This Was a Man

by Jeffrey Archer

  At eleven a.m., she was driven across Westminster Bridge to the Cabinet Office to attend a meeting to consider the financial implications for the government of keeping to pledges the party had made in the last election manifesto. Some of her colleagues would have to make sacrifices when it came to their pet projects, and each minister knew that just promising to cut costs in their department by being more efficient wouldn’t suffice. The public had heard the paperclips solution once too often.

  Lunch with Lars van Hassel, the Dutch minister for health, in the privacy of her office; no civil servants in attendance. A pompous and arrogant man, who was quite brilliant, and knew it. Emma accepted that she would learn more in an hour over a sandwich and a glass of wine with Lars than she would from most of her colleagues in a month.

  In the afternoon, it was her department’s turn to answer questions in the Lords, and although her brother landed the occasional blow, no blood was spilt. But then, Emma knew he was saving his heavy artillery for when the NHS bill came before the House.

  Questions were followed by a meeting with Bertie Denham, the chief whip, to discuss those members who sat on the government benches but had voiced misgivings when the white paper on the bill was first published. Some sincere, some ill-informed, while others who had sworn undying loyalty to the party if they were offered a peerage suddenly discovered they had minds of their own if it resulted in favorable coverage in the national press.

  Emma and the chief whip discussed which of them could be bullied, cajoled, flattered, and in one or two cases bribed with the promise of a place on a parliamentary delegation to some exotic land around the day of the vote. Bertie had warned her that the numbers were looking too close to call.

  Emma left the chief whip’s office to return to the ministry and be brought up to date on any problems that had arisen during the day. Norman Berkinshaw, the general secretary of the Royal College of Nursing—Emma could only wonder how much longer it would be before a woman held that post—was demanding a 14 percent pay rise for his members. She had agreed to a meeting with him, when she would point out that if the government gave way to his demands, it would bankrupt the NHS. But she knew only too well that her words would fall on deaf ears.

  At 6:30 p.m.—but by then she would probably be running late—Emma would attend a drinks party at the Carlton Club in St. James’s, where she would press the flesh of the faithful and listen intently to their views on how the government should be run, a smile never leaving her face. Then she would be whisked off to the Royal College of Surgeons, with just about enough time to check over her speech in the car. More emendations, more crossings out, then finally underlining the key words that needed to be emphasized.

  Unlike Harry, Emma needed to be at her best in the evening, however exhausted she felt. She’d once read that Margaret Thatcher survived on only four hours’ sleep a night, and was always at her desk by five o’clock in the morning, writing notes to ministers, constituency chairmen, civil servants, and old friends. She never forgot a birthday, an anniversary, or, as Emma had recently experienced, a card of congratulations on the birth of a great-granddaughter.

  “Never forget,” the prime minister had added as a postscript, “your dedication and hard work can only benefit Lucy’s generation.”

  Emma arrived home at Smith Square just after midnight. She would have phoned Harry, but she didn’t want to wake him, aware that he would be up at six in the morning, working on chapter two. She retired to the study to open another red box, delivered while she was having dinner with the president of the Royal College of Surgeons. She sat down and began working on the first draft of a speech that she knew might well define her entire political career.

  “My lords, it is my privilege to present to the House for its consideration, the second reading of the government’s NHS bill. Let me begin by saying…”

  45

  “WHAT BROUGHT THIS ON?” Emma asked as they left the house for their evening walk into Chew Magna.

  “You know I had my annual checkup recently,” said Harry. “Well, I received the results this morning.”

  “Nothing to worry about, I hope?” said Emma, trying not to sound anxious.

  “All clear. It seems I ticked all the boxes except one, and although I’ve stopped jogging, Dr. Richards is pleased that I’m still walking for an hour every morning.”

  “I only wish I could say the same,” said Emma.

  “Your diary secretary would make sure it was never possible. But at least you try to make up for it at the weekend.”

  “You said every box except one,” Emma said as they walked along the driveway toward the main road.

  “He says I have a couple of small lumps on my prostate. Nothing to worry about, but it might be wise to deal with it in the not-too-distant future.”

  “I agree with him. After all, you can have an operation nowadays, or a course of radiotherapy, and be back to normal in a few weeks.”

  “I only need another year.”

  “What do you mean?” said Emma, stopping in her tracks.

  “By then I should have finished Heads You Win, and fulfilled the terms of my contract.”

  “But knowing you, my darling, by then you’ll have another half a dozen ideas racing around in your head. Dare I ask how this one’s going?”

  “Every author believes their latest work is the best thing they’ve ever done, and I’m no exception. But you don’t really have a clue until you read the reviews or, as Aaron Guinzburg says, three weeks later, when you find out if the tills are still ringing up sales once the initial hype is over and you only have word of mouth to rely on.”

  “To hell with Aaron Guinzburg. How do you feel?” pressed Emma.

  “It’s the best thing I’ve ever done,” said Harry, beating his chest with bravado, only to add, “Who knows? But then, are you able to be realistic about how your speech is coming along?”

  “There’s only one thing I can be sure about. My colleagues will let me know how I’ve done the moment I sit down. They won’t wait three weeks to tell me.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “You could get hold of a copy of Giles’s speech so I can find out what I’ll be up against.”

  “Have a word with Karin. I’m sure she could lay her hands on a copy.”

  “That’s exactly what Seb suggested, and I told him that if Giles ever found out, I wouldn’t be the only person he wasn’t speaking to.”

  “Giles’s speech,” said Harry, “will be like Falstaff in full flow, lots of grandiose ideas, most of them impractical, and certainly unaffordable, along with one or two golden nuggets that you’ll be able to steal, and possibly even implement before the next election.”

  “You’re a crafty old thing, Harry Clifton. You would have made a formidable politician.”

  “I would have made a dreadful politician. To start with, I’m not altogether sure which party I support. It’s usually the one in opposition. And the thought of having to expose myself to the press, let alone the electorate, would be enough to make me become a hermit.”

  “What guilty secret are you hiding?” mocked Emma, as they walked on toward the village.

  “All I’m willing to admit is that I intend to go on writing until I drop, and frankly there are enough politicians in this family already. In any case, like a typical politician, you haven’t answered my question. How’s your speech coming on?”

  “Well enough, but I’m worried it’s a bit dull and workmanlike at the moment. I think I’ve dealt with most of my colleagues’ reservations, even if one or two of them still remain unresolved. Frankly the speech needs a big idea that will keep Giles in his place, and I’ve been hoping you might find the time to read it and give me your honest opinion.”

  “Of course I will. Though I suspect Giles is every bit as anxious as you are and would like nothing better than to get his hands on a copy of your speech. So I wouldn’t be too worried.”

  “Can I ask another favor?”
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  “Anything, my darling.”

  “Promise me you’ll go and see a specialist, otherwise I’ll worry,” said Emma as they linked arms.

  “I promise,” said Harry, as they passed the parish church and turned down a public footpath that would lead them back across the meadows to the Manor House. “But in return, I expect something from you.”

  “That sounds rather ominous.”

  “It’s just that I’d sleep more easily if we both updated our wills.”

  “What’s brought this on?”

  “The realization that I’ll be seventy next year and will have fulfilled the Maker’s contract, not to mention the birth of a great-granddaughter. It would be irresponsible of us not to make sure our affairs are in order.”

  “How morbid, Harry.”

  “Possibly, but it shouldn’t be avoided. It isn’t my will that’s the problem because, other than a few gifts to charities and old friends, I’ve left everything to you, which, according to Seb, is both sensible and at the same time tax advantageous. But both of us should start giving gifts to the children, and as long as we live for another seven years, they won’t be liable for any tax. However, the real problem, he tells me, is your will.”

  “Unless I die before you, darling, then all your best-laid plans…”

  “That’s unlikely, because I think you’ll find that actuaries, like bookies, usually get the odds right. It’s how they make their living. Insurance companies currently work on the assumption that women will outlive their husbands by seven years. The average man will live to the age of seventy-four, while their wives will carry on to eighty-one.”

  “There’s nothing average about you, Harry Clifton, and in any case, I’ve already planned to die about a fortnight after you.”

  “Why a fortnight?”

  “I wouldn’t want the vicar to find the house untidy.”

  Harry couldn’t stop grinning. “Be serious for a moment, my darling. Let’s assume we’re typical. As I’m a year older than you, you should survive me by eight years.”

  “Bloody statistics.”

  “Nevertheless, I think it’s time for you to update your will, with a view to minimizing the children’s inheritance tax liability, which is still at forty percent, despite Mrs. Thatcher’s promises.”

  “You’ve thought very seriously about this, haven’t you, Harry?”

  “The thought of cancer is a wake-up call that shouldn’t be ignored. In any case, I read the small print in the Prudential’s life policy and couldn’t find any reference to immortality.”

  “I hope we’re not going to have this conversation too often.”

  “Once a year should suffice. But I’ll feel happier when I know your will is in order.”

  “I’ve already left the Manor House to Sebastian and most of my jewelry to Samantha, Jessica, and Lucy.”

  “What about Jake?”

  “I don’t think he’d look good in a pearl necklace. In any case, I have a feeling he has inherited all his father’s worst traits and will end up a multimillionaire.”

  Harry took her hand as they headed back to the house.

  “On to more pleasant matters,” he said. “Where would you like to spend your summer holidays this year?”

  “On a small island in the Indian Ocean where none of my colleagues will be able to find me.”

  * * *

  “We haven’t seen Harry and Emma for weeks,” said Karin. “Why don’t we invite them over for lunch on Sunday?”

  “I have no intention of fraternizing with the enemy,” said Giles, tugging at the lapels of his dressing gown, “until the final vote has been cast and the Tories have been defeated.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Giles. She’s your sister.”

  “We only have my parents’ word for that.”

  “So when can I expect to see them again?”

  “Not until the captains and the kings have departed.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Do you think, for one moment, that Wellington would have considered dining with Napoleon the night before Waterloo?”

  “It might have been a damned sight better for everyone concerned if he had,” said Karin.

  Giles laughed. “I have a feeling Napoleon might have agreed with you on that.”

  “How much longer do we have to wait before we discover which one of you is to be exiled on St. Helena?”

  “Not much longer. A provisional date for the debate has been penciled into the parliamentary calendar for a week on Thursday.”

  “Dare I ask how your speech is going?”

  “Never better. I think I can safely say it will be greeted with the waving of order papers and prolonged and rapturous applause.” Giles paused. “Actually, I haven’t got a clue, my darling. All I can tell you is that I’ve never worked harder on a speech.”

  “Even if you win the argument, do you really have any chance of defeating the government while it has a built-in majority?”

  “A very real chance. If the crossbenchers and Liberals join us in the lobby, it will be a close-run thing. I’ve also identified about a dozen Tories who are not at all happy with the bill, and are still wavering. If I can convince some of them to cross the floor, or just abstain, it will be neck and neck.”

  “But surely the Conservative whips will be working overtime cajoling, threatening, and even bribing any possible rebels?”

  “That’s not quite so easy to pull off in the Lords, where the whips don’t have too many jobs to offer, promotions to hint at, or honors to dangle in front of ambitious young politicians. Whereas I can appeal to their vanity by claiming they are courageous, independent men of conscience, who place what is good for the nation ahead of what is good for their party.”

  “What about the women?” demanded Karin.

  “It’s much harder to bribe women.”

  “You’re a scoundrel, Giles Barrington.”

  “I know, my darling, but you have to understand that being a scoundrel is simply part of a politician’s job description.”

  “If you were to win the vote,” said Karin, sounding serious for the first time, “would that mean Emma might have to resign?”

  “All’s fair in love and war.”

  “I hope you’ve got some better clichés than that in your speech.”

  “Traitor,” said Giles, as he put his slippers on, disappeared into the bathroom, and turned on the hot water. He looked in the mirror, which was rapidly steaming up, and declared, “How can the minister pretend to understand the plight of a young mother in Darlington, Doncaster, or Durham?

  “Which one do you think?” he asked, his voice returning to normal.

  “Darlington,” said Karin. “Emma’s unlikely ever to have been there.”

  “—or the hardships suffered by a miner from South Wales, who spends half his life down a pit, or a crofter in the Highlands, who begins work at four in the morning. For these are the very people who rely on their local hospital when they fall sick, only to discover that it’s been closed by those decent, caring Tories opposite, who aren’t interested in saving lives, just saving pennies.”

  “So they can build a bigger, better-equipped hospital just up the road?” suggested Karin.

  “How can the right honorable lady begin to understand…” continued Giles, ignoring his wife’s interruption.

  “How long are you going to be in there, Giles?”

  “Stop heckling, woman. I’ve just begun my peroration.”

  “And I need to go to the loo, now.”

  Giles came out of the bathroom. “And you dare to accuse me of underhand tactics,” he said, brandishing his shaving brush at her.

  Karin didn’t reply, but glared at her half-shaven husband and retreated into the bathroom.

  Giles picked up the latest copy of his speech from the bedside table and replaced Durham with Darlington.

  “And how can the right honorable lady hope to understand—” he leaned down and crossed out “hop
e,” replacing it with “begin,” as the bathroom door opened.

  “The minister of state just might remind the noble lord, that she fully understands, as she had the privilege of chairing one of the largest NHS hospitals in the country for seven years.”

  “Whose side are you on?” demanded Giles.

  “I won’t make up my mind until I’ve heard both sides of the argument,” said Karin. “Because so far, I’ve only listened to one side, several times.”

  “Love, honor, and obey,” said Giles, returning to the bathroom to finish shaving.

  “I didn’t promise to obey,” said Karin, just before the door was closed.

  Karin sat on the end of the bed and began to read Giles’s speech. She had to admit, it wasn’t half bad. The bathroom door swung open and a fully shaven Giles reappeared.

  “It’s time to discuss more pressing matters,” he said. “Where shall we go on holiday this year? I thought perhaps a few days in the South of France. We could stay at La Colombe d’Or, visit the Matisse museum, drive along the Corniche coast, even spend a weekend in Monte Carlo.”

  “Berlin.”

  “Berlin?” repeated Giles, sitting down beside her on the bed.

  “Yes,” said Karin, sounding serious. “I have a feeling it won’t be long before that barbaric wall finally comes down. Thousands of my countrymen and women are standing on the Western side in silent protest every day, and I’d like to go and join them.”

  “And so you shall,” said Giles, placing an arm around her shoulder. “I’ll give Walter Scheel a call as soon as I get to the office. If anyone knows what’s happening behind the scenes, it will be him.”

  “I wonder where Emma will be going on holiday this year?” said Karin as she returned to the bathroom.

  Giles waited for the door to shut before he said quietly, “The island of St. Helena, if I have anything to do with it.”

  46

  “I MUST CONFESS, Sir Harry, that I have never read any of your books,” said the Harley Street specialist, as he looked across the desk at his patient. “My colleague Mr. Lever, however, is an ardent fan. He was disappointed to hear that you’ve chosen to have an operation rather than a course of radiotherapy, which is his particular field of expertise. Can I begin by asking if that is still the case?”