Barraclough glanced at the clock on his desk.
“Two-ten—I had no idea it was so late!” he said. “It appears we are going to have to bring this to an end. If we don’t get over to the Palace, we will be late for this afternoon’s session.”
He rose and shook Andrew’s hand.
“I want you to know how appreciative I am, Andrew. Though I had no idea of the research you had been doing on the matter, I had the feeling you were the right man to talk to. This discussion has been most stimulating and enlightening. I’m especially grateful for what you have told me about your Scottish ancestry. That may have more to do with what is before us than you probably realized at the outset.”
“Thank you, Prime Minister,” Andrew nodded. “I’m glad you felt free to call. If there is anything more I can do, please do not hesitate.”
“History may be knocking on our door, Andrew, yours and mine. We cannot ignore its summons. But we’ll resume that discussion another time.—I’ve got just a couple quick calls to make before I go. If you’d like to wait a few minutes, you can ride over with me.”
“No, I came on foot,” replied Andrew. “The sun’s out, and I think I have time to walk. Besides,” he added, “I need a few minutes myself to put this into perspective before we are bombarded by the business of the day. You’ve suddenly elevated this issue to a level even I wasn’t quite prepared for . . . at least not so soon.”
Barraclough laughed. “Thank you again, Andrew. You’ve helped me a great deal.”
Three
As Andrew walked along Whitehall, his brain was spinning in what seemed a thousand directions at once.
Thoughts of Ginny intruded as he replayed the past two hours. Any mention of Scotland reminded him of her. She was the one and perhaps the most important element in his own “Scottish story” that he had not divulged to Barraclough.
Once he had the Scottish situation settled, Andrew realized, he would have to resolve his own personal crisis with Ginny. Neither would be easy. Although he tried to keep his focus on the issues at hand, more and more he was finding himself distracted by thoughts of her. He was even beginning to live with the fact his feelings for her would not go away. But what good was that when she obviously hated him? On top of all that, she was still involved with Alastair Farquharson.
As if in response to his thoughts, after he had crossed Bridge Street and was approaching the gate into New Palace Yard and the members’ entrance, he saw a familiar hulking figure pacing the sidewalk twenty or thirty yards in front of him.
Andrew slowed, thinking at first that his eyes must be playing some trick. The fellow was dressed in a black suit that appeared two sizes too small, choking him at neck and waist. Both buttons were stretched uncomfortably tight across his midsection. The sleeves of the jacket, as well as the trousers, were two or three inches short, and he wore great work boots that seemed more in keeping with a construction site than the front entrance of Parliament. One of the guards at the gate was keeping a close watch on him, for the fellow could not help standing out like a sore thumb.
Andrew drew closer, then stopped five yards away, staring dumbfounded. The man saw him and turned, his face brightening.
“Alastair Farquharson!” Andrew exclaimed in a tone of both question and disbelief. “Is it really you?”
“Ay, Mr. Trentham,” replied Alastair, lumbering toward him with three gigantic strides. “’Tis me all right.”
“But . . . I don’t understand—what are you doing in the middle of London?”
“Luikin’ fer ye, Mr. Trentham. I’ve been walkin’ aboot in front o’ this place fer two days, hopin’ I’d see ye.”
“I can hardly believe it!” laughed Andrew. “Well, it seems you’ve found me at last. But surely you didn’t come here just to see me.”
“Ay, I did.”
“Why, then? Is something going on I should know about?”
“In a manner o’ speakin,’ perhaps. But ’tis no emergency, gien that’s what ye mean. I jist came all this way t’ talk t’ ye, Mr. Trentham. Though noo that I’m here, I’m feelin’ a mite foolish aboot it. Ye’re an important man, an’ canna hae time fer the worries o’ sich as me, an’ I’ve ne’er been in London afore, an’ ’tis a mite overwhelmin.’”
“Where are you staying?” asked Andrew, still trying to place the two disparate images together in his mind—Alastair Farquharson and Parliament Square, London.
“At a hostel o’er in Earl’s Court.”
“Not anymore,” said Andrew. “Tonight you’re staying with me.”
“I couldna du that, Mr. Trentham.”
“Nonsense, it’s already decided. I will call my housekeeper at our first break. But you still haven’t told me what was so important to bring you all this way.”
“’Tis Ginny, Mr. Trentham. I’ve got t’ talk t’ ye aboot Ginny.”
“But you say nothing is the matter?”
“No, nothin’ like that.”
“Hmm, right . . . well, I’m nearly late for Commons as it is,” said Andrew glancing at his watch. “I was hurrying inside just now when I saw you.”
He paused and thought a moment.
“Mr. Farquharson,” he said, “can you be back here sometime around six o’clock this evening?”
“Gien ye say so, Mr. Trentham.”
“Dress warmly because we may run late. One never knows. But wait for me, even if I’m not here till eight. When we adjourn, I’ll come straight to this same gate. Then we’ll go to my flat.”
“’Tis kind o’ ye, Mr. Trentham. But ’tis no trouble fer me t’ stay at the hostel.”
“You just be here, Farquharson, and wait for me. We’ll have something to eat—and we can talk.”
Four
At eight-fifteen that evening, Andrew Trentham, MP, and Alastair Farquharson, blacksmith, sat down to a simple, yet in the latter’s eyes lavish, tea at the kitchen table in Andrew’s flat. Alastair had not eaten since early in the afternoon, having hovered in front of the Houses of Parliament from five o’clock until Andrew’s appearance just before seven-thirty, and the big man was clearly famished. He quickly did justice to the spread of meats and cheeses, breads and jams, that Mrs. Threlkeld had waiting for them upon their arrival.
“This is more kind o’ ye than I can say, Mr. Trentham,” said Alastair, slabbing a third slice of bread with butter, then scrutinizing the meat tray for a suitable addition to top it with. “I canna imagine an important man like yersel’ jist takin’ in people off the streets like this.”
Andrew laughed. “No, I have to admit I don’t make a custom of bringing home tourists from the front of the Palace. But I was once shown the same hospitality by your laird when I was a stranger in your village and said something very similar about it to his wife. So perhaps this is my way of returning the favor.”
“Yer mentionin’ o’ the laird brings me t’ mind o’ why I came, Mr. Trentham,” said Alastair.
“You mentioned Ginevra. Is there some difficulty . . . ?”
“Ay, ’tis aboot Ginny more than the laird. An’ in a manner o’ speakin,’ ye might say there’s a difficulty. . . .”
Alastair paused and stared down at the half-finished slice of bread and meat on his plate.
“’Tis hard t’ talk aboot, Mr. Trentham,” he said after a moment. “T’ speak o’ a yoong lady ye care aboot’s ne’er an easy thing, an’ I’m not noted in Ballochallater fer bein’ what a body’d call eloquent wi’ my tongue. I read a lot, though folks dinna ken’t. I like buiks an’ stories an’ such. But doon inside I’m still jist a workin’ man, an’ I du most o’ my talkin’ wi’ my hands. But I care aboot her, ye see. Ginny an’ I’ve kenned each other since we were bairns, an’ I hope I luv her like a sister, whate’er else may be in my hert toward her. So ye see, I gotta say what I came t’ tell ye.”
Again he paused, squirming uncomfortably in his chair.
“Please go on,” said Andrew. “You have nothing whatever to fear from me.”
“Weel, ye see, Mr. Trentham,” Farquharson struggled to continue, “’tis jist that Ginny’s no been the same since, ye ken . . . since the wee Games in oor village last summer.”
“Why, did something happen? Was she hurt? I didn’t see—”
“Naethin’ like that, Mr. Trentham,” interrupted Alastair. “Dinna ye see what I’m tryin’ t’ say t’ ye? ’Twas when ye came an’ stopped by an’ then spent those days wi’ the laird an’ his guid wife, Mrs. Gordon.”
“Not been the same, you say?”
“No the same at all. She’s been a mess, gien ye want t’ ken—laughin’ one minute, cryin’ the next, snappin’ at folks, not eatin’ fer days, gaein’ off on long walks alone sayin’ she doesna want t’ see anyone, an’ behavin’ so peculiar t’ me as t’ drive a puir man crazy. She’s been a most perplexin’ woman since then, Mr. Trentham, an’ the laird an’ Mrs. Gordon an’ Alexander Buchan—that’s her partner in the surgery—dinna ken what t’ du wi’ her.”
“But what has caused—” Andrew began.
Alastair glanced across the table with such a strange expression that it stopped Andrew in midquestion.
“I thought ye kenned what I’ve been tryin’ t’ tell ye,” said Alastair. “Dinna ye unnerstan’—she’s been different since the day ye came t’ Ballochallater . . . yersel.’ Dinna ye see what I’m sayin’? ’Tis jist this . . . I’m o’ the mind that she luvs ye, Mr. Trentham.”
The words jolted Andrew momentarily speechless. It was the last thing Andrew had expected to hear.
“But I don’t understand,” he said after a few seconds. “What about you, Alastair? I thought you and she . . .”
“Ne’er mind aboot me,” replied Alastair. “Ay, I hoped one day she might luv me. An’ she’s a nice enough lass, but I ken weel enough that she doesna luv me—not in the way folks mean the word. An’ e’en gien that canna be, I want what is best fer her, ye see. . . .”
He paused and drew in a deep breath.
“Noo I reckon I’m come t’ what brought me all the way south t’ the big city in hopes o’ speakin’ wi’ ye, Mr. Trentham,” he went on. “I dinna ken gien ye luv her or no. But I’m hopin’ ye du, ’cause gien ye luv her, ye’re a man that can take her oot o’ Ballochallater, Mr. Trentham. An’ though a part o’ me’s maybe a wee bit sad t’ realize I’m no the one her hert’s been achin’ fer, the ither part o’ me’s happy fer her. She’s a fine yoong lady, an’ she deserves more o’ the world than t’ stay all her life taking care o’ dogs an’ pigs in a wee village like Ballochallater. She’s too special fer that, oor red-haired Ginny—intelligent, and spirited too. I’ve always thought she ought t’ hae been born t’ grit things. An’ ye see, I want that fer her—grit things. I want a bigger world fer her. I ken that world only in my buiks. But she deserves t’ be part o’ that world hersel.’ But sich as me, I’ll ne’er be able t’ offer her a bigger life—t’ travel, t’ see the world. I canna be those things t’ her. I’m jist a humble blacksmith. But the minute ye came, I saw the change in Ginny. Sae what I’m sayin’ is jist this: I ken she loves ye. I want the best fer her, an’ I think ye’re it. An’ I’d be happy t’ see her wi’ ye. Noo, I ken that’s a long speech, an’ I hope ye’ll forgive my long-winded tongue that’s no sae wise as yer Parliament frien’s, but ’tis what I came t’ tell ye.”
Andrew sat dumbfounded both by the unexpected torrent of words and by their import. This was a turn of events he had not expected!
It was silent a few minutes. At last he smiled pensively.
“Do not let anyone ever say you’re not gifted with your words, Mr. Farquharson,” he said, then paused again. “But what is so baffling about what you say,” he resumed more seriously, “is that Ginny said she never wanted to see me again. From what she has said and the way she has acted, I assumed she could not stand the sight of me.”
“I dinna ken hoo much ye ken aboot women, Mr. Trentham. I’m thinkin’ it must be a heap more’n me. But the way I see it, when women rant an’ fuss an’ storm, ’tis a sure sign they’re in luv. Ye must ken that. I see it wi’ all the silly lassies o’ the village when they’re walkin’ by my shop frae the school. An’ in Ginny’s case, though she’s older, ’tis much the same. She’s had things her own way fer so long, she doesna ken what t’ make o’ what she’s feeling noo, which is love fer yersel’ gien I’m no mistakin’ it—least ’tis hoo the thing appears t’ me. She’s all o’ a sudden vulnerable-like, gien that’s the word I want—all nervous and jittery and thinkin’ aboot ye an’ no kennin’ what t’ du aboot it. She’s no alt’gither in control o’ herself, an’ she finds it a mite fearsome, I’m thinkin.’ She doesna ken what t’ do but git angry wi’ ye. ’Tis one o’ those luv-hate kind o’ relationships I read aboot in a book once, though it sounded like a bit o’ psychological haggis t’ me. But noo that I’ve seen Ginny these last months, I’m thinkin’ that’s what she’s got—a case o’ the luv-hate sickness, gien ye want t’ call it that. The way I see it, she thinks she hates the Andrew Trentham she reads aboot in the newspapers—the image o’ Andrew Trentham frae Parliament an’ London an’ all, but she’s in luv wi’ the man she kenned that was under her papa’s roof those few days.”
“But they’re the same me,” said Andrew.
“Ay, but she doesna ken it. So ye’ve got t’ show her. Ye’ve got t’ show her that the man’s the same man all the way through. Ye see, Mr. Trentham, Ginny’s never been in luv afore, not even wi’ me. That might sound strange to ye, but ’tis true. She was in school all those years, and then she was back an’ startin’ in practice. An’ we went t’ the Heather an’ Stout fer years an’ danced t’gither an’ had fun. But dancin’s no the same as bein’ in luv—nor the best way o’ findin’ oot gien a body be one ye want t’ spend yer life wi.’”
Andrew glanced up into Alastair’s face, still reeling and probing the gentle honest face for insight.
“Ay, I ken what ye’re thinkin,’” said the big man. “But ’twas never really luv she felt fer me. ’Twas maybe luv I had fer her—I dinna rightly ken. She likes me all right, as a friend, but no, Mr. Trentham, ’tis not luv. But she’s in luv noo, an’ it’s made her all topsy-turvy inside. That’s why ye’ve got t’ help her, Mr. Trentham—ye got t’ help her ken what she’s feelin’ . . . what it is she’s feelin’ fer yersel.’”
Andrew continued to sit in bewilderment. Slowly he began to chuckle, then broke into laughter.
“At first I thought you were going to tell me to stay away from your girl,” he said. “Now suddenly you tell me that you hope I’m in love with her! It will take me a while to put all you’ve said into order in my brain.”
“I’m sorry I put ye into sich a perplexity, but ye see, I couldna rest until I told ye.”
Two days later, after a tour of London as the special guest of one of its most important politicians, Alastair Farquharson was sitting on a train on his way back to Scotland, considerably relieved in mind and heart. What he would tell Ginny if she asked where he had been, he wasn’t sure. But no one in Ballochallater had known his destination when he left the village four days before, and he hoped he could keep it that way.
Meanwhile Andrew had more than enough to think about on both the political and the relational fronts that were now facing him, though he determined to be in no hurry to resolve the dilemmas concerning either.
One thing was for certain—the timing of this sudden new personal perplexity was surely inconvenient!
Five
Whatever Andrew might have intended to do with regard to Ginny, his plans on that and every other front were preempted by the prime minister himself.
It was in the third week of March, a month following Andrew’s discussion with him at Number Ten, that Richard Barraclough released the stunning announcement that took everyone in the nation by surprise—Dugald MacKinnon and his SNP colleagues along with Andrew Trentham.
The first wind Andrew had of it was from Paddy Rawlings the night before.
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br /> The telephone rang in his flat that evening just before nine.
“Andrew . . . it’s Paddy.”
“Paddy!” exclaimed Andrew, “—hello. Haven’t talked to you in a while. How are you doing—or should I ask, how are you and Bill doing?”
“Actually, we’re doing great,” replied Paddy. “I’m very happy. But that’s not what I called about.—Do you know anything about the prime minister’s announcement?”
“No . . . what announcement?”
“I just heard, from Kirk Luddington no less. Something big is apparently up—no one knows exactly what. We just received word of a press conference being put together for tomorrow.”
“I’d heard nothing about it. Must be very last minute. There was no mention of it this evening—we adjourned a little before eight.”
“All right, I suppose we’ll all have to wait until tomorrow.”
“What time’s the thing set?”
“Twelve-thirty . . . in front of Number Ten.”
They chatted a few more minutes, then Andrew hung up. Not five minutes later, the telephone rang again. It was the prime minister.
“Andrew, it’s Richard.”
“Hello, Prime Minister.”
“I’ve scheduled a press conference for tomorrow.”
“I just heard.”
“Word does travel in this city!” laughed Barraclough.
“I have a close friend in the press.”
“In any event, I plan to talk about some of what you and I discussed last month. I would like you to stand with me, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. It would be my privilege.”
“As a matter of fact, why don’t you come to Number Ten for lunch, say at eleven-thirty. We can chat further. I’ve scheduled the announcement for twelve-thirty.”
“I’ll be there.”
Six
Neither the fifteen-hour advance notice of the event, however, nor the hour’s lunch with the prime minister totally prepared Andrew for the impact of the words as he stood beside the prime minister listening to Barraclough read through his text.
An Ancient Strife Page 46
