Cometh the Hour (The Clifton Chronicles 6)

“It’s not her fault. You spend your life attacking Mrs. Thatcher.”

“Not Mrs. Thatcher, but the government’s philistine education policy. It’s never personal. You save that for your own side.”

“And I’ve been invited to have tea in the Lords’ this afternoon with Baroness Forbes-Watson, but I’m not altogether sure why.”

“She’s a sweet old bat, used to be something in the Foreign Office a hundred years ago but since her husband died she’s rather lost the plot. I know she likes to invite members’ wives to tea from time to time.”

“But I’m not your wife.”

“That’s hardly my fault,” said Giles, giving her a kiss. “I’ll try and drop into the tearoom after the vote. You may need rescuing,” he added as he picked up the Times. He smiled when he saw the headline. “I must call Emma.”

* * *

“She’s the statutory woman,” said Harry, pouring himself another cup of coffee.

“What did you just say?”

“I didn’t say it. Ted Heath did. the Times,” he continued picking his morning paper back up, “reports him as saying, ‘If it’s necessary to have a woman in the Cabinet, it may as well be Margaret.’”

Emma was speechless, but only for a moment. “That’s certain to endear him to fifty percent of the electorate,” she finally managed.

“Fifty-two percent, according to the Times.”

“Sometimes I despair for the Tory party,” said Emma, as the phone rang.

Harry put down his paper, walked across to the sideboard and picked up the phone. “Hello, Giles, yes, I did read the piece about Margaret Thatcher in the Times. Yes, of course. It’s your brother on the line, wants to have a word with you,” said Harry, unable to hide a smirk.

Emma folded her napkin, put it back in its ring, stood up and made her way slowly out of the room. “Tell him I’m out canvassing.”

* * *

After Karin had bought six pairs of gray woollen socks, size nine, and a black leather handbag that she knew Emma coveted, she boarded a bus in Sloane Square and headed for the Palace of Westminster. A badge messenger directed her to the Lords’ tearoom. “Never step off the red carpet, madam, and you won’t go far wrong.”

As she entered the tearoom, Karin immediately spotted a gray-haired old lady hunched up in the corner looking as if she might have been Margaret Rutherford’s older sister. She managed a wave, and Karin walked across to join her.

“Cynthia Forbes-Watson,” the old lady said, trying to rise from her place.

“No, no,” said Karin quickly, sitting down opposite her hostess.

“How lovely to meet you,” said the old lady, offering a thin, bony hand, although her voice was strong. “I read about your amazing escape from behind the Iron Curtain. That must have been quite an ordeal.”

“It would never have been possible without Giles.”

“Yes, he’s a fine man, if occasionally impetuous,” she said as a waiter appeared by their side. “Tea for two, Stanley, and a couple of those awful crumpets, slightly burnt. And don’t be mean with the butter.”

“Certainly, my lady.”

“I see you’ve been shopping.”

“Yes, Giles needed some socks. It’s also his sister’s birthday and he forgot to get her a present. She and her husband are joining us for dinner this evening.”

“It’s never easy to find the right present for another woman,” said the baroness, as a tray of tea and two slightly burnt crumpets was placed on the table between them. “I’ll be mother. Milk?”

“Yes, please,” said Karin.

“Sugar?”

“No, thank you.”