Be Careful What You Wish For (The Clifton Chronicles) Read online

  Giles would have made himself some lunch if the phone had stopped ringing every other minute. Colleagues calling to tell him what job they’d got, colleagues calling to say the PM hadn’t phoned them yet and colleagues wanting to know what time the PM had asked to see him. None of them seemed sure what 3:30 p.m. meant.

  As the sun was shining on a Labor victory, Giles decided to walk to Number 10. He left his Smith Square flat just after 3 p.m., strolled across to the Embankment and past the Lords and Commons on his way to Whitehall. He crossed the road as Big Ben struck a quarter past, and continued past the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, before turning into Downing Street. He was greeted by a raucous pack of pit bull terriers, hemmed in behind makeshift barriers.

  “What job are you expecting to get?” shouted one of them.

  I only wish I knew, Giles wanted to say, while being almost blinded by the endless flashbulbs.

  “Are you hoping to be in the Cabinet, Sir Giles?” demanded another.

  Of course I am, you idiot. But his lips didn’t move.

  “How long do you think the government can survive with such a small majority?”

  Not very long, he didn’t want to admit.

  The questions continued to be thrown at him as he made his way up Downing Street, despite the fact that every journalist knew he had no hope of getting an answer on the way in, and not much more than a wave and perhaps a smile on the way out.

  Giles was about three paces from the front door when it opened, and, for the first time in his life, he entered Number 10 Downing Street.

  “Good morning, Sir Giles,” said the cabinet secretary, as if they had never met before. “The prime minister is with one of your colleagues at the moment, so perhaps you could wait in the anteroom until he’s free.”

  Giles realized that Sir Alan already knew which post he was about to be offered, but not even the twitch of an eyebrow came from the inscrutable mandarin before he went on his way.

  Giles took a seat in the small anteroom where Wellington and Nelson had reputedly sat waiting to see William Pitt the Younger, neither realizing who the other was. He rubbed his hands on the sides of his trousers, although he knew he would not be shaking hands with the PM, as, traditionally, Parliamentary colleagues never do. Only the clock on the mantelpiece was beating louder than his heart. Eventually the door opened and Sir Alan reappeared. All he said was, “The prime minister will see you now.”

  Giles stood up and began what is known as the long walk to the gallows.

  When he entered the Cabinet Room, Harold Wilson was sitting halfway down a long oval table surrounded by twenty-two empty chairs. The moment he saw Giles, he rose from his seat below a portrait of Robert Peel, and said, “Great result in Bristol Docklands, Giles, well done.”

  “Thank you, prime minister,” said Giles, reverting to the tradition of no longer calling him by his first name.

  “Come and have a seat,” Wilson said as he filled his pipe.

  Giles was about to sit down next to the PM when he said, “No, not there. That’s George’s place; perhaps one day, but not today. Why don’t you sit over there—” he said, pointing to a green leather-backed chair on the far side of the table. “After all, that’s where the Secretary of State for European Affairs will be sitting every Thursday when the Cabinet meets.”

  46

  “JUST THINK HOW many things can go wrong,” said Emma as she paced up and down the bedroom.

  “Why not focus on how many things will go right,” said Harry, “and take Grace’s advice, try to relax and treat the whole experience as a holiday.”

  “I’m only sorry she won’t be joining us on the voyage.”

  “Grace was never going to take two weeks off during an eight-week term.”

  “Giles seems able to manage it.”

  “Only one week,” Harry reminded her, “and he’s been fairly cunning, because he plans to visit the UN while he’s in New York, and then go on to Washington to meet his opposite number.”

  “Leaving Gwyneth and the baby at home.”

  “A wise decision given the circumstances. It wouldn’t have been much of a holiday for either of them with young Walter bawling his head off night and day.”

  “Are you packed and ready?” asked Emma.

  “Yes, I am, chairman. Have been for some time.”

  Emma laughed and threw her arms around him. “Sometimes I forget to say thank you.”

  “Don’t get sentimental on me. You’ve still got a job to do, so why don’t we get going?”

  Emma seemed impatient to leave, even though it meant they would be hanging about on board for hours before the captain gave the order to cast off and set sail for New York. Harry accepted that it would have been even worse if they’d stayed at home.

  “Just look at her,” said Emma with pride as the car drove on to the quayside, and the Buckingham loomed up ahead of them.

  “Yes, a truly hysterical sight.”

  “Oh, help,” said Emma. “Am I ever going to live that down?”

  “I do hope not,” said Harry.

  * * *

  “It’s so exciting,” said Sam as Sebastian turned off the A4 and followed the signs for the docks. “I’ve never been on an ocean liner before.”

  “And it’s no ordinary liner,” said Sebastian. “It’s got a sun deck, a cinema, two restaurants and a swimming pool. It’s more like a floating city.”

  “It seems strange having a swimming pool when you’re surrounded by water.”

  “Water, water everywhere.”

  “Another of your minor English poets?” said Sam.

  “Do you have any major American poets?”

  “One who wrote a poem you could learn something from: The heights by great men reached and kept were not attained by sudden flight, but they, while their companions slept, were toiling upward in the night.”

  “Who wrote that?” asked Sebastian.

  * * *

  “How many of our people are already on board?” asked Lord Glenarthur, trying to remain in character as the car drove out of Bristol and headed for the port.

  “Three porters and a couple of waiters, one in the grill room, one in cabin class and a messenger boy.”

  “Can they be relied on to keep their mouths shut if they were interrogated or put under real pressure?”

  “Two of the porters and one of the waiters were hand-picked. The messenger boy will only be on board for a few minutes, and once he’s delivered the flowers, he’ll hot-foot it back to Belfast.”

  “After we’ve checked in, Brendan, come to my cabin at nine o’clock. By then most of the first-class passengers will be having dinner, which will give you more than enough time to set up the equipment.”

  “Setting it up won’t be the problem,” said Brendan. “It’s getting that large trunk on board without anyone becoming suspicious that I’m worried about.”

  “Two of the porters know the number plate of this car,” said the chauffeur, “and they’ll be looking out for us.”

  “How’s my accent holding up?” asked Glenarthur.

  “You’d have fooled me, but I’m not an English gentleman. And we’ll have to hope no one on board has actually met Lord Glenarthur.”

  “Unlikely. He’s over eighty, and he hasn’t been seen in public since his wife died ten years ago.”

  “Isn’t he a distant relation of the Barringtons?” asked Brendan.

  “That’s why I chose him. If the SAS has anyone on board, they’ll check Who’s Who, and assume I’m family.”

  “But what if you bump into a member of the family?”

  “I’m not going to bump into any of them. I’m going to bump them all off.” The chauffeur chuckled. “Now, tell me, how do I get to my other cabin after I’ve pressed the button?”

  “I’ll give you the key at nine o’clock. Can you remember where the public toilet on deck six is? Because that’s where you’ll have to change once you’ve left your cabin for the last time.”