Margaret said thoughtfully, 'You know, I sometimes think you're rather like Disraeli, though a little fiercer perhaps.' She smiled. 'At least you have the nose for it.'
'Yes,' he agreed, 'and this old craggy face of mine has been a trademark.' He fondled his eagle-beak nose, then said re-miniscently, 'It used to surprise me when people said I appeared fierce, but after a while, when I learned to switch it on and off, it became quite useful.'
'This is nice,' Margaret said, 'being by ourselves for a while. How long do we have before Washington?'
He grimaced. 'No longer than this, I'm afraid. I have to talk to Nesbitson before we land.'
'Do you really, Jamie?' It was more an entreaty than a question.
He said regretfully, 'I'm sorry, my dear,'
Margaret sighed. 'I thought it was too good to last. Well, I'll lie down so you can be private.' She got up, gathering her bag and hat. At the doorway of the little bedroom she turned. 'Are you going to bully him?'
'Probably not – unless I have to.'
'I hope you don't,' Margaret said seriously. 'He's such a sad old man. I always think he should be in a wheel chair with a blanket, and another old soldier pushing.'
The Prime Minister smiled broadly. 'All retired generals should be like that. Unfortunately they either want to write books or get into politics.'
When Margaret had gone he buzzed for the steward and sent a courteous message asking General Nesbitson to join him.
Chapter 3
'You're looking extremely fit, Adrian,' James Howden said.
From the depths of the soft chair which Margaret had vacated earlier, his pink pudgy hands nursing a scotch and soda, Adrian Nesbitson nodded in pleased agreement. 'I've been feeling first-class these past few days. Prime Minister. Seem to have thrown off that damned catarrh at last.'
'I'm delighted to hear it. I think you were overdoing things for a while. In fact we all were. It made us impatient with each other.' Howden studied his Defence Minister carefully. The old man really did look healthier, distinguished even, despite increasing baldness and the trace of resemblance to Mr Five-by-Five. The thick white moustache helped; carefully trimmed, it added an aura of dignity to the square-jawed face which still retained a hint of soldierly authority. Perhaps, Howden thought, the course he had been considering might work. But he remembered Brian Richardson's warning: 'Go easy on the bargaining; the old boy has a reputation for straightness.'
'Impatient or not,' Nesbitson said, 'I still can't share your views on this Act of Union idea. I'm sure we can get what we want from the Yanks without giving so much away.'
James Howden willed himself to calmness, ignoring, in his mind, a ground swell of anger and frustration. Nothing, he knew, would be achieved by loss of control, by shouting aloud as impulse urged: 'For God's sake wake up! Wake up and acknowledge the obvious: that it's desperately late and there isn't time for ancient weary nostrums.' Instead he said placatingly, 'I'd like you to do something for me, Adrian, if you will.'
There was a trace of hesitancy before the old man asked, 'What is it?'
'Go over everything in your mind: what the situation is likely to be; the time we have available; what was said the other day; then the alternatives, and your own conscience.'
'I've already done it.' The answer was determined.
'But once again?' Howden was at his most persuasive. 'As a personal favour to me?'
The old man had finished his scotch. It had warmed him and he put the glass down. 'Well,' he conceded, 'I don't mind doing that. But I warn you my answer will still be the same: we must keep our national independence – all of it.'
'Thank you,' James Howden said. He rang for the steward and when he appeared, 'Another scotch and soda, please, for General Nesbitson.'
When the second drink arrived Nesbitson sipped it, then leaned back, surveying the private cabin. He said approvingly, with something of the old military bark in his voice, 'This is a damn fine setup, PM, if I may say so.'
It was the opening James Howden had hoped for.
'It isn't bad,' he acknowledged, his fingers toying with the fresh glass of grape juice which the steward had brought, along with the Defence Minister's scotch. 'I don't use it a great deal, though. This is more the Governor General's aeroplane than mine.'
'Is that so?' Nesbitson seemed surprised. 'You mean that Sheldon Griffiths gets to ride around like this?'
'Oh yes, whenever he wants.' Howden's voice was elaborately casual. 'After all, the GG is Her Majesty's representative. He's entitled to rather special treatment, don't you think?'
'I suppose so.' The old man's expression was bemused.
Again casually, as if their conversation had reminded him, Howden said, 'I expect you'd heard that Shel Griffiths is retiring this summer. He's had seven years at Government House and feels he'd like to step down.'
'I'd heard something of the sort,' Nesbitson said.
The Prime Minister sighed. 'It's always a problem when a Governor General retires – finding the best man to succeed him: someone with the right kind of experience who is willing to serve. One has to remember that it's the highest honour the country can award.'
As Howden watched, the older man took a generous sip of scotch. 'Yes,' he said carefully, 'it certainly is.'
'Of course,' Howden said, 'the job has disadvantages. There's a good deal of ceremonial – guards of honour everywhere, cheering crowds, artillery salutes, and so on.' He added lightly, 'The GG rates twenty-one guns, you know – as many as the Queen.'
'Yes,' Nesbitson said softly, 'I know.'
'Naturally,' Howden continued, as if thinking aloud, 'it needs a special brand of experience to handle that kind of thing well. Someone with a military background usually does it best.'
The old warrior's lips were slightly parted. He moistened them with his tongue. 'Yes,' he said, 'I expect that's true.'
'Frankly,' Howden said, 'I'd always hoped that you might take it on someday.'
The old man's eyes were wide. 'Me?' His voice was barely audible. 'Me?'
'Well,' Howden said, as if dismissing the thought. 'It's come at the wrong time, I know. You don't want to leave the Cabinet and I certainly wouldn't want to lose you.'
Nesbitson made a half-movement as if to rise from the cabin seat, then subsided. The hand which held the glass was trembling. He swallowed in an attempt to keep his voice under control and succeeded partially. 'Matter of fact, been thinking for some time of getting out of politics. Sometimes a bit trying at my age.'
'Really, Adrian?' The Prime Minister allowed himself to sound surprised. 'I'd always assumed you'd be working with us for a long time to come.' He stopped to consider. 'Of course, if you did accept, it would solve a lot of problems. I don't mind telling you that as I see it, after the Act of Union there'll be a difficult time for the country. We shall need a sense of unity and a continuance of national feeling. Personally, I see the office of Governor General – assuming it's entrusted to the right hands – as contributing a great deal towards that.'
For a moment he wondered if he had gone too far. As he had spoken, the old man's eyes had risen, meeting his own directly. It was hard to read what they contained. Was it contempt; or unbelief; or even both, with a mingling of ambition? One thing could be counted on. Though in some ways Adrian Nesbitson was a fool, he was not so obtuse that he could fail to grasp what was being offered: a. deal, with the highest possible price for his own political support.
It was the old man's assessment of the prize that James Howden counted on. Some men, he knew, would never covet the Governor Generalship on any terms; for them it would be a penalty rather than reward. But to a military mind, loving ceremony and pomp, ii was the glistening ultimate ideal.
James Howden had never believed the cynic's dictum that all men have their price. In his lifetime he had known individuals who could not be bought, either with wealth or honours, or even the temptation – to which so many succumbed -to do good for their fellow men. But most who were in politics had a price of one kind or another; they had to have in order to survive. Some people preferred to use euphemisms like 'expediency' or 'compromise', but in the end it amounted to the same thing. The question was: had he gauged correctly the price of Adrian Nesbitson's support.
The inner struggle was written on the old man's face: a sequence of expressions, swift-changing like a child's kaleidoscope in which doubt, pride, shame, and longing were conjoined…
He could hew the guns in memory… the bark of German 88s and answering fire… a sunstreaked morning; Antwerp behind, the Scheldt ahead… the Canadian Division clambering, clawing, moving forward; then slowing, wavering, ready to turn away…
It was the pivot of battle and he had commandeered the jeep, beckoned the piper, and ordered the driver forward. To the skirl of pipes from the back seat he had stood, facing the German guns, leading, cajoling, and the wavering ranks had reassembled. He had urged stragglers on, cursing with foul oaths, and the men had cursed him back and followed.
Din, dust, motors gunned, the smell of cordite and oil, cries of wounded… The movement forward, slow at first, then faster… The wonderment in men's eyes – at himself, upstanding, proud, a target no enemy gunner could miss…
It was the ultimate moment of glory. It had been hopeless but they had snatched back victory. It had been suicidal but wondrously he had survived…
They had called him the Mad General and the Fighting Fool, and afterwards a slim frail man with a stutter, whom he revered, had pinned on a medal at Buckingham Palace.
But now the years had gone, and memories with them; and few remembered the moment of glory, and fewer cared. No one called him, any more, the Fighting Fool. If they called him anything they omitted the 'Fighting'.
Sometimes, however briefly, he longed for the taste of glory 'again.
With a trace of hesitancy Adrian Nesbitson said, 'You seem very sure about this Act of Union, Prime Minister. Are you certain it will go through?'
'Yes, I am. It will go through because it has to.' Howden kept his face and voice serious.
'But there'll be opposition.' The old man frowned in concentration.
'Naturally. But in the end, when need and urgency are seen, it will make no difference.' Howden's voice took on a note of persuasion. 'I know your first feeling has been to oppose this plan, Adrian, and we all respect you for it. I suppose, too, that if you felt you must continue to oppose, we would be obliged to part company politically.'
Nesbitson said gruffly, 'I don't see the need for that.'
'There is no need,' Howden said. 'Particularly when, as Governor-General, you could do far more to serve the country than you ever could from the political wilderness.'
'Well,' Nesbitson said; he was studying his hands. 'I suppose when you look at it like that…'
It's all so simple, Howden thought. Patronage, the power of bestowal, brings most things within reach. Aloud he said, 'If you're agreeable I'd like to notify the Queen as soon as possible. I'm sure Her Majesty will be delighted with the news.'
With dignity Adrian Nesbitson inclined his head. 'As you wish. Prime Minister.'
They had risen to their feet and shook hands solemnly. 'I'm glad; very glad,' James Howden said. He added informally, 'Your appointment as Governor General will be announced in June. At least we shall have you in the Cabinet until then, and your campaigning with us through the election will mean a great deal.' He was summing up, making clear without any shadow of misunderstanding what they had agreed upon. For Adrian Nesbitson there would be no bolting from the Government, no criticism of the Act of Union. Instead, Nesbitson would fight the election with the remainder of the party -supporting, endorsing, sharing responsibility…