The Complete Short Stories: The 1960s

The noise of voices in the hall made them both pause. Lady Elizabeth raised a humorously quizzical eyebrow.

‘Sounds like a regiment out there.’

‘A regiment plus Herbert!’

Lady Elizabeth went to see. The PM was being abstracted from his coat by Tarver; from his flushed look she could tell at once that the luncheon had been (a) good and (b) televised. Knowing the quality and extent of the Guildhall cellars, Lady Elizabeth resolved to get black coffee to him as soon as possible. Struggling with their own coats were Ralph Watts-Clinton and Lord Andaway, the Home Secretary; they too bore the Swan-Upping insignia in their cheeks.

Surprisingly, Miller was also there, grinning broadly at all that went on. Balancing a large carton on one hip, he waved cordially to Lady Elizabeth.

‘Here’s your wandering boy, Your Ladyship,’ he called. ‘I met him on the doorstep as I was about to deliver the goods.’

‘Who’s he? Did he lose his way to the tradesmen’s entrance?’ the Hon. Mrs Lyon-Bowater asked, in a dreamily sotto sort of voce in her sister’s ear.

Behind Miller, lined up like discarded gravestones, were three dark and solemn men. One she recognised as Bernard Brotherhope, the secretary of the Transit and Gradual Workers’ Union. By their air of non-denominational piety and their collars, Brotherhope’s companions were recognisable as union leaders. They stood patient, strong, unblinking, with their hats in the on-guard position; as Brotherhope nodded curtly over the heads of the others to Lady Elizabeth, a line of Hilaire Belloc’s about hating the Midlands which are sodden and unkind rose impertinently to her mind.

‘Take these gentlemen into the visitors’ room, Tarver,’ the PM said. ‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will join you in a minute. Oh, Miller, I want you.’

‘What sweet men, Herbert!’ Nancy exclaimed from her corner, as the others filed into the front room, each anxiously offering precedence to his companion.

‘Oh, you’re here, Nancy,’ the PM said glumly.

‘It must be such fun being PM You meet all sorts of people you wouldn’t otherwise, don’t you?’

‘You remind me to inquire after your husband.’

Unabashed, Nancy said, ‘Still living, I suppose.’

The PM pushed past her into the cosy room and subsided slowly into the chaise-longue, letting his heavy lids fall as he went.

‘Coffee’s coming, my darling,’ Lady Elizabeth said. ‘You’ll have some too, Mr Miller, or are you not stopping?’

She successfully outstared him. Miller’s eyes retreated like little wet animals under his eyebrows and he laughed in admission of defeat.

‘Don’t want to intrude on the old family circle, you know. That is one circle of which there’s never enough to go round! Anyhow, here’s a supply of polyannamine as promised. Why not give your husband a shot? He looks as if he needs it.’

‘Thank you for your advice. Tarver will show you the door.’

‘That’s very good of him. I must say I admire that door more every time I see it. You must come up and see mine some day, Lady Elizabeth.’

As he was passing her, she thought for a dreadful moment that he was reaching out to kiss her. Instead, he whispered something in her ear. Her features relaxed; she smiled and nodded. When he had tiptoed, all comically conspiratorial, from the room, she went over and knelt by Herbert. Unnoticed, Nancy moved to look into Miller’s carton.

‘How did the speech go, Herbert?’ Lady Elizabeth asked tenderly.

The PM patted his brow and groaned.

‘That confounded port … Either I’m getting too old for it or it’s getting too old for me. And then I arrive back here to find a delegation from the TUC awaiting me; I shall have to go and see them. Where’s that coffee?’

‘It’s coming. … Here it is. Thank you, Jane, I’ll take it here. How did the speech go, darling?’

As she took the coffee tray and began to pour, Nancy said, ‘It’s none of my business, Herbert, but can’t you put the TUC chappies off? What’s the fun in being PM if you have no power?’

‘There’s no fun. …’ He took the cup in trembling hands and sipped through his moustache. ‘We’re in trouble there, Elizabeth. I can’t think how I can have been so short-sighted. We romped home with the Capital Punishment Bill this morning, thanks to Miller’s polyannamine, but of course the trade unions are on to us now like a ton of nationalised bricks. They’ve threatened a general strike if we don’t retract. … I must go and see Brotherhope. The coffee was lovely.’

Wiping his moustache, he rose and squeezed her upper arm. Having long ago trained herself not to respond with disgust to this old man’s gesture, Lady Elizabeth merely said, ‘Take this polyannamine capsule in with you; Miller advised it in case you had trouble. How’s the head now?’

‘Better for your coffee, my dear. Have some yourself.’ He pocketed the capsule, adjusted his tie, and shuffled out of the room.

Elizabeth sighed deeply, passed a hand over her forehead, and turned towards her sister.

‘Nancy, I fear I must turn you out now, unless you came for anything in particular?’

‘Can you tell me what polyannamine is?’

‘Just a sort of tranquilliser; nothing to be curious about. Shall I get Tarver to let you out?’ She turned her back on Nancy and commenced to pour herself coffee.

‘Damn your conceit, no, Elizabeth! I came for something in particular and you may as well hear it. I want – I need – a divorce from Towin.’

Lady Elizabeth forget her coffee.

‘But Towin is Secretary of State for Air!’

‘You don’t have to remind me of the dangers of nepotism.’

‘Spite always did improve your repartee. You know you can’t have any fuss in public at present, Nancy. The General Election is only two years away.’

‘The Last Trump may precede it.’

‘The Last Trump will scandalise the British public less than a ministerial decree nisi. You’re in some sort of a mess, aren’t you?’

‘How you adore your euphemisms and your clichés! Yet how else could you bear to be married to Herbert? You’ll be talking next about washing dirty linen in public.’

Lady Elizabeth rose and said, with the glacial courtesy of anger, ‘You’re in some sort of a mess, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am, if you must know. I am having, ducky, a rather hot affair with a pop singer called Johnny Earthquake.’

They faced each other lividly, hate and love running together like a spilt Irish coffee. Finally Lady Elizabeth turned away and marched over to the door saying, ‘The Prime Minister’s sister-in-law involved with a pop singer. … Governments have fallen for less.’

Deftly, while her sister’s back was turned, Nancy knocked the nipple off one of the polyannamine capsules she had pocketed, and poured its contents into Lady Elizabeth’s coffee. Then she marched towards the door. Again the two were face to face.

‘A pop singer!’

‘He makes me feel horribly democratic!’ With an angry leer, Nancy swaggered out.

For some minutes, Lady Elizabeth stood inside the cosy room, clutching her temples.

Then the phone rang.

Her voice when she answered gave no hint of her feelings.