Legend of the Celtic Stone

by Michael Phillips

  Another brief silence followed.

  Suddenly everything had changed for the young MP now engaged in conversation with his mother. There were decisions that would soon fall to him as the new leader of the all-important Liberal Democrat contingent of the House of Commons. It could quite literally be said—and every editorialist in every paper from the Times to the Sun was getting ready to say precisely that in the next day’s papers—that young Andrew Trentham, as a result of today’s vote by his party’s colleagues, would be one of the key men holding Labour’s slender coalition together. At just about any moment he chose, Trentham would be capable of bringing Richard Barraclough’s government into dissolution and force Parliament to go to the country for new elections a second time within a very short period.

  Many questions about him, therefore, were certain to arise in days to come.

  Who was this young MP who had suddenly risen so high? What did he want? What was his game? What was his personal political agenda?

  By now everyone knew that the SNP was planning to waste no time forcing more and more issues concerning Scotland to the front burner of national attention. They had steadfastly disavowed involvement in the removal of the Coronation Stone and did not intend to allow either the theft or the murder of Eagon Hamilton to change their plans.

  Andrew would have until September, therefore, or perhaps early October, to figure out where he stood on these Scottish questions. By then the prime minister would be calling his cabinet back for meetings at Number Ten Downing Street to put together the elements of the speech he would hand to the King.

  Thus Andrew had six or seven months to sort through the issues and his thoughts on them.

  Where did he stand? If Scotland’s future did get put onto next year’s agenda, and if it later came up for a second debate reading, how would he vote?

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry about the Scottish Nationalists at this juncture,” his mother finally said. “They are certainly in the public doghouse over the business with the Stone.”

  “I’m not so sure they’re behind it,” said Andrew.

  “I thought there was evidence,” said Lady Trentham.

  “Supposed evidence,” rejoined Andrew. “But why would they do something so foolhardy after devolution has given Scotland a regional parliament, and so soon after the Stone had been returned to Edinburgh? No, I think there’s more to the theft of the Stone than meets the eye.”

  As Andrew put down the telephone a few minutes later, a strange feeling of aloneness invaded him. This was a day that should represent the summit of his career thus far as a politician. His name and picture would now regularly appear on the front page of the Times and all the other papers. He should be basking in the glow of his triumph. What man in the country wouldn’t envy him?

  Yet strange and unknown sensations were rising up from somewhere within him. Questions about himself, about who he was and who he wanted to be—questions about his past, questions about the cultural expectations that might be said to have guided his destiny thus far.

  Pinnacle of his career or not, Andrew Trentham felt he was at a crossroads. He needed perspective. Despite the press of so much demanding his attention in London, he needed to get away from the city again. Even if it meant only another brief weekend at home, the mental and emotional rest would be worth it.

  Nine

  Before Andrew could think any further about the weekend, his phone rang.

  Halfway expecting to find his mother on the line again, he picked up the receiver. “Andrew Trentham,” he said.

  “Hello, Mr. Trentham,” said a pleasant voice on the other end. He knew it instantly and did not require the identification that followed. “It’s Patricia Rawlings calling, BBC 2. Perhaps you remember me?”

  “Of course, Miss Rawlings,” replied Andrew. “I remember you perfectly. And I must say you handled yourself very well last week,” he added. “That was rather brave of you, jumping right back into the fray . . . and with a question about a division, no less!”

  Rawlings laughed.

  “Well, you were very kind in the way you fielded my blooper the first time I brought up the subject,” she said. “I appreciate the fact that you said nothing to make me seem a bigger fool than I already felt!”

  “Everybody makes mistakes,” said Andrew. “I’ve made more than my share.”

  “In any case, you were most gracious.” Paddy paused.

  “The reason I telephoned, Mr. Trentham,” she went on after a moment of silence, “was to ask if you would perhaps grant me an interview.”

  “Hmm . . . something on camera?”

  “No, nothing like that. They don’t trust me yet on film,” Paddy added, laughing. “And I’m sure you can see why.”

  “Do you mean because you’re American, or because of your lack of experience?” rejoined Andrew good-humoredly.

  “Both!”

  “Tell me what you have in mind.”

  “Nothing formal. I just thought you might be willing to talk casually. I really am very interested in the questions I raised that day. Is there some way we could get together briefly sometime?”

  “I’m planning to leave for Cumbria tomorrow afternoon.”

  “On holiday?”

  “Just the weekend.”

  “Next week?”

  “My schedule’s rather full—” hesitated Andrew.

  “Only for a few minutes, then. I would just like to meet you in a more relaxed setting than the middle of the street. I could come to your office anytime you like. I promise I won’t put you on the spot.”

  Andrew debated with himself. All his training told him to be cautious in such circumstances. There wasn’t a single thing he could gain by an interview of this nature, and much he could lose. Hadn’t he already turned down half a dozen or more requests, including a call just this morning for an on-camera question-and-answer session presided over by none other than this woman’s cohort Kirkham Luddington?

  Yet for some unknown reason, suddenly he found himself answering in an altogether uncharacteristic manner.

  “Come to think of it,” he said, “why wait until next week?—How about lunch tomorrow?”

  “Oh—” exclaimed Paddy, trying to hide her astonished delight. “That would be wonderful.”

  Ten

  Because of its location just off Whitehall, Granby’s at the Royal Horseguards Hotel was a favorite dining spot for politicians. If any of Andrew’s curious colleagues were here for lunch today, however, and wondered what he was doing with the lady from the BBC, neither the young woman nor the new leader of the Liberal Democratic Party took notice. They had been talking together now for forty minutes.

  Paddy’s salad and Andrew’s plate of veal both stood only half completed. The conversation had long since diverged from what would be termed a political “interview.” The young American had been quizzing the MP on some of the finer points of the parliamentary system.

  “As long as I’ve been here, and as hard as I’ve studied trying to understand everything,” Paddy was saying, “I still find myself in situations where my background doesn’t prepare me for the way you do things here. When I first got on with the BBC, they had me doing other things. What’s most embarrassing—I really do know what division means! I guess when I heard the word that day, my brain called up the American usage before I even had a chance to think—then suddenly I’d blurted out that idiotic question!”

  Andrew threw his head back and laughed.

  “But it still is beyond me,” Paddy went on, “how you run a government as you do, when every bill that comes before the House of Commons has to pass. It’s so foreign to our way of thinking in the States. What purpose does the opposition even serve?”

  “To articulate opposing viewpoints and to represent their constituencies,” replied Andrew.

  “But they have no power. Why do they bother coming at all, if every vote is a foregone conclusion?”

  “It is important to give voice to all sides, ev
en if the government dictates the agenda.”

  “It’s absolutely antithetical to our system, where the president and the two parties in Congress have to battle it out over every issue, and where some bills go one way and others the opposite—and that’s another thing,” Paddy went on. “The government’s agenda. Is all legislation really established a year in advance?”

  “Pretty much. The Queen’s speech—pardon me, I mean the King’s speech—sets the agenda for the year.”

  “And the prime minister and his cabinet decide the agenda, I know that—but what happens when things unexpectedly come up?”

  “The prime minister can introduce something not on the agenda if need be.”

  “And is the government obligated to bring up every item from the majority party’s manifesto for a reading in the Commons?”

  “Not obligated. But if they don’t take some action on most of them, they will likely not be returned in the next election.”

  “What are your thoughts about being a leader in Labour’s coalition?”

  “That sounds strikingly like an interview question. So I will give you the stock political response—it is too early to comment.”

  Paddy laughed. “You are pretty good for having been a party leader such a short time.”

  “When you’re in politics you learn—”

  Andrew stopped abruptly. Where she sat across from him, Paddy followed his eyes to the other side of the room. They had magneted on a tall man and blond woman just entering the restaurant.

  “Pardon me for a moment, please, Miss Rawlings,” Andrew murmured. He rose and slowly approached the newcomers.

  “Hello, Blair,” he said, then nodded slightly to the man at her side.

  “Andrew!” she replied with a start, then quickly recovered. “—How are you?”

  “Well. And you?”

  “I’m fine—oh, Andrew, it is good to see you! And you’ve become so famous all of a sudden.”

  “Hardly that.”

  “I hear about you everywhere.” She glanced in the direction of the table from which Andrew had come. “And I’m so happy you’ve found someone else,” she added.

  A puzzled look came over Andrew’s face, then he smiled thinly. Suddenly he realized how very different he and Blair were. The insight pained him afresh. It would be pointless to explain. It had only been a few short months, yet suddenly he felt they were worlds apart.

  “But I am forgetting my manners,” she went on. “Andrew, do you know—”

  “Yes,” interrupted Andrew, now shaking hands with her escort, “—hello, Hensley. It’s been a while.”

  “Trentham,” nodded the man called Hensley.

  “Still writing those press briefings for the Yard?”

  “Keeps meat on the table.”

  “What do you hear about the Stone these days?”

  “Nothing much. Got our boys more than a little mystified.”

  “Well, nice seeing you, Hensley . . . Blair,” said Andrew.

  He returned to his seat while the two were shown to a table on the other side of the restaurant.

  “Friends?” asked Paddy as he sat down.

  “A former acquaintance,” said Andrew in a sober tone.

  “From that look on your face, I would say a close acquaintance.”

  “You are very perceptive, Miss Rawlings,” he said with a pensive smile. “But you’re a reporter, and that is personal.”

  “Oh . . . I’m sorry,” replied Paddy, embarrassed. “I meant nothing—”

  “No problem,” smiled Andrew.

  “I suppose I’m also an American—blunt, forward, tactless . . . all those qualities we are famous for. . . .”

  “Miss Rawlings, please . . . I meant nothing of the kind—only that I’d rather not go down that road. But you are right in what you said—she is someone I cared for very much. Yet seeing her again . . .”

  His voice trailed off.

  “Maybe I’m changing more than I realized,” he added after a moment. This time Paddy said nothing in reply. A lengthy silence followed, during which she busied herself with her salad, he with his veal.

  “But wasn’t that Fred Hensley with her?” said Paddy at length. “I read something he released to the press about the Stone. It seemed to raise more questions than it answered.”

  “It certainly has been a mystery. Frankly, I’m surprised the Stone hasn’t shown up by now.”

  As the conversation continued, they chatted further about the British system of politics. Scotland was mentioned. Then the subject of Paddy’s name was raised. She had just mentioned that her friends called her Paddy, with d’s not t’s.

  “Why Paddy?” Andrew asked. “Isn’t it a man’s nickname, and an Irish one at that?”

  The American paused. A reminiscent expression of mingled nostalgia and pain crossed her face as she recalled the first time the name Paddy had sounded in her ears. What a happy day that had been—a memory that had now turned bittersweet. No, she wasn’t quite ready to open that box of memories for her new acquaintance Andrew Trentham.

  “Let’s just say it is a nickname a friend gave me when I first came to England,” she sighed at length. She forced a smile to pull herself back to the present.

  “Why are you interested in Scotland?” he asked, diverting the conversation in another direction.

  “That’s supposed to be my question!” Paddy rejoined. “I’m the one who asked you about Scotland, remember?”

  Andrew laughed. “Just curious,” he said. “I’m rather fond of the north, you see. I was raised just a stone’s throw from the border, though to tell the truth, we rarely ventured across it—my family’s interests have always focused toward London. But now that recent responsibilities have been thrust upon me, I feel an urgency to understand as much as I can about the issues coming up. I always did my best to stay informed. But now I feel I need to know more—not just the facts but what is behind them. Understanding Scotland and its history suddenly seems vital to me.”

  “All right—I can see that. But you must realize that you may now very well become the center of the entire debate.”

  “Right now I would prefer not to think about it. What do you say we change the subject?”

  “All right, then. Let me ask you about your recent election. Why did Mr. Reardon step down?”

  “I honestly don’t know—family, personal reasons. Actually he didn’t share many details with us about it. But I’m not sure that was enough of a subject change to suit me, Miss Rawlings,” laughed Andrew. “So I’ll have a go at it. What’s it like being a reporter—do you enjoy it?”

  “That is a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn!” she rejoined. “But to answer you, yes. Of course—I love doing what I do. Though if I was to be absolutely truthful—”

  She paused and glanced into Andrew’s face.

  “—off the record?” she added.

  He nodded.

  “To tell you the truth, aspects of the job are hard for me.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m afraid I’m really not as forceful as you have to be to make it in this game.”

  “You could have fooled me!”

  “You have to put on a journalist’s persona. I love news—the process of investigation, being in touch with what is going on. But it’s often difficult to be the kind of person you have to be to succeed. Sometimes I wonder how long I will be able to keep it up,” she said. “And you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Do you like being a politician?”

  “I would give you the same answer you gave me—of course, though it too has its difficult side.”

  “Such as?”

  “Off the record?”

  Paddy nodded.

  “That’s not good enough,” smiled Andrew. “You have to promise me that what I say will remain just between the two of us.”

  “You are a shrewd one. All right then,” she replied. “I promise.” She extended her arm across the table.

  Th
ey shook hands to formally seal the pact of confidentiality.

  “All right then,” Andrew said, “I too find that the persona I must wear weighs a bit heavy at times, simply because of who I am.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean my mother and her reputation, not to mention her expectations . . . and everybody in the city knows my father . . . and here I come, the young scion carrying on the Trentham name. I don’t know—lately I’ve found myself wondering who I am all by myself, if there is a me that represents something deeper than all the external things people see when they look at me.”

  “You’re going through a time of personal reflection—is that what you’d say?”

  “I suppose. I’m wondering as well about my roots, about where I came from.”

  “But don’t you know?” she persisted. “I mean . . . your family is an old one, right? I thought you would have, like a coat of arms or a family archives or something.”

  “I suppose perhaps we do, somewhere. But you have to understand I come from a long line of modernists . . . yes, even my Conservative mother in her way. We’ve never been much for tales of the old days.”

  “But that’s changing now, you say . . .”

  “Something’s changing.” He shook his head. “I don’t really know where I’m going with all this. Suddenly it just dawned on me that, here I am—well-known, my name in the papers, journalists—like you!” he added with a grin, “—wanting to talk to me . . . and I find myself wondering if I’ve ever stopped to try to figure out who I was.”

  “Did Eagon Hamilton’s death trigger all this introspection?”

  Andrew thought for a moment.

  “No, it began before that. Actually, I think the theft of the Coronation Stone may have had more to do with it than what happened to Eagon. But whenever someone you know dies, you can’t help but grow pensive.” Andrew smiled. “A fateful lunch with the young lady over there,” he added with a smile, “contributed its share. And come to think of it, actually your question about division helped stimulate my thoughts too.”

  “I’m glad something good came of it! But how could that have had anything to do with it?”