This Was a Man

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Sebastian, Jessica, Richard, Lucy, and I will be delighted to join you,” said Samantha, “and finance our own mission.”

  Sebastian looked to the heavens and said, “Joshua Barrington, you’ve got a lot to answer for.”

  “Well done, Karin,” said Emma as she wrote down the details in her red book. “Follow that, Jessica,” she added, smiling at her granddaughter.

  “I’m hoping to be shortlisted for the Turner Prize.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” said Grace. “Turner would never have won the Turner Prize.”

  “That would be quite an achievement, young lady,” chipped in Harry.

  “And if she is,” said Richard, “she’ll be the youngest artist ever to have been shortlisted.”

  “Now that is worth achieving,” said Grace. “What are you working on at the moment?”

  “I’ve just begun a series called The Tree of Life.”

  “Oh, I love trees,” said Emma, “and you’ve always been so good at landscapes.”

  “It won’t be that kind of tree, Grandmama.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Emma, “a tree is a tree.”

  “Unless it’s symbolic,” suggested Harry, smiling at his granddaughter.

  “And what’s your resolution, Grandpops? Is your book going to win the Booker?”

  “Not a hope,” said Grace. “That prize will never be awarded to a storyteller, more’s the pity. But I can tell you all, because I’m the only person in this room who’s read it, that Harry’s latest novel is by far his most accomplished work to date. He’s more than fulfilled his mother’s hopes, so he can take a year off.”

  Harry was taken by surprise. He’d planned to tell the family he’d be having a major operation in January, but that there was no need to worry because he’d only be out of action for a few weeks.

  “What about you, Emma?” said Giles. “Are you planning to be PM by this time next year?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Emma. “But I do intend to be even more of an infidel next year than I was last year,” she added, putting her glass down on the table, and spilling a little wine.

  “What’s an infidel?” asked Jake.

  “Someone who votes Conservative,” said Giles.

  “Then I want to be infidel. But only if Freddie’s an infidel too.”

  “I most certainly am,” said Freddie.

  “I often think it’s comical—

  How Nature always does contrive—

  That every boy and every gal—

  That’s born into the world alive—

  Is either a little Liberal—

  Or else a little Conservative!”

  “Lyricist?” demanded Grace.

  “W. S. Gilbert.”

  “Which operetta?”

  “Iolanthe,” said Freddie, “and as I’m already an infidel, I’ve decided to come up with a new resolution this year.”

  “But you haven’t scored that century at Lord’s yet,” Giles reminded him.

  “I still intend to, but by this time next year, I will have changed my name.”

  Freddie’s unexpected announcement left everyone, even Jake, speechless.

  “But I’ve always liked Freddie,” Emma eventually managed. “I think it rather suits you.”

  “Freddie’s not the name I want to change. From January first, I’d like to be known as Freddie Barrington.”

  The round of applause that followed left Freddie in no doubt that the family approved of his New Year’s resolution.

  “It’s a simple enough procedure,” said Grace, ever practical. “You only have to sign a deed poll and Fenwick will be a thing of the past.”

  “I had to sign a lot more forms to achieve that,” said Giles, shaking hands with his son.

  The phone began to ring and a moment later Markham appeared.

  “It’s Lord Waddington on the phone,” he said.

  “The prince of infidels,” said Giles. “Why don’t you take the call in my study, Emma?”

  “It must be serious for him to call me on New Year’s Eve,” said Emma.

  “The call is not for you, my lady,” said Markham. “He asked to speak to Lord Barrington.”

  “Are you sure, Markham?”

  “Quite sure, my lady.”

  “Then you’d better go and find out what he wants,” said Emma.

  If Jessica and Freddie had caused silence, a phone call from the leader of the Lords caused the rest of the family to all start talking at once. They didn’t fall silent until the door opened and their host reappeared. They all looked at him in anticipation.

  “Well, that’s sorted out my New Year’s resolution,” was all Giles had to say.

  * * *

  “You’re going to have to tell them at some point,” said Emma, as she and Harry walked back to the Manor House early the next morning.

  “I’d intended to yesterday afternoon, but Grace rather upstaged me, not to mention Freddie and Giles.”

  “Giles couldn’t hide how delighted he was by Freddie’s decision.”

  “Did he tell you why Lord Waddington wanted to speak to him?”

  “Not a word.”

  “You don’t think he could be crossing the floor and joining the infidels?”

  “Never. That’s just not his style. But now you’ve handed in the book, is there anything else you have to do before going into hospital?”

  “I wish I could do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Change the subject without having to include a link line. You’d never get away with it in a book. In real life, when two people are having a conversation, they switch back and forth without thinking about it, sometimes even in midsentence. Scott Fitzgerald wrote a short story recording a real-life conversation, and it was unreadable.”

  “How interesting. Now answer the question.”

  “No,” said Harry. “Now that the line editor and the proofreader have done their damndest, there’s not a lot more I can do before the book is published.”

  “What did the redoubtable Miss Warburton catch you out on this time?”

  “I had a New York detective reading the Miranda Rights to a prisoner three years before they came into force.”

  “Oops. Anything else?”

  “Colons that should have been semicolons, and it appears I use the expression ‘no doubt’ too often throughout the book. Something else everyone does in normal life, but you can’t get away with it in a novel.”

  “Will you be going on any book tours this time?”

  “I expect so. Most readers will assume it’s another William Warwick novel, and I’ll have to disabuse them of that. And in any case, Aaron is already lining up a tour of the States for me, and my London publishers are pressing me to visit the Bombay Book Festival.”

  “Does the timing work? It all sounds quite demanding.”

  “It’s all rather convenient, actually. I check into St. Thomas’s in a couple of weeks’ time, and by the time the novel is published, I should have fully recovered.”

  “Once you’re out of hospital, I don’t think you should come down here. Stay in London where Karin, Giles, and I can fuss over you. In fact I’ve already warned my department I’ll be away for at least a couple of weeks.”

  “I think Giles might be away for a lot longer than that.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “There’s a rumor doing the rounds that our ambassador in Washington will be retiring in the spring.”

  50

  THE OFFICE WAS SMALLER than he’d expected, but the magnificent wood paneling and fine oil portraits of his predecessors left him in no doubt of the historic importance of his new role.

  His duties had been carefully explained to him by Commander Rufus Orme, his private secretary. Like the monarch, he may have had little real power in his new position, but immense influence. Indeed, when it came to state occasions he followed in the Queen’s footsteps, with the Archbishop of Canterbury and the prime minister a pa
ce behind.

  He was assisted by a small, well-trained team who would take care of his every need, although he wondered how long it would take him to get used to someone helping him get dressed. His valet, Croft, would appear at the same hour every day to perform a ceremony that needed to be timed to the second.

  He began to take off his clothes until he was standing in only his vest and pants. He felt quite ridiculous. Croft helped him into a white shirt that had been freshly ironed earlier that morning. A starched white collar was attached to a stud in the back of the shirt, followed by a frilly lace neckerchief where a normal man would wear a tie. He didn’t need to look in the mirror. Croft was his mirror. The valet then turned his attention to a long black and gold silk gown that was draped on a wooden mannequin in a corner of the room. He lifted it carefully and held the gown up so the new recipient could place his arms in the long gold sleeves. Croft stood back, checked his master, then dropped to his knees to help him into a pair of shiny, brass-buckled shoes. He stood up again and removed a full-bottomed wig from the mannequin’s wooden head, before transferring it to the head of the Lord Chancellor. Croft stood back once again and made a slight adjustment, just a fraction to the left.

  Croft’s final task was to place the great chain of office that dated back to 1643 over his head, not letting go of it until it was resting securely on Giles’s shoulders. That was the moment at which Giles recalled from his schooldays that three of his predecessors had been executed in the Tower of London.

  Once dressed, he was finally allowed to glance at himself in the long mirror. He looked ridiculous, but had to admit, if only to himself, that he loved it. The valet bowed. His task completed, he left without another word.

  As Croft departed, Commander Orme walked in. Orme would never have considered entering the room until the Lord Chancellor was dressed in his full regalia.

  “I’ve read today’s order paper, Orme,” he said. “Is there anything I should be concerned about?”

  “No, my lord. Questions today will be answered by the minister of state for health. There may well be some robust exchanges on the subject of AIDS, but nothing you need concern yourself with.”

  “Thank you.” He glanced at his watch, aware that at seven minutes to the hour, he would leave his office in the North Tower and set off on his journey to the Prince’s Chamber.

  The door opened again, this time to allow a young page to make his entrance. He bowed low, moved quickly behind him, and picked up the hem of his long robe.

  “Thirty seconds, my lord,” said Orme, moments before the door opened again to allow the Lord Chancellor to set out on the seven-minute journey through the Palace of Westminster to the House of Lords.

  He stepped out onto the red carpet and progressed slowly along the wide corridor. Members of the House, door keepers, and badge messengers stood to one side and bowed as he passed, not to him, but to the monarch he represented. He maintained a steady pace, which he had practiced the day before when the House was not in session. Commander Orme had emphasized that he must be neither too fast nor too slow if he was to arrive in the Prince’s Chamber just moments before Big Ben struck twice.

  As he proceeded down the north corridor, he could have been forgiven for wondering how many of his colleagues would be in the chamber to greet him when he took his seat on the Woolsack for the first time. Only then would he discover how his surprise appointment had been received by his fellow peers.

  On a normal day, there would only have been a handful of members present. They would rise from their places as the Lord Chancellor entered the chamber, give a slight bow, and remain standing while his old friend, the Bishop of Bristol, conducted daily prayers.

  He felt more and more nervous as he continued to place one foot in front of the other, and his heartbeat reached another level when he stepped onto the blue and gold carpet of the Prince’s Chamber with ninety seconds to spare. He turned right and made his way down the long red carpeted corridor to the far end of the House, before he could finally make his entrance. As he reached the Members’ Lobby, in which the public were standing in silence, he heard Big Ben’s first chime echoing around the building.

  On the second chime, two doormen in full morning dress pulled open the great doors of the chamber to allow the new Lord Chancellor to enter the Upper House. He tried not to smile when he saw what a theater producer would have called a full house. In fact, several of his colleagues had had to stand in the aisles, while others sat on the steps of the throne.

  Their lordships stood as one as he entered the chamber and greeted him with loud cries of “Hear, hear!” and the traditional waving of order papers. Giles later told Freddie that his colleagues’ welcome was the greatest moment in his life.

  “Even better than escaping from the Germans?”

  “Just as terrifying,” Giles admitted.

  While the Bishop of Bristol conducted prayers, Giles glanced up at the Distinguished Strangers’ Gallery, to see his wife, son, and oldest friend looking down at him. They couldn’t hide the pride they felt.

  When the bishop had finally blessed his packed congregation, their lordships waited for the Lord Chancellor to take his place on the Woolsack for the first time, then resumed their seats once Giles had settled and arranged his robes. He couldn’t resist pausing for a moment before he nodded in the direction of the Rt. Hon. the Baroness Clifton, to indicate that she could rise to answer the first question on the order paper.

  Emma stood to address the House.

  “My lord chancellor,” she began. “I know the whole House will want to join me in congratulating you on your appointment, and to wish you many happy years presiding over the business of the House.”

  The cries of acclamation came from all sides of the chamber as Giles bowed to his sister.

  * * *

  Question number one.

  Emma turned to face the crossbenches.

  “I can assure the noble lord, Lord Preston, that the government is taking the threat of AIDS most seriously. My department has set aside one hundred million pounds for research into this terrible disease, and we are sharing our findings with eminent scientists and leading medical practitioners around the globe in the hope of identifying a cure as quickly as possible. Indeed, I should add that I am traveling to Washington next week, where I will be meeting with the Surgeon General, and I can assure the House that the subject of AIDS will be high on our agenda.”

  An elderly gentleman seated on the back row of the crossbenches stood to ask a supplementary question.

  “I am grateful for the minister’s reply, but may I ask how our hospitals are coping with the sudden influx of patients?”

  Giles sat back and listened with interest to the way his sister dealt with every question that was thrown at her, recalling his own time on the front bench. Although there was the occasional hesitation, she no longer needed to constantly check the brief prepared by her civil servants. He was equally impressed that she now had total command of the House, something some ministers never mastered.

  For the next forty minutes, Emma answered questions on subjects that ranged from cancer research funding, to assaults on A&E staff following football matches, to ambulance response times to emergency calls.

  Giles wondered if there was any truth in the rumors being whispered in the corridors that if the Conservatives won the next election, Margaret Thatcher would appoint her as leader of the House of Lords. Frankly, if that were to happen, he didn’t think any of his colleagues in the Upper House would be surprised. However, another rumor that had recently been echoing around the corridors of power was that a Tory backbencher was preparing to challenge Thatcher for the leadership of the party. Giles dismissed the idea as speculation, because although the lady’s methods were considered by some in her party to be draconian, even dictatorial, Giles couldn’t imagine that the Tories would even consider removing a sitting prime minister who had never lost an election.

  “I can only tell the noble lord,” said E
mma, when she stood to answer the final question on the order paper, “that my department will continue to sanction the sale of generic drugs, but not before they have undergone the most rigorous testing. It remains our aim to ensure that patients will not have to pay exorbitant prices to drug companies whose priority often seems to be profit, and not patients.”

  Emma sat down to loud “Hear, hear!”s, and when a Foreign Office minister rose to take her place in order to open a debate on the Falkland Islands, she gathered up her papers and hurried out of the chamber, as she did not wish to be late for her next appointment with the gay rights campaigner Ian McKellen, who she knew held strong views on how the government should be handling the AIDS crisis. She was looking forward to telling him how much she’d enjoyed his recent performance as Richard III at the National Theatre.

  As she left the chamber, she stumbled and dropped some papers, which a passing whip picked up and handed back to her. She thanked him, and was about to hurry on when a voice behind her called out, “Minister, I wonder if I might have a word with you?”

  Emma turned to see Lord Samuels, the president of the Royal College of Physicians, chasing after her. If she had made a blunder during question time, he wasn’t the kind of man who would have embarrassed her in the chamber. Not his style.

  “Of course, Lord Samuels. I hope I didn’t make some horrendous gaffe this afternoon?”

  “Certainly not,” said Samuels, giving her a warm smile. “It’s just that there is a subject I would like to discuss with you, and wondered if you could spare a moment.”

  “Of course,” repeated Emma. “I’ll ask my private secretary to give your office a call and arrange a meeting.”

  “I’m afraid the matter is more urgent than that, minister.”

  “Then perhaps you could join me in my office at eight tomorrow morning?”

  “I’d prefer to see you privately, away from the prying eyes of civil servants.”

  “Then I’ll come to you. Just tell me when and where.”

  “Eight o’clock tomorrow morning, in my consulting rooms at Forty-seven A Harley Street.”

  * * *

  Emma was well aware of the unpleasant and, some suggested, personal antagonism between the president of the Royal College of Physicians and the president of the Royal College of Surgeons, concerning the merger of Guy’s, St. Thomas’s, and King’s into one NHS trust. The physicians were in favor, the surgeons against. Both declaring, “Over my dead body.”