good for the economy. It’s worth a few thousand jobs a year.’
‘So tell me, father,’ asked Arthur, stung by his father’s cynicism, ‘how many butchered men, women and children are the equivalent of one job? What’s the going rate of exchange these days?’
‘Easy for you to scoff, my boy. You don’t have to make those calculations.’
‘And you do?’
‘I’m afraid I do,’ said Uther, ‘but if you quote me, I’ll say you’re a liar.’
It was wasted breath. If he and his father talked till doomsday they would never agree. ‘Whatever happened to that ethical foreign policy you promised when they made you Foreign Secretary?’
Uther sat stiffly erect. ‘It is a Foreign Secretary’s duty to promote his country’s interests overseas. That obligation is paramount.’
‘Then why did you make the promise?’ asked Arthur. ‘Why?’ Uther seemed surprised at the question. ‘To impress
the electorate, of course. Does that shock you? I see it does. Nevertheless, people understand politicians better than you think. No one takes that sort of statement seriously.’
‘I do.’
‘Then,’ said Uther sadly, ‘I fear you are extremely gullible.’ Arthur stood up to go. ‘Permission to leave, sir?’
Uther’s fingers drummed his desk nervously. If his son left now in this rebellious mood, he would most likely go straight to the tabloids. Uther drew a deep breath and forced his reluctant features into a smile.
‘I fear the petty officials have handled this badly. What’s more, I haven’t done much better. Sit down, my boy. I owe you an apology. Mea culpa. Please forgive me.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Arthur, after a pause, ‘I was too quick to condemn.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ said Uther jovially. ‘Put it down to the Pendragon temperament.’ He beamed at his son. ‘You will make a fine leader of the regiment.’
‘It’s a long way from major to colonel.’
An insinuating smile and a wink. ‘Indeed it is. But these things can be speeded up.’
It was distasteful to be offered such a blatant bribe by your own father. Arthur made no comment. To Uther’s frustration his wretched son was adamant – no apology, not even a verbal one, and absolutely no commitment for the future. But furious as he was with Arthur for defying him, Uther was a realist. He knew when he was beaten. The truth was he didn’t give a damn that Arthur had disobeyed orders, and just as long as he kept his mouth shut the government could spin that mini-disaster in the K.O.E into a triumph. A phone call to the Ministry of Defence ensured there would be no court martial. Believing he could count on his son’s discretion, he had taken a calculated risk. What could Arthur possibly hope to gain by discrediting the government, still less his own father? Uther was satisfied he had read the situation correctly and handled it appropriately.
Even so, his son was becoming much too independent- minded for his liking.
Two
2018
Colonel Harcourt had made it clear to Arthur that the ‘slight hiccup over that K.O.E. incident’ was well and truly forgotten. Moreover the Colonel had dropped a broad hint that he would shortly be taking early retirement, and that Arthur was being very seriously considered as his successor. The C.O. also stressed that the appointment would be made purely on merit, and that Arthur’s father would have no influence whatever on the selection process. That unexpected news compelled Arthur to consider his future more seriously than ever. The conversation with his father had disturbed and confused him; he was not at all sure now that he wanted to make the army his career. He needed to think, and he needed to talk to the one person he trusted above all others.
‘They tell me if I stay in the regiment I’ll be in line for the top job,’ said Arthur.
Merlin was impressed. ‘C.O. of Special Forces. You’ve done well, Art. Outstandingly well.’ Arthur flushed. A compliment from the magus was still something to be prized. ‘But is it what you really want?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Well I am,’ said Merlin positively. ‘My advice is to leave the army as soon as possible.’
It was what Arthur needed to hear, although he had not admitted it to himself until this moment. Merlin was prodding him in the direction he wanted to go. He had loved being a soldier, it was exciting and it had taught him many things, not least about himself. Now it was time to move on.
‘If I left the army what would I do?’ ‘Only you know the answer to that.’
‘But I really don’t know,’ said Arthur. ‘It’s all so confusing.’ ‘Somewhere in the turmoil of your mind,’ said Merlin, ‘there is a spot where everything is calm.’ The green eyes and the voice were both hypnotic. ‘Let go, Arthur. Let your thoughts be taken by the whirlwind, and in the end you will find that quiet spot. Only then will you know what it is you really want to do.’
Arthur sat at the pine table in Merlin’s kitchen, chin in hands, dreaming as he used to dream when he was a lad. His thoughts spun slowly at first, then faster and faster until, tossed and tumbled, they were flung by the whirlwind into a calm and restful place where, as Merlin had promised, Arthur’s mind was at peace and he knew at last what it was he truly wanted. The trouble was it seemed so presumptuous. ‘I would like to change the world,’ said Arthur. ‘Does that sound ridiculous?’
‘It sounds like very good sense to me,’ said Merlin. ‘Perhaps,’ suggested Arthur, that little mole of thought tunnelling in his forehead just underneath the skin, ‘perhaps I could do something for poor and disadvantaged people.’
Merlin sat back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his neck and studied the wooden beams that supported the kitchen ceiling. ‘If that’s what you want, then you must do it. But don’t deceive yourself, Arthur, you are not going to change the world by doing good work.’ A searching look. ‘Have you ever considered politics?
Arthur’s only serious encounter with politics was one he would never forget, being carpeted by his father after that unhappy business in the K.O.E., and it had left a bad taste in his mouth. If all politicians were as cynical and disillusioned as his father, what was the point of going into politics? And anyway was it not a
strange suggestion coming from Merlin? Did the magus not have other ideas for him?
‘Only a stepping stone, of course,’ said Merlin with a knowing look.
A stepping stone to what? Arthur ignored the not so subtle hint. Merlin had not mentioned that troubling word ‘destiny’, but Arthur sensed it was in the air. ‘My father says politicians can never change anything. If that’s true, then what is the point of being a politician? I certainly wouldn’t want to serve under him.’
‘No need to,’ said Merlin. From his perch on the mantelpiece Virgil nodded his head and hooh-hooed, as if agreeing with his master. ‘There are other fiddlers and other tunes to play.’
Leo Grant was leader of the main opposition party in the House of Commons, formerly New Labour, renamed United Labour in 2012 following an eruption of bitter internecine strife. At Merlin’s recommendation Arthur went to see Leo at his house in Bayswater.
Leo took to Arthur immediately. He knew something of his reputation – strong-minded, intelligent, responsible beyond his years, a young man who knew how to handle himself. ‘Merlin tells me you are considering a career in politics.’
‘Perhaps. It’s his idea, really,’ said Arthur. ‘I’m certainly thinking of leaving the army.’
Leo had heard as much and wondered why. ‘I understand you’re in line for the top job in your regiment. If that’s the case, why throw away such a wonderful opportunity?’
‘I want to make a difference, sir,’ said Arthur firmly. ‘I want to change the world.’
Leo weighed up the young man. Coming from anyone else the response would have sounded pretentious, but somehow not from Arthur; he was unashamedly serious. ‘If you feel that strongly, then I wouldn’t hesitate,’ said Leo. ‘I’m sure your father would be delighted to have you in the New Millennium Party.’ An innocent enough comment. There was nevertheless an implied question in it that was not lost on Arthur. Leo was challenging him to decide where his political loyalties lay.
‘I know very little about politics, sir. One thing I have discovered though . . . ’ Arthur looked round the room, untidy, comfortable, books on tables, books on the floor, books everywhere. He had heard that Leo Grant was a thinker, a man of principle and strong beliefs. For some reason he reminded him of Merlin – about ten years older perhaps – late fifties, Arthur guessed. ‘My father is a clever man and a very successful politician, but . . . ’ Arthur hesitated. ‘He and I see the world very differently. I’m not sure I want to join New Millennium.’ ‘It could be in your best interest to do so,’ said Leo Grant, playing the devil’s advocate.
‘With the greatest respect, sir,’ said Arthur obstinately, ‘the way I see it, my best interest is to be as independent as possible. I’m not sure how independent I can be working in my father’s shadow.’
Interesting, thought Leo, here was a young man of conviction, someone he obviously needed to get to know better. Over the next few weeks Arthur visited Leo regularly, and from him he learned much about politics and also about the strengths and failings of politicians. Some of what Leo told him about his father confirmed what he already suspected: Uther’s chief role as Foreign Secretary was to make secret deals with terror groups – ‘buy them off’ as Leo put it. ‘Marriott and his cabinet decided long ago that the war against terrorists cannot be won,’ he said. ‘Islamist and other terrorists are too numerous, too well-organised and too highly motivated. The best you can hope for, they argue, is to contain them. To do that you have to make deals.’
‘My father admitted to me that he made a deal with Sadiq. I thought that might be an exception to the rule. Are you saying that kind of arrangement is UK government policy?’
‘I fear so,’ said Leo. ‘Unfortunately there are signs that this country is not alone. Other world leaders are trying to make their own deals with terror groups. Some of the extremists won’t deal, but most terrorists will, if they can get what they want.’
‘Do you think that’s the way to counter the terrorist threat?’
Leo took time to answer. ‘The problem is, the more you make deals with terrorists the more you encourage them to commit acts of terror. So no, it is not the right way, in my opinion. On the other hand, how else do you tackle the problem? The USA, the European Union, the UK, India, Pakistan, China, Japan, Russia, Australia and many other countries have virtually been at war with global terrorists for two decades. Where has it got them? I ask myself, is the world a safer place now than it was twenty years ago? My answer – no, it isn’t. If this is a war, then clearly the terrorists are winning. Every year more and more people all over the world are killed and maimed in terrorist attacks – city bombings, kidnappings, missile attacks on trains, aircraft, ships, power plants.’
‘So what’s the answer?’
‘Someone has to make a stand somewhere, somehow, or we shall all be lost.’
Over the next few months the two men became firm friends, and soon Arthur was a regular dinner guest at the older man’s house. He learned that Leo’s wife had died some years ago and that he had a thirteen year old daughter whom he obviously adored, yet it was not until his seventh or eighth visit that Arthur met her. It was early evening, and Arthur was waiting for Leo in the sitting room when the door opened and a young girl walked in. Arthur jumped up.
‘Dad phoned. He said to tell you he’s been delayed in the House. He’s on his way home.’
‘Thank you. You must be Guinevere.’ ‘Yes.’
‘Arthur Pendragon.’
‘I know.’ She regarded him steadily. ‘Dad talks a lot about you.’
‘And about you too.’
‘He still thinks I’m a little girl. He tells everyone I’m thirteen.’ There was a note of disgust in her voice. ‘Actually,’ – a sharp look at Arthur – ‘I shall be fourteen next month.’
‘Is that all?’
‘You mean I look older?’ ‘Much.’
A slight flush of pleasure coloured her cheeks. ‘How old are you?’ she enquired.
For some reason he found himself reluctant to answer the question. ‘Twenty-three,’ he said. ‘Almost twenty-four.’
Head on one side, she considered him carefully. ‘Twenty-four is a good age for a man,’ she said, adding unexpectedly, ‘You are very good-looking. But then I suppose you know that.’
This was certainly one of the most extraordinary conversations Arthur had ever had, and he felt strangely out of his depth. Was this the way thirteen year old girls talked, or was this one unusually outspoken? He considered returning the compliment but decided against it; she might think he was only trying to flatter her. Which would not have been true at all. The compliment would have been perfectly genuine, for she was indeed exceptionally pretty: dark eyes, black hair, wide mouth, long legs. A child, of course, though the emerging woman was already apparent in the way she carried herself, in her direct look, and in her feminine awareness. There was an oddly appealing blend of shyness and self-assurance about her, of awkwardness and grace, of childishness and maturity.
She considered him carefully. ‘You have one sad eye and one happy eye. Did you know that?’
‘Which is which?’
‘You’re teasing me,’ she said reproachfully. ‘I would never do that,’ he assured her.
She was studying his face with the most concentrated attention. ‘It’s very unusual.’
‘I imagine it must be,’ he said.
When it came to saying good-bye, she held out her hand, and he took it gravely. Polite nods and smiles were exchanged, all in the most formal way imaginable. But if that miniature ceremony was conducted in a manner pointedly guarded, the look of admiration she flashed at him as she ran out of the room was anything but.
When Guinevere reached the privacy of her room, the first thing she did was tear down the photographs of pop idols and movie stars adorning the walls. It took her no more than a few days to find press cuttings and photographs of Arthur to put up in their place. When she returned to boarding school at the beginning of the foll
owing term, she immediately confided in her best friend, Gertrude Lancaster, a tall, fun-loving girl with huge eyes. ‘Lanky’ was thrilled at Guinevere’s news, and gushed over a photograph of Arthur Pendragon in full army dress uniform.
‘He’s a major in the Special Forces,’ said Guinevere casually.
Lanky’s eyes grew big. ‘Oh my God! Look at him. He’s a dream! Didn’t you just die when you saw him?’
‘I thought he was nice,’ said Guinevere, looking and sounding very composed.
That was too much for Lanky. ‘What do you mean nice!’ ‘He’s a dish. Did you tell him you liked him?’
Guinevere frowned her disapproval. ‘I could never do anything like that.’
‘Why not?’
‘It would be totally immature. He would lose all respect for me.’
‘I don’t see what respect has to do with it.’ Why, wondered Lanky, did Ginny always complicate the most simple things. ‘Either you fancy him or you don’t.’
‘This isn’t some schoolgirl crush,’ said Guinevere in her most superior manner. ‘I intend to marry Arthur one day.’
‘Wow!’ Lanky took a few moments to recover her breath.
‘You don’t think he’s a bit old for you, do you?’
Guinevere smiled condescendingly. ‘Young men bore me.’ ‘He’s gorgeous,’ said Lanky, ogling the photograph.
Guinevere snatched it away. ‘Looks aren’t everything. It’s his character that’s important. Arthur Pendragon is a man of consequence.’ It was one of her father’s favourite expressions, more an acknowledgement of a man’s qualities as a human being than an appraisal of his success or celebrity.
‘That’s all very well,’ said Lanky solemnly, ‘but are you in love with him?’
‘Oh you!’ said Guinevere with a toss of her head and a flash of scorn in her eye. ‘That’s kids’ stuff.’
Lanky was puzzled. What could possibly be more important than love? ‘If you’re not in love with him, how do you know he’s the one for you?’
‘Because,’ explained Guinevere, ‘we are compatible.’
