In High Places (2 page)

'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.'