This Was a Man (The Clifton Chronicles 7)

Emma woke a few hours later to find Harry seated on her side of the bed, holding a cup of tea.

“Will you be joining us for breakfast, my darling, now that you’ve done your job?”

She yawned and stretched her arms. “Not a bad idea, Harry Clifton, because it’s time I got back to work.”

“So what’s the plot for today?”

“I have to get back to Bristol, sharpish. I’ve got a meeting with the newly appointed chairman of the hospital at three this afternoon, to discuss priorities for the next year.”

“Are you happy with your successor?”

“Couldn’t be more pleased. Simon Dawkins is a first-class administrator and he was a loyal deputy, so I’m expecting the handover to be seamless.”

“Then I’ll leave you to get dressed,” said Harry, before handing his wife her tea and heading back downstairs to join Giles for breakfast.

Giles was seated at the far end of the table surrounded by the morning papers, which didn’t make good reading. He smiled for the first time that day when his brother-in-law entered the room.

“How are you feeling?” asked Harry, placing a consoling hand on the shoulder of his oldest friend.

“I’ve had better mornings,” admitted Giles, pushing the papers to one side. “But I’m hardly in a position to complain. I’ve served as a minister for nine of the past fourteen years, and I must still have a chance of holding office in five years’ time, because I can’t believe that woman will last.”

Both men stood when Emma entered the room.

“Congratulations, sis,” said Giles. “You were a worthy opponent, and it was a deserved victory.”

“Thank you, Giles,” she said, giving her brother a hug, something she hadn’t done for the past twenty-eight days. “So what are you up to today?” she asked as she sat in the chair beside him.

“Some time this morning I’ll have to hand in my seals of office so that woman,” he said, stabbing a finger at the photograph on the front page of The Daily Express, “can form her first, and I hope last, administration. Thatcher’s due at the palace at ten, when she’ll kiss hands before being driven to Downing Street in triumph. You’ll be able to watch it on television, but I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t join you.”

* * *

After Emma had finished packing, Harry placed their suitcases by the front door before joining her in the drawing room, not surprised to find her glued to the television. She didn’t even look up when he entered the room.

Three black Jaguars were emerging from Buckingham Palace. The crowds standing on the pavement outside the palace gates were waving and clapping as the convoy made its way up the Mall to Whitehall. Robin Day kept up a running commentary.

“The new prime minister will spend the morning appointing her first Cabinet. Lord Carrington is expected to be foreign secretary, Geoffrey Howe chancellor, and Leon Brittan home secretary. As for the other appointments, we will have to wait and see who is preferred. I don’t suppose there will be many surprises, although you can be quite sure there will be several anxious politicians sitting by their phones hoping for a call from Number Ten,” he added as the three cars swept into Downing Street.

As the prime minister stepped out of her car, another cheer went up. She made a short speech quoting Saint Francis of Assisi before disappearing into No. 10.

“Better get moving,” said Harry, “or we’ll miss the train.”

* * *

Emma spent the afternoon with Simon Dawkins, her successor at Bristol Royal Infirmary, before clearing out her second office that day. She filled the backseat of her car as well as the boot with all the personal possessions she had accumulated over the past decade. As she drove slowly out of the hospital grounds for the last time, she didn’t look back. She was looking forward to a quiet supper at the Manor House with Harry, and later to placing her head on a pillow before midnight for the first time in weeks, while hoping for more than four hours’ sleep.

* * *

Emma was in her dressing gown enjoying a late breakfast when the call came.

Harry picked up the phone on the sideboard and listened for a moment, before covering the mouthpiece and whispering, “It’s Number Ten.”

Emma leapt up and took the phone, assuming it would be Mrs. Thatcher on the other end of the line.

“This is Number Ten,” said a formal voice. “The prime minister wonders if you could see her at twelve thirty this afternoon.”

“Yes of course,” said Emma without thinking.

“When?” asked Harry as she put the phone down.