He quickened his steps, anxious to be out of the snow and cold. Entering the silent, deserted East Block, he went up by the stairs and into the Prime Minister's office suite.
Milly Freedeman, wearing a coral woollen topcoat and fur-trimmed snow boots with high heels, was peering into a mirror to adjust a white mink cloche hat. 'I've been told to go home.' She glanced around, smiling. 'You can go in; though if it's anything like the Defence Committee you're in for a long session.'
'It can't be too long,' Richardson said. 'I've a later appointment.'
'Perhaps you should cancel it.' Milly had turned. The hat was in place; it was the finest, most practical, and attractive winter head-gear, he thought. Her face was glowing and her large grey-green eyes sparkled.
'Like hell I will,' Richardson said. His eyes, moving over her, were frankly admiring. Then he warned himself of the decision he had made about tonight.
Chapter 5
When he had finished talking, James Howden pushed his chair back tiredly. Opposite, on the visitors' side of the old-fashioned four-legged desk at which a succession of Prime Ministers had worked, Brian Richardson sat silently meditative, his alert mind indexing and absorbing facts he had just been given. Though he had known broadly of the Washington proposals, this was his first detailed briefing. Howden had told him, too, of the Defence Committee's reaction. Now the party director's thoughts, like veins and arteries of a human body, were branching out busily, assessing credits and debits, implications and eventualities, actions and counteractions, all with practised skill. Details would be filled in later; many details. What was needed now was a broad plan of strategy - a plan, Richardson knew, more critically important than any other he had yet devised. For if he failed it would mean defeat for the party and perhaps more than defeat, eclipse.
'There's another thing,' James Howden said. He had risen and was standing by the window, looking down on Parliament Hill. 'Adrian Nesbitson must go.'
'No!' Emphatically Richardson shook his head. 'Later maybe, but not now. If you drop Nesbitson, no matter what reason we give, it'll look like a cabinet split. It's the worst thing that could happen.' 'I was afraid you'd think that,' Howden said. 'The trouble is, he's completely useless. But I suppose we can manage, if we have to.'
'Apart from that, can you keep him in line?' 'I think so.' The Prime Minister massaged his long, curved nose. 'I believe there's something he might want. I can use it to bargain.'
'I'd go easy on the bargaining,' Richardson said doubtfully. 'Don't forget the old boy has a reputation for straightness.'
'I'll remember your advice.' Howden smiled. 'Do you have any more?'
'Yes,' the party director said crisply, 'quite a lot. But first let's talk about a timetable. I agree that for something this big there'll have to be a mandate from the country.' He mused. 'In a lot of ways a fall election would be our best chance.'
'We can't wait that long,' Howden said decisively. 'It'll have to be spring.'
'Exactly when?'
'I'd thought of dissolving Parliament right after the Queen's visit, then the election could be in May.'
Richardson nodded. 'It might work.'
'It has to work.'
'What's your plan after the Washington meeting?'
The Prime Minister considered. 'I think an announcement to the House in, say, three weeks from now.'
The party director grinned. 'That'll be when the fireworks start.'
'Yes, I expect it will.' Howden smiled faintly. 'It will also give the country time to get used to the idea of the Act of Union before the election.'
'It sure will help a lot if we can get the Queen over,' Richardson said. 'That way she'd be here between the announcement and the election.'
'That was my thought, too,' Howden agreed. 'She'll be a symbol of what we're retaining, and should convince people -on both sides of the border - that we've no intention of losing our national identity.'
'I take it there'll be no signing of any agreement until after the election.'
'No. It will have to be understood that the election is the real decision. But we'll do our negotiating beforehand so there will be no time lost afterwards. Time is the thing that matters most.'
'It always does,' Richardson said. He paused, then continued thoughtfully, 'So it's three weeks before the whole thing is out in the open, then fourteen weeks to the election. It isn't long but there could be advantages - getting everything over before any splits become too wide.' His voice became more businesslike. 'All right, here's what I think.'
Howden had returned from the window to his chair. Tilting it back, he placed his finger ups together and prepared to listen.
'Everything,' Brian Richardson said deliberately, ' - and I really mean everything - depends upon a single thing: trust. There must be absolute trust and confidence in one individual -- you. And it must exist right across the country and down through every level. Without that kind of trust we'll lose; with it, we can win.' He paused, thinking deeply, then continued. 'The Act of Union ... by the way, I think we must find another name ... but the kind of union you're proposing isn't outrageous. After all, we've been moving towards it for half a century or more, and in some ways we'd be insane to turn it down. But the Opposition will do their best to make it seem outrageous and I guess you can hardly blame them. For the first time in years they'll have a real live issue to get their teeth into, and Deitz and company will make the most of it. They'll hurl words like "betrayal" and "sellout" and they'll call you Judas.'
'I've been called names before, and I'm here, aren't I?' 'The trick is to stay.' Richardson's expression was unsmiling. 'What must be done is consolidate your image so clearly in the public mind that people will trust you absolutely, and have confidence that whatever you recommend is for their own good.'
'Are we so far removed from that now?'
'Complacency isn't going to help either of us,' Richardson snapped, and the Prime Minister flushed but made no comment. The party director went on, 'Our latest private polls show that the Government - and you - have slipped four per cent in popularity since this time last year, and you personally are weakest in the West. Fortunately it's a minor change, but still a trend. We can change the trend, though, if it's worked at bard - and fast.'
'What's your suggestion?'
'I'll have a long list of them - the day after tomorrow. Mostly, though, it will mean getting out of here' - Richardson waved a hand around the office - 'and moving about the country - speaking engagements, press coverage, television time where we can get it. And it must start soon - immediately you're back from Washington.'
'You're not forgetting that Parliament reconvenes in less than two weeks.'
'I'm not forgetting. Some days you'll have to be two places at once.' Richardson permitted himself a grin. 'I hope you haven't lost that old knack of sleeping in aeroplanes.'
'You envisage, then, that part of this tour should take place before the announcement in the House.'
'Yes. We can arrange it if we work fast. As far as we can, I'd like to condition the country to expect what's coming, and that's where your speeches will be important. I think we should hire some new men to write them - really top people who can make you sound like Churchill, Roosevelt, and Billy Graham rolled together.'
'All right. Is that all?'
'It's all for now,' Richardson said. 'Oh, except for one thing - a nuisance item, I'm afraid, among all this. We've an immigration hassle in Vancouver.'
Irritably Howden said, 'Again!'
'There's a ship's stowaway who hasn't got a country and wants to come in. It looks as if the Press has taken his case up and it ought to be settled quickly.' He related the details which had appeared in the afternoon papers.
Briefly Howden was tempted to brush the matter aside. There were limits, after all, to the number of things a Prime Minister could become involved in personally, and with so much else... Then he was reminded of his intention to have a showdown with Harvey Warrender ... his own awareness tha
t small issues could sometimes become important. But still he hesitated.
'I talked to Harvey Warrender last night.' 'Yes,' Richardson said dryly. 'I heard about it.' 'I want to be fair.' Howden was still debating in his own mind. 'Some of what Harvey said last night made sense -about not letting people into the country.. That particular case you told me about - the woman who was deported. I understand she'd been running a brothel in Hong Kong and she had VD.'
'But the newspapers wouldn't print that, even if we leaked it,' Richardson said irritably. 'All that people see is a mother and baby being thrown out by the big bully of a Government. The Opposition made the most of it in the House, didn't they? You needed overshoes to wade through the tears.'
The Prime Minister smiled.
'That's why we should settle this Vancouver thing pronto,' the party director insisted.
'But surely you wouldn't admit undesirables - like that woman, for instance - as immigrants.'
'Why not?' Richardson argued, 'if it means avoiding bad publicity? It can be done quietly by order in council. After all, there were twelve hundred special admissions last year, mostly to oblige our own MPs. You can be sure there were some maggots among the lot, so what difference do a few more make?'
The figure of twelve hundred surprised Howden. It was not news, of course, that the immigration laws of Canada were frequently bent, and the bending process was a form of patronage accepted by all political parties. But the extent surprised him. He asked, 'Was it really that many?'
'A few more, actually,' Richardson said. He added dryly, 'Fortunately the department lumps twenty to fifty immigrants under each order, and nobody adds the total.'
There was a pause, then the Prime Minister said mildly, 'Harvey and his deputy apparently think we should enforce the Immigration Act.'
'If you weren't the Queen's first minister,' Richardson responded, 'I'd be tempted to reply with a short, succinct word.'
James Howden frowned. Sometimes, he thought, Richardson went a little far.
Oblivious to the disapproval, the party director continued, 'Every government in the past fifty years has used the Immigration Act to help its own party members, so why should we suddenly stop? It doesn't make political sense.'
No, Howden thought, it didn't make sense. He reached for a telephone. 'All right,' he told Richardson, 'we'll do it your way. I'll have Harvey Warrender in now.' He instructed the government operator, 'Get Mr Warrender. He'll probably be at home.' With a hand cupped over the mouthpiece he asked, 'Apart from what we've talked about, is there anything else you think I should tell him?'
Richardson grinned. 'You could try suggesting that he keep both feet on the ground. That way he might not put one in his mouth so often.'
'If I tell Harvey that,' Howden said, 'he'll probably quote Plato at me.'
'In that case you could come back with Menander: He is raised the higher that he might fall the heavier.'
The Prime Minister's eyebrows went up. There were things about Brian Richardson which constantly surprised him.
The operator came on the line and Howden listened, then replaced the phone. 'The Warrenders are away for the holiday - at their cottage in the Laurentians, and there isn't a phone.'
Richardson said curiously, 'You give Harvey Warrender a lot of leeway, don't you? - more than some of the others.'
'Not this time,' James Howden said. After their discussion his mind was quite made up. 'I'll have him up here the day after tomorrow and this Vancouver case will not boil over. I guarantee it.'
Chapter 6
It was seven-thirty when Brian Richardson arrived at Milly Freedeman's apartment and he carried two packages, one containing an ounce of Guerlain, a perfume he knew Milly liked, the other twenty-six ounces of gin.
The perfume pleased Milly. About the gin she was less certain, though she took it to the kitchenette to mix drinks.
Waiting in the softly lighted living-room, Richardson watched from one of the two deep armchairs. He stretched his feet luxuriously across the beige broadloom - the single large-expense item Milly had indulged in when decorating the apartment - then said approvingly, 'You know, a lot of the stuff you've got in here, Milly, other people would throw out. But the way you've put it together, this is the cosiest hangout I know.'
'I assume that's a compliment.' In the kitchenette Milly turned, smiling. 'Anyway, I'm glad you like it.'
'Sure I like it. Who wouldn't?' Mentally Brian Richardson was contrasting the apartment with his own, which Eloise had remodelled just over a year ago. They had ivory walls, with off-white broadloom, Swedish walnut furniture and tailored curtains of pale peacock blue. He had long grown indifferent to it all, and the effect no longer offended him. But he recalled the bitter fight there had been with Eloise when on being confronted with the bill he had protestingly described it as 'the President's suite in a whore-house'.
Milly, he thought, would always know how to make a place warm and personal ... a little untidy, books piled on tables, some place a man could relax.
Milly had turned away again. He watched her thoughtfully.
Before his arrival she had changed out of the suit which she had worn earlier into orange slacks and a plain black sweater, relieved only by a triple strand of pearls. The effect, Richardson thought, was simple and physically exciting.
As she returned to the living-room he found himself admiring her gracefulness. There was rhythm and economy about each of Milly's movements and she seldom wasted a gesture.
'Milly,' he said, 'you're an astonishing girl.'
She brought their drinks across the room, ice clinking. He was aware of slim legs and firm thighs under the slacks; again the unselfconscious rhythm of movement... like a young, long-legged racehorse, he thought absurdly.
'Astonishing in what way?' Milly asked. She handed him his glass and their fingers touched.
'Well,' he said, 'without the filmy negligee routine, pants and all, you're the sexiest thing on two legs.'
He put down the glass she had given him, stood up, and kissed her. After a moment she eased herself gently free and turned away.
'Brian,' Milly said, 'is this any good?'
Nine years ago she had known what love meant, and afterwards the intolerable anguish of loss. She supposed she was not in love with Brian Richardson, as she had been with James Howden, but there was a warmth and tenderness; and there could be more, she knew, if time and circumstance allowed. But she suspected they would not allow. Richardson was married ... he was practical; and in the end it would mean, once more, breaking ... parting...
Richardson asked, 'Is what any good, Milly?'
She said levelly, 'I think you know.'
'Yes, I know.' He had returned to his drink. He held the glass against the light, inspecting it, then put it down.
She wanted love, Milly thought. Her body ached for it. But suddenly the need for more than physical love overwhelmed her ... There must be some permanence. Or must there? Once, when she had loved James Howden, she had been willing to settle for less.
Brian Richardson said slowly, 'I guess I could kid you with a lot of words, Milly. But we're both grown up; I didn't think you'd want it.'
'No,' she answered, 'I don't want to be kidded. But I don't want to be an animal, either. There ought to be something more.'
He responded harshly, 'For some people there isn't any more. Not if they're honest with themselves.'
A moment after, he wondered why he had said it: an excess of truthfulness perhaps, or merely self-pity, an emotion he despised in others. But he had not expected the effect upon Milly. Her eyes glistened with tears.
'Milly,' he said, 'I'm sorry.'
She shook her head and he went to her. Taking out a handkerchief, he gently wiped her eyes and the rivulets beneath.
'Listen,' he said, 'I shouldn't have said that.'
'It's all right,' Milly said. 'I was just being womanly, I suppose.'
Oh God, she thought, what's happening to me - the self-reliant Milli
cent Freedeman ... crying like an adolescent. What does this man mean to me? Why can't I take something of this kind in my stride as I've done before?
His arms went around her. 'I want you, Milly,' he said softly. 'I don't know any other way to say it, except I want you.'
He lifted her head and kissed her.
Hesitancy assailed her. 'No, Brian! Please no!' But she made no effort to pull away. As he fondled her, desire grew stronger. Now, she knew, she cared. Afterwards, there would be loneliness again; the sense of loss. But now ... now... eyes closed, her body trembled ... now.
'All right.' Her voice was husky.
The light switch snapped in the silence. As it did, faintly from outside came the high-pitched whine of aeroplane engines high over the city. The sound came closer, then receded as the night flight to Vancouver - Senator Deveraux among its passengers - turned westward, climbing swiftly through the darkness.
'Be gentle, Brian,' Milly whispered. "This time ... please be gentle.'
Part 6
Alan Maitland
Chapter 1
In Vancouver on Christmas morning Alan Maitland slept late, and when he awoke there was a furry taste in his mouth from the drinks he had had at his law partner's home the night before. Yawning and scratching the top of his crew-cut head which itched, he remembered they had killed a couple of bottles between the three of them - himself, Tom Lewis, and Tom's wife Lillian. It was an extravagance, really, since neither he nor Tom had money to spare for that kind of thing, especially now that Lillian was pregnant and Tom was having trouble keeping up his mortgage payments on the tiny house he had bought six months ago in North Vancouver. Then Alan thought: Oh, what the hell, and rolling his athlete's six-foot length out of bed, padded barefoot to the bathroom.
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