Jeffrey Archer - Mightier than the Sword

“I suppose you have to come up to the Commons fairly regularly,” said Jean Buchanan.

“Not that often actually,” said Griff. “We agents have a tendency to remain at the coal face, making sure the voters still love the member.” At that moment the dining room door opened, and all conversation stopped as he entered the room.

“No, no, please sit down, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” declared a broad Yorkshire accent that hadn’t been affected by several years as an Oxford don.

“How kind of you to join us, prime minister,” said Giles, leaping to his feet.

“Only too delighted,” said Harold Wilson. “It gave me an excuse to escape for a few minutes from a dinner with the executive of the National Union of Mineworkers. Mind you, Giles,” he added, looking around, “I wouldn’t be surprised if we were outnumbered by the Tories in this room. But not to worry, Griff will sort them out.” The prime minister leaned across the table and shook hands with Giles’s agent. “And who are these two delightful ladies?”

“My sisters, Emma and Grace,” said Giles.

“I bow before you both,” said the prime minister. “The first woman chairman of a public company, and the renowned English scholar.” Grace blushed. “And if I’m not mistaken,” he added, jabbing a finger across the table, “that’s Bob Bingham, the fish-paste king. My mother always had a jar of your paste on the table for what she called high tea.”

“And at Downing Street?” inquired Bob.

“We don’t do high tea at Downing Street,” said the prime minister, as he made his way slowly around the table, shaking hands and signing menus.

Giles was touched by how long the prime minister stayed, only leaving when a dutiful PPS reminded him that he was the guest of honor at the miners’ dinner where he was due to make a speech. Just before he left, he took Harry to one side and whispered, “Thank you for your help in Moscow, Mr. Clifton. Don’t think we’ve forgotten. And don’t give up on Babakov, because we haven’t.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Harry, and they all stood again as the prime minister left the room.

After they’d resumed their seats, Jean Buchanan said to Griff, “It must be such fun being an old friend of the PM.”

“I’ve only met him once before,” admitted Griff. “But like an elephant, he never forgets,” he added as Harry stood up, tapped the side of his wineglass with a spoon, and waited for silence.

“Fellow guests, I invite you to join me in a toast to my oldest and dearest friend. The man who introduced me to his sister, and is godfather to our son Sebastian. Will you rise and join me in a toast to the Right Honorable Sir Giles Barrington, Her Majesty’s first minister of state at the Foreign Office, and a man who still believes he should be the captain of the England cricket team.”

Harry waited for the laughter to die down before he added, “And we all hope Giles will retain his seat at the next election, and perhaps even fulfill his life’s ambition and become foreign secretary.”

Warm applause and cries of “Hear hear!” echoed around the room as Giles rose to respond.

“Thank you, Harry, and it’s wonderful to have not only my family, but my closest and dearest friends around me, who have come together for only one purpose, to remind me just how old I am. I’ve been blessed with a wonderful family and real friends, and surely any sensible man could wish for nothing more. However, many of you have been kind enough to ask me what I would like for my birthday.” Giles looked slowly around the table before saying, “To be prime minister, foreign secretary, and chancellor of the Exchequer all at the same time.” Laughter and applause broke out spontaneously before he added, “But for the moment, I’d be satisfied with holding on to Bristol Docklands at the next election.”

Applause, but no laughter this time.

“No, what I really want is for all of you here tonight, to prosper, and flourish—” Giles paused — “under a Labour government.”

The jeers drowned the cheers, proving the prime minister to be right about Giles being outnumbered by Tories at his own birthday party.

“So let me end by saying, if I don’t win, I shall sulk.” The laughter returned. “A wise man once told me that the secret of a great speech is timing...” Giles smiled and sat down, as everyone rose and gave him a standing ovation.

“So where are you off to next?” asked Emma as the waiters returned to serve the guests with coffee and After Eight mints.

“East Berlin, a meeting of foreign ministers,” replied her brother.

“Do you think they’ll ever tear down that barbaric wall?” asked Grace.

“Not as long as that stooge Ulbricht is in power and simply carries out the bidding of his masters in the Kremlin.”

“And closer to home,” said Emma, “when do you think the general election will be?”

“Harold wants to go in May, when he’s confident we can win.”

“I feel sure you’ll hold on to Bristol,” said Emma, “barring some accident. But I still think the Tories will scrape home with a small majority.”

“And you’ll remain loyal to the Labour Party?” Giles asked, turning to his younger sister.

“Of course,” said Grace.

“And you, Emma?”

“Not a chance.”

“Some things never change.”

Gwyneth groaned when the alarm went off, and didn’t bother to check what time it was. She had perfected the art of falling back to sleep within minutes of Giles leaving the room. He always took a shower the night before, and laid out the clothes he would need in his dressing room so he wouldn’t have to turn on the light and disturb her.

He glanced out of the window overlooking Smith Square. His car was already parked outside the front door. He didn’t like to think what hour his driver had to get up to be sure he was never late.

Once Giles had shaved and dressed, he went down to the kitchen, made himself a cup of black coffee, and devoured a bowl of cornflakes and fruit. Five minutes later he picked up his suitcase and headed for the front door. Gwyneth only ever asked him one question when he was going away: how many days? Two, he’d told her on this occasion, and she’d packed accordingly. He wouldn’t even have to check before he unpacked in Berlin, because he knew everything he needed would be there.

His first wife had been a whore, while his second turned out to be a virgin. Giles tried not to admit, even to himself, that he would have liked a subtle combination of both. Virginia in the bedroom, and Gwyneth everywhere else. He often wondered if other men had the same fantasies. Certainly not Harry, who was even more in love with Emma than he’d been on the day they married. Giles envied that relationship, although that was something else he would never admit, even to his closest friend.

“Good morning, Alf,” said Giles as he climbed into the back of the car.

“Good morning, minister,” replied his driver cheerily.

Alf had been Giles’s driver since the day he’d become a minister, and he was often a better source of information about what was happening in the real world than most of his Cabinet colleagues.

“So where are we off to today, sir?”

“East Berlin.”

“Rather you than me.”

“I know how you feel. Now, what have you got for me?”

“The election will be in June, probably the eighteenth.”

“But the press are still predicting May. Where are you getting your information?”

“Clarence, the PM’s driver, told me, didn’t he?”

“Then I’ll need to brief Griff immediately. Anything else?”

“The foreign secretary will announce this morning that he’ll be standing down from the cabinet after the election, whatever the result.”