The Ottawa night was crisp and cold, with clouding skies holding promise of snow before morning. The nation's capital – so the experts said – was in for a white Christmas.
In the rear of a black, chauffeur-driven Oldsmobile, Margaret Howden, wife of the Prime Minister of Canada, touched her husband's hand. 'Jamie,' she said, 'you look tired.'
The Right Honourable James McCallum Howden, PC, LLB, QC, MP, had closed his eyes, relaxing in the car's warmth. Now he opened them. 'Not really.' He hated to admit to tiredness at any time. 'Just unwinding a little. The past forty-eight hours…' He checked himself, glancing towards the chauffeur's broad back. The glass between was raised, but even so it paid to be cautious.
A light from outside touched the glass and he could see his own reflection: the heavy, hawklike face, eagle-beak nose and jutting chin.
Beside him, his wife said amusedly, 'Stop looking at yourself or you'll develop… what's that psychiatry thing?'
'Narcissism.' Her husband smiled, his heavy-lidded eyes crinkling. 'But I've had it for years. In politics it's an occupational norm.'
There was a pause, then they were serious again.
'Something's happened, hasn't it?' Margaret said softly. 'Something important.' She had turned towards him, her face troubled, and preoccupied as he was, he could perceive the classic shapeliness of her features. Margaret was still a lovely woman, he thought, and heads had always turned when they came into a room together.
'Yes,' he acknowledged. For an instant he was tempted to confide in Margaret; to tell her everything that had occurred so swiftly, beginning with the secret telephone call from the White House, coming across the border two days earlier; the second call this afternoon. Then he decided: this was not the time.
Beside him Margaret said, 'There have been so many things lately, and so few moments we've had alone.' 'I know.' He reached out and held her hand. As if the gesture had unleashed words held back: 'Is it worth it all? Haven't you done enough?' Margaret Howden spoke quickly, aware of the journey's shortness, knowing that it was a few minutes drive only between their own house and the Governor General's residence. In a minute or two more this moment of warmth and closeness would be gone. 'We've been married forty-two years, Jamie, and most of that time I've had just a part of you. There isn't all that much of life that's left.'
'It hasn't been easy for you, has it?' He spoke quietly, genuinely. Margaret's words had moved him.
'No; not always.' There was a note of uncertainty. It was an entangled subject, something they spoke of rarely.
'There will be time, I promise you. If other things…' He stopped, remembering the imponderables about the future which the past two days had brought.
'What other things?'
'There's one more task. Perhaps the biggest I've had.'
She withdrew her hand. 'Why does it have to be you?'
It was impossible to answer. Even to Margaret, privy to so many of his thoughts, he could never mouth his innermost conviction: because there is no one else; no other with my stature, with intellect and foresight to make the great decisions soon to come.
'Why you?' Margaret said again.
They had entered the grounds of Government House. Rubber crunched on gravel. In the darkness, parkland rolled away on either side.
Momentarily he had a sharp sense of guilt about his relationship with Margaret. She had always accepted political life loyally, even though never enjoying it as he did himself. But he had long sensed her hope that one day he would abandon politics so that they could become closer again, as in the early years.
On the other hand he had been a good husband. There had been no other woman in his life… except for the one occasion years before: the love affair that had begun, and had lasted almost a year until he had ended it resolutely, before his marriage could be imperilled. But sometimes guilt nudged him there… nervousness, too, that Margaret should ever learn the truth.
'We'll talk tonight,' he said placatingly. 'When we get back.'
The car stopped and the near-side door was opened. A Mountie in scarlet dress uniform saluted smartly as the Prime Minister and his wife alighted. James Howden smiled an acknowledgement, shook hands with the policeman, and introduced Margaret. It was the sort of thing Howden always did gracefully and without condescension. At the same time he was well aware that the Mountie would talk about the incident afterwards, and it was surprising how far the ripples could extend from a simple gesture of that kind.
As they entered Government House an aide-de-camp – a youngish lieutenant of the Royal Canadian Navy – stepped smartly forward. The aide's gold-trimmed dress uniform looked uncomfortably tight; probably, Howden thought, the result of too much time at a desk in Ottawa and too little at sea. Officers had to wait their turn for sea duty now that the Navy was just a token force – in some ways a joke, though a costly one for taxpayers.
They were led from the high pillared entrance hall up a rich red-carpeted marble stairway, through a wide, tapestried corridor and into the Long Drawing Room where small receptions such as tonight's were usually held. A big, elongated, shoe-box shaped room, high ceilinged, with crossbeams plastered over, it had the intimacy of a hotel lobby, though with rather more comfort. So far, however, the invitingly grouped chairs and settees, upholstered in soft shades of turquoise and daffodil yellow, were unoccupied, the sixty or so guests standing, chatting in informal knots. From above their heads, a full-length portrait of the Queen stared unsmilingly across the room at window draperies, now drawn, of rich gold brocade. At the far end, festooned lights on a decorated Christmas tree flashed on and off. The buzz of conversation lessened perceptibly as the Prime Minister and his wife entered, Margaret Howden in a ball gown of pale mauve lace, above the gown her shoulders bare.
Still preceding, the naval lieutenant led the way directly to a point near a blazing log fire where the Governor General had been receiving. The aide announced: 'The Prime Minister and Mrs Howden.'
His Excellency, the Right Honourable Air Marshal Sheldon Griffiths, VC, DFC, RCAF (retired). Her Majesty's Governor General in the Dominion of Canada, extended his hand. 'Good evening. Prime Minister.' Then, inclining his head courteously, 'Margaret.'
Margaret Howden curtsied expertly, her smile including Natalie Griffiths at her husband's side.
'Good evening. Your Excellency,' James Howden said. 'You're looking extremely well.'
The Governor General, silver-haired, ruddy, and militarily erect despite his years, was wearing faultless evening dress with a long impressive row of medals and decorations. He leaned forward confidentially. 'I feel as if my damn tailplane's burning up.' Gesturing to the fireplace. 'Now you're here, let's move away from this inferno.'
Together the four strolled through the room, the Governor General a courteous, friendly host.
'I saw your new Karsh portrait,' he told Melissa Tayne, serene and gracious wife of Dr Borden Tayne, the Health and Welfare Minister. 'It's very beautiful and almost does you justice.' Her husband, alongside, flushed with pleasure.
Next to them Daisy Cawston, lumpish, motherly, and not caring, burbled, 'I've been trying to persuade my husband to sit for Karsh, Your Excellency, at least while Stuart has some hair left.' Beside her, Stuart Cawston, Finance Minister, and known to friends and adversaries as 'Smiling Stu', grinned good-naturedly.
Soberly the Governor General inspected Cawston's rapidly balding scalp. 'Better take your wife's advice, old chap. Not much time left, I'd say.' His tone robbed the words of any offence and there was a chorus of laughter in which the Finance Minister joined.
Now, as the viceregal group moved on, James Howden dropped back. He caught the eye of Arthur Lexington, the External Affairs Minister, several groups away with his wife Susan, and nodded imperceptibly. Casually Lexington excused himself and strolled over- a short cherubic figure in his late fifties whose easy-going, avuncular ways concealed one of the sharpest minds in international politics.
'Good evening. Prime Minister,' Arthur Lexington said. Without changing his expression he lowered his voice. 'Everything's teed.'
'You've talked with Angry?' Howden asked crisply. His Excellency Phillip B. Angrove, 'Angry' to his friends, was the US Ambassador to Canada.
Lexington nodded. He said softly, 'Your meeting with the President is set for January second. Washington, of course. That gives us ten days.'
'We'll need all of it.'
'I know.'
'Have you discussed procedure?'
'Not in detail. There'll be a state banquet for you the first day – all the usual folderol – then the private meeting, just four of us, the following day. I suppose that's when we get down to business.'
'How about an announcement?'
Lexington nodded warningly, and the Prime Minister followed his eyes. A manservant was approaching with a tray of drinks. Among them was a single glass of grape juice, the latter a beverage which James Howden – a teetotaller – was believed to favour. Noncommittally he accepted the drink.
As the manservant left, Lexington sipping rye and water, Aaron Gold, Postmaster General and only Jewish member of the Cabinet, joined them. 'My feet are killing me,' he announced. 'Couldn't you drop a word to His Ex, Prime Minister – ask him for God's sake sit down, so the rest of us can get the weight off.'
'Never known you in a hurry to get off your feet, Aaron.' Arthur Lexington grinned. 'Not judging by your speeches.'
Stuart Cawston, nearby, had overheard. He called across:
'Why the tired feet, Aaron? Been delivering Christmas mail?'
'I should get humorists,' the Postmaster General said gloomily, 'when all I need is tenderness.'
'It was my understanding you had that already,' Howden said amusedly. The idiot counterpoint, he thought: comic dialogue on side-stage to Macbeth. Perhaps it was needed, though. The issues which had suddenly loomed ahead, touching the very existence of Canada, were formidable enough. How many in this room besides Lexington and himself had any idea… Now the others moved away.
Arthur Lexington said softly, 'I talked to Angry about an announcement of the meeting and he called the State Department again. They say the President has asked there be no announcement for the time being. Their thinking seems to be that coming so soon after the Russian note, there might be some obvious implications.'
'Can't see it'd do much harm,' Howden said, his hawklike features pensive. 'It'll have to be announced soon. But if that's what he wants…'
Around them conversation swirled as glasses clinked.'… I took off fourteen pounds, then discovered this heavenly bakery. Now it's all back…' '… explained I didn't see the red light because I was hurrying to meet my husband who's a cabinet minister…' '… I'll say this for Time; even the distortions are interesting…' '… Really, Toronto people nowadays are insufferable; they've a kind of cultural indigestion…' '… So I told him, if we want stupid liquor laws, that's our business; anyway, just try using the telephone in London…''… I think Tibetans are cute; there's a cave-man quality…''… Haven't you noticed, the departmental stores are billing faster? One time you could count on two extra weeks…' '… We should have stopped Hitler at the Rhine and Khrushchev in Budapest…' '… Make no mistake: if men had to be pregnant, there'd be a lot less – thank you, a gin and tonic.'
'When we do make the announcement,' Lexington said, his voice still lowered, 'we'll say the meeting is for trade talks.'
'Yes,' Howden agreed. 'I suppose that's best.'
'When will you tell the Cabinet?'
'I haven't decided. I thought perhaps the Defence Committee first. I'd like a few reactions.' Howden smiled dourly. 'Not everyone has your grasp of world affairs, Arthur.'
'Well, I suppose I get certain advantages.' Lexington paused, his homely face thoughtful, eyes questioning. 'Even so, the idea will take a lot of getting used to.'
'Yes,' James Howden said. 'I expect it will.'
The two moved apart, the Prime Minister rejoining the viceregal group. His Excellency was offering a quiet word of condolence to a cabinet member whose father had died the week before. Now, moving on, he congratulated smother whose daughter had won academic honours. The old man does it well, Howden thought – the right balance of affability and dignity; not too much of the one or the other.
James Howden found himself wondering just how long the cult of kings and queens and a royal representative would last in Canada. Eventually, of course, the country would cut itself loose from the British monarchy just as, years before, it had shed the yoke of rule by the British Parliament. The idea of royal occasions – quaint protocol, gilt coaches, court lackeys, and gold dinner services – was out of tune with the times, in North America especially. Already a good deal of ceremony associated with the throne seemed mildly funny, like a good-natured charade. When the day came, as it would, when people began to laugh out loud, then decay would have begun in earnest. Or perhaps, before that, some backstairs royal scandal would erupt and the crumbling come swiftly, in Britain as well as Canada.
The thought of royalty reminded him of a question he must raise tonight. The small entourage had paused, and now, easing the Governor General away from the others, Howden asked, 'It's next month, sir, I believe, that you leave for England.'
The 'sir' was strictly for effect. In private, the two men had used first names for years.
'The eighth,' the Governor General said. 'Natalie's coerced me into going by sea from New York. Fine damn thing for an ex-Chief of Air Staff, isn't it?'
'You'll be seeing Her Majesty in London, of course,' the Prime Minister said. 'When you do, I wonder if you'd raise the question of the state visit here we've suggested for March. I think perhaps a few words from you might help towards a favourable decision.'
The invitation to the Queen had been tendered several weeks earlier through the High Commissioner in London. It had been calculated – at least by James Howden and his senior party colleagues – as a manoeuvre before a late spring or early summer election, since a royal visit was usually a sure vote getter for the party in power. Now, with the developments of the past few days and the new vital issues which the country would soon know about, it was doubly important.
'Yes, I'd heard the invitation had gone.' The Governor General's tone held a hint of reservation. 'Rather short notice, I'd say. They seem to like at least a year's warning at Buck House.'
'I'm aware of that.' Howden felt a momentary annoyance that Griffiths should presume to instruct him on a subject he was fully familiar with. 'But sometimes these things can be arranged. I think it would be a good thing for the country, sir.'
Despite the 'sir' again, James Howden made it clear by inflection that he was issuing an order. And, he reflected, in some ways it would be close to that when received in London. The Court was fully conscious of Canada's position as the richest and most influential member of the shaky British Commonwealth, and if other commitments could be shuffled it was a virtual certainty that the Queen and her husband would come. Actually, he suspected the present delay in acceptance was probably merely for effect; but even so it was a precaution to use all the pressure he had.
'I'll pass on your sentiments. Prime Minister.'
'Thank you.' The exchange reminded Howden that he must begin to think about a successor to Sheldon Griffiths, whose twice-extended term of office was due to expire next year.
Across the hall from the Long Drawing Room a line had formed at the dining-room buffet. It was not surprising; the Government House chef, Alphonse Goubaux, was justly famed for his culinary -.skill. Once there had been a strong rumour ' that the US President's wife was trying to lure Chef Goubaux from Ottawa to Washington. Until the report was quashed there had been all the makings of an international incident.
Howden felt Margaret touch his arm, and they moved with the others. 'Natalie's boasting about the lobster in aspic; she claims it must be tasted to be believed.'
'Tell me when I bite on it, dear,' he said, and smiled. It was an old joke between them. James Howden took scant interest in food and, unless reminded, sometimes missed meals entirely. At other times he ate with his mind preoccupied, and occasionally in the past, when Margaret had prepared special delicacies, he had consumed them with no idea afterwards what he had eaten. Early in their married life Margaret had been moved to anger and tears by her husband's disinterest in cooking, which she loved, but had long since switched to amused resignation.
Glancing at the well-stocked buffet, where an attentive waiter held two plates in readiness, Howden observed, 'It looks impressive. What is it all?'
Pleased with the distinction of serving the Prime Minister, the waiter rattled off the name of each dish: beluga Malossol caviar, oysters Malpeque, pate maison, lobster aspic, Winnipeg smoked gold-eye, foie gras Mignonette, cold roast prime ribs, galantine of capon, hickory-smoked turkey, Virginia ham.
'Thank you,' Howden said. 'Just give me a little beef, well done, and some salad.'
As the man's face fell, Margaret whispered, 'Jamie!' and the Prime Minister added hastily, 'And also some of whatever it was my wife was recommending.'
As they turned from the table the naval aide reappeared. 'Excuse me, sir. His Excellency's compliments, and Miss Freedeman is telephoning you.'
Howden put down his untouched plate. 'Very well.'
'Must you go now, Jamie?' There was annoyance in Margaret's tone.
He nodded. 'Milly wouldn't call if it could wait.'
'The call is put through to the library, sir.' After bowing to Margaret the aide preceded him.
A few minutes later: 'Milly,' he said into the phone, 'I made a promise that this would be important.'
His personal secretary's soft contralto voice answered, 'It is, I think.'
Sometimes he liked to talk just for the sake of hearing Milly speak. He asked, 'Where are you?'
'At the office; I came back. Brian is here with me. That's why I called.'
He had an irrational flash of jealousy at the thought of Milly Freedeman alone with someone else… Milly who had shared with him, years before, the liaison he had remembered with a trace of guilt tonight. At the time their affair had been passionate and all-consuming, but when it ended, as he had known from the beginning it must, both had resumed their separate lives as if closing and locking a door between two rooms which continued to adjoin. Neither had ever spoken of that singular, special time again. But occasionally, as at this moment, the sight or sound of Milly could thrill him anew, as if he were once again young and eager, the years falling away… But afterwards, always, nervousness would supervene: the nervousness of one who – in public life – could not afford to have the chink in his armour penetrated.
'All right, Milly,' the Prime Minister instructed. 'Let me talk to Brian.'
There was a pause, and the sound of the telephone changing hands. Then a strong male voice declared crisply, 'There's been a press leak in Washington, chief. A Canadian reporter ' down there has found out you're expected in town to meet the Big Wheel. We need a statement out of Ottawa. Otherwise, if the news comes from Washington, it could look as if you're being sent for.'
Brian Richardson, the energetic forty-year-old director and national organizer of the party, seldom wasted words. His communications, spoken and written, still retained a flavour of the clear, crisp advertising copy he used to produce, first as a skilled copy-writer, then as a top-flight agency executive. Nowadays, though, advertising was something he delegated to others, his principal duty being to advise James McCallum Howden on day-to-day problems in retaining public favour for the Government. Howden inquired anxiously, 'There's been no leak about the subject matter?'
'No,' Richardson said. 'All the taps are tight on that. It's just the fact of the meeting.'
Appointed to his job soon after Howden's own accession to party leadership, Brian Richardson had already masterminded. two victorious election campaigns and other successes in between. Shrewd, resourceful, with an encyclopaedic mind and an organizing genius, he was one of the three or four men in the country whose calls were unquestioningly passed through the Prime Minister's private switchboard at any hour. He was also one of the most influential, and no government decision of a major nature was ever taken without his knowledge or advice. Unlike most of Howden's ministers, who as yet were unaware of the forthcoming Washington meeting, or its purport, Richardson had been told at once.
And yet, outside a limited circle, the name of Brian Richardson was almost unknown, and on the rare occasions his picture appeared in newspapers it was always discreetly – in the second or third row of a political group.
'Our arrangement with the White House was no announcement for a few days,' Howden said. 'And then it'll be a cover statement that the talks are about trade and fiscal policy.'
'Hell, chief, you can still have it that way,' Richardson said. 'The announcement will be a little sooner, that's all – like tomorrow morning.' 'What's the alternative?'
'Speculation all over the lot, including the subjects we want to avoid. What one joe found out today others can learn tomorrow.' The party director went on crisply. 'At the moment only one reporter has the story that you're planning a trip -Newton of the Toronto Express. He's a smart cookie, called his publisher first and the publisher called me.'
James Howden nodded. The Express was a strong government supporter, at times almost a party organ. There had been exchange of favours before.
'I can hold up the story for twelve, maybe fourteen hours,' Richardson continued. 'After that it's a risk. Can't External Affairs get off the pot with a statement by then?'
With his free hand the Prime Minister rubbed his long, birdlike nose. Then he said decisively, 'I'll tell them to.' The words would presage a busy night for Arthur Lexington and his senior officials. They would have to work through the US Embassy and with Washington, of course, but the White House would go along, once it was known that the Press was on to something; they were conditioned to that kind of situation down there. Besides, a plausible cover statement was as essential to the President as it was to himself. The real issues behind their meeting in ten days' time were too delicate for public chewing at this moment.
'While we're talking,' Richardson said, 'is there anything new on the Queen's visit?'
'No, but I talked to Shel Griffiths a few minutes ago. Hell see what he can do in London.'
'I hope it works.' The party director sounded doubtful. 'The old boy's always so damn correct. Did you tell him to give the lady a real hard push?'
'Not quite in those words.' Howden smiled. 'But that was the gist of my suggestion.'
A chuckle down the line. 'As long as she comes, anyway. It could help us a lot next year, what with all the other things.'
About to hang up, a thought occurred to Howden. 'Brian.'
'Yes.'
'Try to drop in over the holiday.'
'Thanks. I will.'
'How about your wife?'
Richardson answered cheerfully, 'I guess you'll have to settle for me solo.'
'I don't mean to pry.' James Howden hesitated, aware that Milly was hearing half the conversation. 'Are things no better?'
'Eloise and I live in a state of armed neutrality,' Richardson answered matter-of-factly. 'But it has advantages.'
Howden could guess the kind of advantages Richardson meant, and once more he had an irrational jealousy at the thought of the party director and Milly alone together. Aloud, he said, 'I'm sorry.'
'It's surprising what you can get used to,' Richardson said. 'At least Eloise and I know where we stand, and that's separately. Anything else, chief?'
'No,' Howden said, 'nothing else. I'll go and talk to Arthur now.'
He returned from the library to the Long Drawing Room, the hum of conversation moving out to meet him. The atmosphere was freer now; drinks and supper, which was almost over, had contributed to an air of relaxation. He avoided several groups whose members looked up expectantly as he passed, smiling and moving on.
Arthur Lexington was standing on the fringe of a laughing cluster of people watching the Finance Minister, Stuart Cawston, do minor conjuring tricks – a pastime with which, once in a while, he relieved the tedium during breaks in cabinet meetings. 'Watch this dollar,' Cawston was saying. 'I shall now make it disappear.'
'Hell!' someone said predictably, 'that's no trick; you do it all the time.' The Governor General, among the small audience, joined in the mild laughter.
The Prime Minister touched Lexington's arm and for the second time took the External Affairs Minister aside. He explained the purport of what the party director had said and the need for a press announcement before morning. Typically, Lexington asked no unnecessary questions. Nodding his agreement, 'I'll call at the embassy and talk to Angry,' he said, 'then start some of my own people working.' He chuckled. 'Always gives me a sense of importance to keep others out of bed.'
'Now then you two! No affairs of state tonight.' It was Natalie Griffiths. She touched their shoulders lightly.
Arthur Lexington turned, beaming. 'Not even an itsy-bitsy world crisis?'
'Not even that. Besides, I've a crisis in the kitchen. That's much more important.' The Governor General's wife moved towards her husband. She said in a distressed whisper, not meant to be overheard but carrying clearly to those nearby, 'Of all things, Sheldon, we've no cognac.'
'That's impossible!'
'Shush! I don't know how it happened, but it has.'
'We'll have to get an emergency supply.'
'Charles has phoned the air force mess. They're rushing some over.'
'My God!' There was a plaintiveness to His Excellency's voice. 'Can't we ever entertain without something going wrong?'
Arthur Lexington murmured, 'I suppose I must drink my coffee neat.' He glanced at the fresh glass of grape juice which a few minutes earlier had been brought to James Howden. 'You don't have to worry. They've probably got gallons of that.'
The Governor General was muttering angrily, 'I'll have someone's scalp for this.'
'Now, Sheldon' – still the whispers, host and hostess oblivious of their amused audience – 'it's just one of those things, and you know how careful one has to be with the help.'
'Blast the help!'
Natalie Griffiths said patiently, 'I thought you ought to know. But let me deal with it, dear.'
"Oh, very well.' His Excellency smiled – a mixture of resignation and affection – and together they returned to their original place by the fire.
'Sic (transit gloria. The voice which launched a thousand aeroplanes may not now rebuke the scullery maid.' It had been said with an edge and a shade too loudly. The Prime Minister frowned.
The speaker was Harvey Warrender, Minister of Citizenship and Immigration. He stood beside them now, a tall, pudgily built figure with thinning hair and a bass, booming voice. His manner was habitually didactic – a hangover, perhaps, from the years he had spent as a college professor, before entering politics.
'Steady, Harvey,' Arthur Lexington said. That's royalty you're treading on.'
'Sometimes,' Warrender responded, his voice lower, 'I resent reminders that brass hats invariably survive.'
There was an uncomfortable silence. The reference was well understood. The Warrenders' only son, a young air force officer, had been killed heroically in action during World War II. The father's pride in his son had been lasting, as had his grief;
Several replies to his remark about brass hats might easily have been made. The Governor General had fought bravely in two wars, and the Victoria Cross was not awarded lightly… Death and sacrifice in war observed no boundaries of rank or age…
It seemed best to say nothing.
'Well, on with the motley,' Arthur Lexington said brightly. 'Excuse me, Prime Minister; Harvey.' He nodded, then crossed the room to rejoin his wife.
'Why is it,' Warrender said, 'that to some people certain subjects arc embarrassing? Or is there a cut-off date for remembrance?'
'I think it's mainly a question of the time and place.' James Howden had no desire to pursue the subject. He sometimes wished he could dispense with Harvey Warrender as a member of the Government, but there were compelling reasons he could not.
Seeking to change the subject, the Prime Minister said, 'Harvey, I've been wanting to talk about your department.' He was remiss, he supposed, in using a social occasion for so much official business. But of late many subjects he should have dealt with at his desk had to stand aside for more urgent business. Immigration was one.
'Is it praise or blame you are about to tender me?' Harvey Warrender's question had a touch of belligerence. Plainly the drink he was holding was not his first.
Howden was reminded of a conversation a few days ago when he and the party director had been discussing current political problems. Brian Richardson had said: 'The Immigration Department has got us a consistently bad press, and unfortunately it's one of the few issues that electors can understand. You can fool around with tariffs and the bank rate all you want, and the votes it will affect are negligible. But let the papers get one picture of a mother and child being deported -like that case last month – and that's when the party needs to worry.'
Momentarily, Howden experienced a sense of anger at having to consider trivia when – particularly now – bigger and vital issues demanded so much of his mind. Then he reflected that the need to mix homely things with great affairs had always been a politician's lot. Often it was a key to power -never to lose sight of small events amid the big. And immigration was a subject which always disturbed him. It had so many facets, hedged around with political pitfalls as well as advantages. The difficult thing was to be certain which were which.
Canada was still a promised land for many, and likely to remain so; therefore any Government must handle its population inlet valves with extreme caution. Too many immigrants from one source, too few from another, could be sufficient to change the balance of power within a generation. In a way, the Prime Minister thought, we have our own apartheid policy, though fortunately the barriers of race and colour are set up discreetly and put into effect beyond our borders, in Canadian embassies and consulates overseas. And definite as they are, at home we can pretend they do not exist.
Some people in the country, he knew, wanted more immigration, others less. The 'more' group included idealists who would fling the doors wide open to all comers, and employers, who favoured a bigger labour force. Opposition to immigration usually came from labour unions, given to crying 'unemployment' each time immigration was discussed, and failing to recognize that unemployment, in some degree at least, was a necessary economic fact of life. On this side also were the Anglo-Saxon and Protestant segments – in surprising numbers – who objected to 'too many-foreigners', particularly if the immigrants happened to be Catholic. Often it was necessary for the Government to walk a tightrope to avoid alienating one side or the other.
He decided this was a moment to be blunt. 'Your department has been getting a bad press, Harvey, and I think a good deal of it is your own fault. I want you to take a tighter hold of things and stop letting your officials have so much of their own way. Replace a few if you have to, even the top; we can't fire civil servants but we've plenty of shelves to put them on. And for God's sake keep those controversial immigration cases out of the papers! The one last month, for example – the woman and child.'
'That woman had been running a brothel in Hong Kong,' Harvey Warrender said. 'And she had VD.'
'Perhaps that isn't a good example. But there've been plenty of others, and when these sensitive cases come up you make the Government look like some heartless ogre, which harms us all.'
The Prime Minister had spoken quietly but intensely, his strong eyes riveting the other man.
'Obviously,' Warrender said, 'my question is answered. Praise is not the order of the day.'
James Howden said sharply, 'It isn't a question of praise or blame. It's a matter of good political judgement.'
'And your political judgement has always been better than mine, Jim. Isn't that so?' Warrender's eyes squinted upward. 'Otherwise I might be leader of the party instead of you.'
Howden made no reply. The liquor in the other man was obviously taking hold. Now Warrender said, 'What my officials are doing is administering the law as it stands. I happen to think they're performing a good job. If you don't like it, why don't we get together and amend the Immigration Act?'
He had made a mistake, the Prime Minister decided, in choosing this time and place to talk. Seeking to end the conversation, he said, 'We can't do that. There's too much else in our legislative programme.'
'Balls!'
It was like a whipcrack in the room. There was a second's silence. Heads turned. The Prime Minister saw the Governor General glance in their direction. Then conversation resumed, but Howden could sense that others were listening.
'You're afraid of immigration,' Warrender said. 'We're all afraid – the way every other Government has been. That's why we won't admit a few things honestly, even among ourselves.'
Stuart Cawston, who had finished his conjuring tricks a moment or two earlier, strolled with seeming casualness to join them. 'Harvey,' the Finance Minister said cheerfully, 'you're making an ass of yourself.'
'Take care of him, Stu,' the Prime Minister said. He could feel his anger growing; if he continued to handle this himself there was a danger he would lose his temper, always volatile, which could only make the situation worse. Moving away, he joined Margaret and another group.
But he could still hear Warrender, this time addressing Cawston.
'When it comes to immigration I tell you we Canadians are a bunch of hypocrites. Our immigration policy – the policy that I administer, my friends – has to say one thing and mean another.'
'Tell me later,' Stuart Cawston said. He was still trying to smile, but barely succeeding.
'I'll tell you now!' Harvey Warrender had gripped the Finance Minister's arm firmly. 'There are two things this country needs if it's to go on expanding and everybody in this room knows it. One is a good big pool of unemployed for industry to draw on, and the other is a continued Anglo-Saxon majority. But do we ever admit it in public? No!'
The Minister of Citizenship and Immigration paused, glared around him, then ploughed on. 'Both those things need carefully balanced immigration. We have to let immigrants come in, because when industry expands the manpower should be ready and waiting – not next week, or next month, or next year, but at the moment the factories need it. But open the gates of immigration too wide or too often, or both, and what happens? The population goes-out of balance. And it wouldn't take too many generations of those kind of mistakes before you'd have the House of Commons debating in Italian and a Chinaman running Government House.'
This time there were several comments of disapproval from the other guests to whom Warrender's voice had become increasingly audible. Moreover the Governor General had quite plainly heard the last remark and the Prime Minister saw him beckon an aide. Harvey Warrender's wife, a pale, fragile woman, had moved uncertainly towards her husband and taken his arm. But he ignored her.
Dr Borden Tayne, the Health and Welfare Minister and a former college boxing champion who towered above them all, said in a stage whisper, 'For Christ's sake, knock it off!' He had joined Cawston at Warrender's side. A voice murmured urgently, 'Get him out of here!' Another answered, 'He can't go. Nobody can leave until the Governor General does.' Unabashed, Harvey Warrender was continuing. 'When you're talking about immigration,' he declared loudly, 'I tell you the public wants sentiment, not facts. Facts are uncomfortable. People like to think of their country as holding the door open for the poor and suffering. It makes them feel noble. Only thing is, they'd just as soon the poor and suffering keep well out of sight when they get here, and not track lice in the suburbs or muddy up the prissy new churches. No siree, the public in this country doesn't want wide-open immigration. What's more, it knows the Government will never allow it, so there's no real risk in hollering for it. That way, everybody can be righteous and safe at the same time.'. In a separate compartment of his mind the Prime Minister acknowledged that everything Harvey had said made sound sense but impractical politics.
'What started all this?' one of the women asked.
Harvey Warrender heard the remark and answered. 'It started because I was told to change the way I'm running my department. But I'd remind you I'm enforcing the Immigration Act – the law.' He looked at the phalanx of male figures around him. 'And I'll go on enforcing the law until you bastards agree to change it.'
Somebody said, 'Perhaps you won't have a department tomorrow, chum.'
One of the aides – an air force flight lieutenant this time -appeared at the Prime Minister's side. He announced quietly, 'His Excellency asked me to tell you, sir, that he is withdrawing.'
James Howden glanced towards the outer doorway. The Governor General was smilingly shaking hands with a few of the guests. With Margaret beside him, the Prime Minister moved across. The others melted away.
'I hope you won't mind our retiring early,' the Governor General said. 'Natalie and I are a little tired.'
'I do apologize,' Howden began.
'Don't, my dear fellow. Best if I don't see anything.' The Governor General smiled warmly. 'A most happy Christmas to you, Prime Minister. And to you, Margaret dear.'
With quiet, firm dignity, preceded by an aide as the women guests curtsied and their husbands bowed, their Excellencies withdrew.
In the car returning from Government House, Margaret asked, 'After what happened tonight, won't Harvey Warrender have to resign?'
'I don't know, dear,' James Howden said thoughtfully. 'He may not want to.'
'Can't you force him?'
He wondered what Margaret would say if he answered truthfully:
No, I can't force Harvey Warrender to resign. And the reason is that somewhere in this city – in a safety deposit box, perhaps – there is a scrap of paper with some handwriting -my own. And if produced and made public, it might just as well be an obituary – or a suicide note from James McCallum Howden.
Instead he answered, 'Harvey has a big following in the party, you know.'
'But surely a following wouldn't excuse what happened tonight.'
He made no answer.
He had never told Margaret about the convention, about the deal that he and Harvey had made nine years ago over the party leadership; the hard-driven deal, with the two of them alone in the small theatrical dressing-room while outside in the big Toronto auditorium their rival factions cheered, awaiting the balloting which had been unaccountably delayed – unaccountably, that is, except to the two chief opponents dealing their cards, face up, behind the scenes.
Nine years. James Howden's thoughts went back…
… They would win the next election. Everyone in the party knew it. There was eagerness, a smell of victory, a sense of things to come.
The party had convened to elect a new leader. It was a virtual certainty that whoever was elected would become Prime Minister within a year. It was a prize and an opportunity which James McCallum Howden had dreamed of all his political life.
The choice lay between himself and Harvey Warrender. Warrender led the party's intellectuals. He had strong support among the rank and file. James Howden was a middle-of-the-roader. Their strength was approximately equal.
Outside in the meeting hall there was noise and cheering.
'I'm willing to withdraw,' Harvey said. 'On terms'
James Howden asked, 'What terms?'
'First – a cabinet post of my own choosing, for as long as we're in power.'
'You can have anything except External Affairs or Health.'
Howden had no intention of creating an ogre to compete with himself. External Affairs could keep a man permanently in the headlines. The Health Department disbursed family allowances to the populace and its minister rode high in public favour.
'I'd accept that,' Harvey Warrender said, 'providing you agree to the other.'
The delegates outside were getting restless. Through the closed door they could hear feet stomping, impatient shouts.
'Tell me your second condition,' Howden said.
'When we're in office,' Harvey said slowly, 'there'll be a lot of changes. Take television. The country's growing and there's room for more stations. We've already said we'll organize the Board of Broadcast Governors. We can load it with our own people, and a few others who'll go along.' He stopped.
'Go on,' Howden said.
'I want the TV franchise for-' He named a city – the country's most prosperous industrial centre. 'In my nephew's name.'
James Howden whistled softly. If it were done, it would be patronage on a grand scale. The TV franchise was a plum of plums. Already there were many favour seekers – big money interests among them – jostling in line.
'It's worth two million dollars,' Howden said.
'I know.' Harvey Warrender seemed a little flushed. 'But I'm thinking of my old age. They don't pay college professors a fortune, and I've never saved any money in politics.'
'If it were traced back…'
'It won't be traceable,' Harvey said. 'I'll see to that. My name won't appear anywhere. They can suspect all they want, but it won't be traceable.'
Howden shook his head in doubt. Outside there was another burst of noise – catcalls now, and some ironic singing.
'I'll make you a promise, Jim,' Harvey Warrender said. 'H I go down – for this or anything else – I'll take the blame alone and I won't involve you. But if you fire me, or fail to support me on an honest issue, I'll take you too.'
'You couldn't prove…'
'I want it in writing,' Harvey said. He gestured towards the hall. 'Before we go out there. Otherwise we'll let it go to a vote.'
It would be a close thing. They both knew it. James How-den envisaged the cup he had coveted slipping away.
'I'll do it,' he said. 'Give me something to write on.'
Harvey had passed him a convention programme and he had scribbled the words on the back – words which would destroy him utterly if they were ever used.
'Don't worry,' Harvey said, pocketing the card. 'It will be safe. And when we're both out of politics I'll give it back to you.'
They had gone outside then – Harvey Warrender to make a speech renouncing the leadership – one of the finest of his political life – and James Howden to be elected, cheered, and chaired through the hall…
The bargain struck had been kept on both sides even though, over the years, as James Howden's prestige had risen, Harvey Warrender's had steadily declined. Nowadays it was hard to remember that Warrender had once been a serious contender for the party leadership; certainly he was nowhere in line of succession now. But that sort of thing happened so often in politics; once a man was eclipsed in a contest for power, his stature, it seemed, grew less as time went on.
Their car had turned out of Government House grounds, heading west towards the Prime Minister's residence at 24 Sussex Drive.
'I've sometimes thought,' Margaret said half to herself, 'that Harvey Warrender is just a little mad.'
That was the trouble, Howden thought; Harvey was a little mad. That was why there was no assurance that he might not produce that hastily written agreement of nine years earlier even though, in doing so, he would destroy himself.
What were Harvey's own feelings about that long-ago deal, Howden wondered. As far as he knew, Harvey Warrender had always been honest in politics until that time. Since then, Harvey's nephew had had his TV franchise and, if rumour Were true, had made a fortune. So had Harvey, presumably; his standard of living now was far beyond the means of a cabinet minister, though fortunately he had been discreet and not indulged in sudden changes.
At the time the franchise was awarded there had been plenty of criticism and innuendo. But nothing had ever been proven and the Howden government, newly elected with a big majority in the House of Commons, had steam-rollered its critics, and eventually – as he had known from the first would happen – people had grown tired of the subject and it dropped out of sight.
But was Harvey remembering? And suffering a little, with a stirring of uneasy conscience? And trying, perhaps, in some warped and twisted way to make amends?
There had been a strange thing about Harvey lately – an almost obsessive concern with doing the 'right' thing and hewing to the line of law, even in trifling ways. On several occasions recently there had been argument at Cabinet – Harvey objecting because some proposed action had overtones of political expediency; Harvey arguing that every fine-print clause in every law must be scrupulously observed. When that happened James Howden had thought little about the incidents, dismissing them as passing eccentricity. But now, remembering Harvey's alcoholic insistence tonight that immigration law must be administered exactly as laid down, he began to wonder.
'Jamie, dear,' Margaret said, 'Harvey Warrender doesn't have some hold over you, does he?'
'Of course not!' Then, wondering if he had been a shade too emphatic, 'It's just that I don't want to be rushed into a hasty decision. We'll see what reaction there is tomorrow. After all, it was just our own people who were there.'
He felt Margaret's eyes upon him and wondered if she knew that he had lied.
They entered the big stone mansion – official residence of Prime Minister for his term of office – by the awning-shielded main front door. Inside, Yarrow, the steward, vast them and took their coats. He announced, 'The American Ambassador has been trying to reach you, sir. The embassy called twice and stated the matter was urgent.'
James Howden nodded. Probably Washington had learned of the press leak too. If so, it would make Arthur Lexington's assignment that much easier. 'Wait for five minutes,' he instructed, 'then let the switchboard know that I'm home.'
'We'll have coffee in the drawing-room, Mr Yarrow,' Margaret said. 'And some sandwiches, please, for Mr Howden; he missed the buffet.' She stopped in the main-hall powder-room to arrange her hair.
James Howden had gone ahead, through the series of hallways to the third hall, with its big french doors overlooking the river and the Gatineau Hills beyond. It was a sight which always enraptured him and even at night, oriented by distant pin-point lights, he could visualize it: the wide wind-flecked Ottawa River; the same river which the adventurer Etienne Brule had navigated three centuries and a half before; and afterwards Champlain; and later the missionaries and traders, plying their legendary route westward to the Great Lakes and the fur-rich North. And beyond the river lay the distant Quebec shoreline, storied and historic, witness to many changes: much that had come, and much that would one day end.
In Ottawa, James Howden always thought, it was difficult not to have a sense of history. Especially now that the city -once beautiful and then commercially despoiled – was fast becoming green again: tree-thronged and laced with manicured parkways, thanks to the National Capital Commission. True the government buildings were largely characterless, bearing the stamp of what a critic had called 'the limp hand of bureaucratic art'. But even so there was a natural ruggedness about them, and given time, with natural beauty restored, Ottawa might one day equal Washington as a capital and perhaps surpass it.
Behind him beneath the wide, curved staircase, one of two gilt telephones on an Adam side table chimed softly twice. It was the American Ambassador.
'Hullo, Angry,' James Howden said. 'I hear that your people let the cat out.'
The Hon Phillip Angrove's Bostonian drawl came back. 'I know. Prime Minister, and I'm damned apologetic. Fortunately, though, it's only the cat's head and we still have a firm grip on the body.'
Tm relieved to hear it,' Howden said. 'But we must have a joint statement, you know. Arthur's on his way…'
'He's right here with me now,' the ambassador rejoined. 'As soon as we've downed a couple we'll get on with it, sir. Do you want to approve the statement yourself?'
'No,' Howden said. 'I'll leave it to you and Arthur.'
They talked for a few minutes more, then the Prime Minister replaced the gilt telephone.
Margaret had gone ahead into the big comfortable living-room with its chintz-covered sofas. Empire armchairs, and muted grey drapes. A log fire was burning brightly. She had put on a Kostelanetz recording of Tchaikovsky which played softly. It was the Howdens' favourite kind of music; the heavier classics seldom appealed to them. A few minutes later a maid brought in coffee with a piled plate of sandwiches. At a gesture from Margaret the girl offered the sandwiches to Howden and he took one absently.
When the maid had gone he untied his white tie, loosened the stiff collar, then joined Margaret by the fire. He sank gratefully into a deep overstuffed chair, hooked a footstool nearer, and lifted both feet on to it. With a deep sigh: 'This is the life,' he said. 'You, me… no one else…' He lowered his chin and out of habit stroked the tip of his nose.
Margaret smiled faintly. 'We should try it more often, Jamie.'
'We will; we really will,' he said earnestly. Then, his tone changing, 'I've some news. We'll be going to Washington quite soon. I thought you'd like to know.'
Pouring from a Sheffield coffee service his wife looked up. 'It's rather sudden, isn't it?'
'Yes,' he answered. 'But some pretty important things have come up. I have to talk with the President.'
'Well,' Margaret said, 'fortunately I've a new dress.' She paused thoughtfully. 'Now I must buy some shoes and I'll need a matching bag; gloves too.' A worried look crossed her face. 'There'll be time, won't there?'
'Just about,' he said, then laughed at the incongruity.
Margaret said decisively, 'I'll go to Montreal for a day's shopping right after the holiday. You can always get so much more there than in Ottawa. By the way, how are we for money?'
He frowned, 'It isn't too good; we're overdrawn at the bank. We shall have to cash some more bonds, I expect.'
'Again?' Margaret seemed worried. 'We haven't many left.'
'No. But you go ahead.' He regarded his wife affectionately. 'One shopping trip won't make all that difference.'
'Well… if you're sure.'
'I'm sure.'
But the only thing he was really sure of, Howden thought, was that no one would sue the Prime Minister for slow payment. Shortage of money for their personal needs was a constant source of worry. The Howdens had no private means beyond modest savings from his time in law practice, and it was characteristic of Canada – a national small-mindedness persisting in many places – that the country paid its leaders meanly.
There was biting irony, Howden had often thought, in the fact that a Canadian Prime Minister, guiding his nation's destiny, received less in salary and allowances than a US congressman. He had no official car, providing his own from an inadequate allowance, and even provision of a house was something comparatively new. As recently as 1950 the then Prime Minister, Louis St Laurent, had been obliged to live in a two-room apartment, so small that Madame St Laurent had stored the family preserves under her bed. Moreover, after a lifetime of parliamentary service, the most an ex-Prime Minister could expect to receive on retirement was three thousand dollars a year from a contributory pension scheme. One result for the nation in the past had been that Prime Ministers tended to ding to office in old age. Others retired to penury and the charity of friends. Cabinet Ministers and MPs fared even less well. It's a remarkable thing, Howden thought, that so many of us stay honest. In a remote way he sympathized a little with
Harvey Warrender for what he had done.
'You'd have done better to marry a businessman,' he told Margaret. 'Second vice presidents have more cash for spending.'
'I suppose there've been other compensations.' Margaret smiled. Thank God, he thought, we have had a good marriage.'
Political life could bleed you of so many things in return for power – sentiment, illusions, integrity even – and without the warmth of a woman close to him a man could become a hollow shell. He brushed aside the thought of Milly Freedeman, though with a sense of nervousness he had experienced earlier on.
'I was thinking the other day,' he said, 'about that time your father found us. Do you remember?'
'Of course. Women always remember those things. I thought it was you who'd forgotten.'
It had been forty-two years before in the western foothills city of Medicine Hat, himself twenty-two – the product of an orphanage school and now a new-hatched lawyer without clients or immediate prospects. Margaret had been eighteen, the eldest of seven girls, all daughters of a cattle auctioneer who, outside his work, was a dour, uncommunicative man. By the standards of those days Margaret's family had been well-to-do, compared with James Howden's penury at the end of his schooling.
On a Sunday evening before church the two of them had somehow secured the parlour to themselves. They were embracing with mounting passion, and Margaret partly in dishabille when her father had entered in search of his prayer book. He had made no comment at the time beyond a muttered 'Excuse me', but later in the evening, at the head of the family supper table, had looked sternly down its length and addressed James Howden.
'Young man,' he had said, his large placid wife and the other daughters watching interestedly, 'in my line of work when a man spreads his fingers around an udder, it indicates a more than passing interest in the cow.'
'Sir,' James Howden had said, with the aplomb which was to serve him well in later years, 'I would like to marry your eldest daughter.'
The auctioneer's hand had slammed upon the loaded supper table. 'Gone!' Then, with unusual verbosity and glancing down the table, 'One down, by the Lord Harry! and six to go.'
They had been married several weeks later. Afterwards it had been the auctioneer, now long dead, who had helped his son-in-law first to establish a law practice and later to enter politics.
There had been children, though he and Margaret rarely saw them nowadays, with the two girls married and in England, and their youngest, James McCallum Howden, Jr, heading an oil-drilling team in the Far East. But the influence of having had children lasted, and that was important.
The fire had burned low and he threw on a fresh birch log. The bark caught with a crackle and burst into flame. Sitting beside Margaret he watched the flames engulf the log.
Margaret asked quietly, 'What will you and the President be talking about?'
'There'll be an announcement in the morning. It'll say talks on trade and fiscal policy.'
'But is it really about that?' 'No,' he said, 'it isn't', 'What, then?'
He had trusted Margaret before with information about government business. A man – any man – had to have someone he could confide in.
'It'll be mostly about defence. There's a new world crisis coming and before it does, the United States may be taking over a lot of things which, until now, we've done for ourselves.'
'Military things?' He nodded.
Margaret said slowly, 'Then they'd be in control of our Army… all the rest?'
'Yes, dear,' he said, 'it looks as if they may.'
His wife's forehead creased in concentration. 'H it happened, Canada couldn't have its own foreign policy any more, could we?'
'Not very effectively, I'm afraid.' He sighed. 'We've been moving towards this – for a long time.'
There was a silence, then Margaret asked: 'Will it mean the end of us, Jamie – as an independent country?'
'Not while I'm Prime Minister,' he answered firmly. 'And not if I can plan the way I want.' His voice sharpened as conviction took hold. 'If our negotiations with Washington are handled properly; if the right decisions are made over the next year or two; if we're strong ourselves, but realistic; if there's foresight and integrity on both sides; if there's all of that, then it can be a new beginning. In the end we can be stronger, not weaker. We can amount to more in the world, not less.' He felt Margaret's hand on his arm and laughed. 'I'm sorry; was I making a speech?'
'You were beginning to. Do eat another sandwich, Jamie. More coffee?' He nodded.
Pouring, Margaret said quietly, 'Do you really think there's going to be a war?'
Before answering he stretched his long body, eased more comfortably in the chair, and crossed his feet on the footstool. 'Yes,' he said quietly, 'I'm sure there will be. But I think there's a good chance it can be delayed a little longer – a year, two years, perhaps even three.'
'Why does it have to be that way?' For the first time there was emotion in his wife's voice. 'Especially now, when everyone knows it means annihilation for the whole world.'
'No,' James Howden said, speaking slowly, 'it doesn't have to mean annihilation. That's current fallacy.'
There was a silence between them, then he went on, choosing his words with care. 'You understand, dear, that outside this room, if I were asked the question you just put to me, my answer would have to be no? I would have to say that war is not inevitable, because each time you admit the inevitability it's like adding an extra little squeeze to a trigger that's already cocked.',- '
Margaret had put the coffee cup in front of him. Now she said, 'Then surely it's better not to admit it – even to yourself. Isn't it best to keep on hoping?'
'If I were just an ordinary citizen,' her husband answered, 'I think I'd delude myself that way. I suppose it wouldn't be hard to do – without a knowledge of what was going on at the heart of things. But a head of government can't afford the luxury of delusion; not if he's to serve the people who've trusted him – as be should.'
He stirred his coffee, sipped without tasting, then put it down.
'War is inevitable sooner or later,' James Howden said slowly, 'because it's always been inevitable. It always will be, too, just as long as human beings are capable of quarrelling and anger, no matter over what. You see, any war is just a little man's quarrel magnified a million times. And to abolish war you'd need to abolish every last vestige of human vanity, envy, and unkindness. It can't be done.'
'But if all that's true,' Margaret protested, 'then there's nothing worth while, nothing at all.'
Her husband shook his head. 'That isn't so. Survival is worth while, because survival means living, and living is an adventure.' He turned, eyes searching his wife's face. 'It's been an adventure with us. You wouldn't want to change it?'
'No,' Margaret Howden said, 'I don't suppose I would.'
His voice was stronger now. 'Oh, I know what's said about a nuclear war – that it would wipe out everything and extinguish all life. But when you think of it, there have been forecasts of doom about every weapon from the breech-loading cannon to the aeroplane bomb. Did you know that when the machine gun was invented somebody calculated that two hundred machine guns firing for a thousand days would kill the whole world's population?'
Margaret shook her head. Howden went on, not pausing.
'The human race has survived other perils that logically it shouldn't have: the Ice Age and the Flood are two that we know of. A nuclear war would be a mess and, if I could, I suppose I'd give my life to prevent it. But every war is a mess, though none of us dies more than once, and maybe it would be an easier way to go than some of the older means – like an arrow through the eye or being nailed to a cross.
'We'd set civilization back, though. No one can argue that›› and maybe we'd be in the Dark Ages again, if there's a darker one than this. We'd lose the knack of a lot of living, I expect -including how to explode atoms, which might not be a bad thing for a while.
'But annihilation, no! I won't believe in it! Something will survive, come crawling from the ruins, and try again. And that's the worst way it could be, Margaret. I believe that our side – the free part of the world – can do better. If we do the right things now and use the time we have.'
With the last words James Howden had risen. He crossed the room and turned. Looking at him, Margaret said softly, 'You're going to use it, aren't you – the time we have left?'
'Yes,' he said, 'I am.' His expression softened. 'Perhaps I shouldn't have told you all this. Has it upset you very much?'
'It's made me sad. The world, mankind – whatever name you give to it – we have so much and we're going to squander it all.' A pause, then gently: 'But you wanted to tell someone.'
He nodded. 'There aren't many people I can talk with freely.'
'Then I'm glad you told me.' Out of habit, Margaret moved the coffee things together. 'It's getting late. Don't you think we should go up?'
He shook his head. 'Not yet. But you go: I'll follow later.'
Partway to the door Margaret paused. On a Sheraton games table was a pile of papers and press clippings sent over from Howden's parliamentary office earlier in the day. She picked up a slim booklet, turning it over.
'You don't really read this sort of thing, Jamie, do you?' There was a title on the cover – Stargazer. Around it were the zodiac signs of astrology.
'Good God, no!' Her husband coloured slightly. 'Well, occasionally I glance at it – just for amusement.'
'But the old lady who used to send these to you – she died, didn't she?'
'I expect someone keeps on sending them.' Howden's voice had a trace of irritability. 'It's hard to get off any mailing list once you're on.'
'But this is a subscription copy,' Margaret persisted. 'Look – it's been renewed; you can tell from the date on the label.'
'Really, Margaret, how do -I know how and when and where it's been renewed? Have you any idea how much mail comes addressed to me in the course of a day? I don't check it all. I don't even see it all. Maybe this is something which someone in the office did without telling me. If it bothers you I'll have it stopped tomorrow.'
Margaret said calmly, 'There's no need to be testy, and it doesn't bother me. I was just curious, and even if you do read it, why make such a fuss? Perhaps it'll tell you how to deal with Harvey Warrender.' She put the book down. 'You're sure you won't come to bed now?'
'I'm sure. I've a lot of planning to do, and not much time.' It was an old experience. 'Goodnight, dear,' she said. Climbing the broad, curving staircase, Margaret wondered how many times in her married life she had spent solitary evenings or gone to bed this way, alone. It was as well, perhaps, that she had never counted them. In recent years, especially, it had become a pattern for James Howden to stay up late, brooding on politics or affairs of state, and usually when he came to bed Margaret was asleep and seldom awoke. It was not the sexual intimacies of bed she missed, she told herself with feminine frankness; those, in any case, had become channelled and organized years before. But companionship at close of day was a warmth a woman cherished. There have been good things about our marriage, Margaret thought, but there has been aloneness too.
The talk of war had left her with a sense of unaccustomed sadness. Inevitability of war, she supposed, was something which men accepted but women never would. Men made war; not women, save with small exceptions. Why? Was it because women were born to pain and suffering, but men must make their own? Suddenly she had a yearning for her children; not to comfort them, but to be comforted. Tears filled her eyes and a temptation seized her to return downstairs; to ask that for just one night, at the hour of sleep, she need not be alone.
Then she told herself: I'm being silly. "Jamie would be kind, but he would never understand.
Briefly after his wife's departure James Howden remained before the fire – a glowing red, the earlier flames diminished -allowing his thoughts to drift along. What Margaret had said was true; talking had been a relief, and some of the things said tonight had been spoken aloud for the first time. But now he must make specific plans, not only for the Washington talks, but for his approach to the country afterwards.
The first essential, of course, was to retain power for himself; it was as if destiny beckoned him. But would others see it the same way? He hoped they would, but it was best to be sure. That was why, even at this time, he must chart a careful, guarded course in domestic policies. For the country's sake, an election victory for his own party in the next few months was vital.
As if in relief for a switch to smaller issues, his mind returned to the incident tonight involving Harvey Warrender. It was the kind of thing which must not occur again. He must have a showdown with Harvey, he decided, preferably tomorrow. One thing he was determined about – there would be no more embarrassment for the Government from the Department of Citizenship and Immigration.
The music had stopped and he crossed to the hi-fi to put on another record. He chose a Mantovani selection called 'Gems Forever'. On the way back he picked up the magazine which Margaret had commented on.
What he had told Margaret had been perfectly true. There was a mass of mail that came into his office and this was a trifling fragment only. Of course, many papers and magazines never reached him, except when there was some reference to himself, or a photograph. But for years now Milly Freedeman had put this particular one among a small selection. He was not aware that he had ever asked her to, but neither had he objected. He supposed, too, that Milly had automatically renewed the subscription whenever it ran out.
Naturally, the whole subject was nonsense – astrology, the occult, and its associated hocus-pocus – but it was interesting to see how gullible others could be. That was solely the basis for his own interest, though it had seemed difficult, somehow, to explain to Margaret.
It had started years before in Medicine Hat when he was becoming established in law and just beginning a political career. He had accepted a free legal-aid case, one of a good many he handled in those days, and the accused had been a white-haired, motherly woman charged with shoplifting. She was so obviously guilty and had a long record of similar offences that there seemed nothing to do but admit the facts and plead for leniency. But the old lady, a Mrs Ada Zeeder, had argued otherwise, her main concern being that the court hearing should be postponed for a week. He had asked why.
She had told him, 'Because the magistrate won't convict me then, silly.' Pressed further, she explained, 'I'm a child born under Sagittarius, dear. Next week is a strong week for all Sagittarians. You'll see.'
To humour the old woman he had had the case stood over and later entered a plea of not guilty. To his great surprise, and following the flimsiest of defences, a normally tough magistrate had dismissed the charge.
After that day in court he had never seen old Mrs Zeeder again, but for years until her death she had written him regularly with advice about his career based on the fact that he, too, she had discovered, was a child of Sagittarius. He had read the letters but paid scant attention, except amusedly, though once or twice had been startled by predictions which seemed to have come true. Later still, the old woman had entered a subscription in his name to the astrology magazine and when her letters finally stopped the copies continued to" come.
Casually he opened the pages to a section headed 'Your Individual Horoscope – December 15th to 30th'. For every day of the two weeks there was a paragraph of advice to the birthdate conscious. Turning to the Sagittarius section for tomorrow, the twenty-fourth, he read:
An important day for decisions and a good opportunity to turn events in your favour. Your ability to persuade others will be most marked and therefore progress which can be accomplished now should not be put off till later. A time of meeting. But beware the small cloud no larger than a man's hand.
It was absurd coincidence, he told himself. Besides, looked at intelligently, the words were vague and could be applied to any circumstance. But he did have decisions to make, and he had been considering a meeting of the cabinet Defence Committee for tomorrow, and it would be necessary for him to persuade others. He speculated on what could be meant by the cloud no larger than a man's hand. Something to do with Harvey Warrender, perhaps. Then he stopped himself. This was ridiculous. He put down the book, dismissing it.
He had been reminded of one thing, though: the Defence Committee. Perhaps, after all, the meeting should be held tomorrow, Christmas Eve notwithstanding. The announcement about Washington would be out and he would have to gain support in Cabinet by persuading others to his own opinions. He began to plan what he would tell the committee. His raced on.
It was two hours before he retired to bed. Margaret was already sleeping, and he undressed without waking her, setting a small bedside alarm for 6 AM.
At first he slept soundly, but towards morning his rest was by an odd recurring dream – a series of clouds, which rose from the smallness of hands into sombre, stormlike shapes.