In High Places

Chapter 1

It was 3.20. Forty minutes left.

At 4 PM, simultaneously in Ottawa and Washington, the Act of Union would be announced.

In the House of Commons tension was growing. This morning the Prime Minister's office had allowed it to be known that a 'grave and significant announcement of national import' would be made. No details had been given, but on Parliament Hill speculation had been growing hourly.

Within the House, routine business was proceeding but there was an undercurrent of expectation. The public galleries were already filled, a line of luckless latecomers lining the halls outside. In the diplomatic gallery several ambassadors had already arrived. In an adjoining gallery, member's wives, vying for the choicest seats, were filing in.

Immediately outside the House, lobbies, corridors, and press rooms were abuzz with talk. News of a Cabinet split was widely rumoured but, so far as James Howden knew, there had been no leak as to the cause. A moment earlier, conversations in the Government lobby had stilled as the Prime Minister had entered, walking to his own House of Commons seat.

Settling down, he glanced around, then opened the folder he had carried in. Closing his ears to the current speaker – a backbench MP enjoying the unusual attention – Howden read, once more, the agreed joint statement and the opening text of his own speech to follow.

For days he had laboured on the speech, in between commitments, completing it in the early hours of this morning after returning from Montreal. He had had little sleep, but excitement and a sense of destiny sustained him.

The speech which he would make today in the House -unlike others of the past few days – was entirely his own.

Other than Milly Freedeman, who had typed the drafts, no one else had seen or worked on it. He was aware that what he had written, and would say, was from his heart. What he proposed would divert the course of history. For Canada, for a while at least, it would lessen nationhood. But in the end, he was convinced, the gain of union would outweigh a separate peril. There was courage in facing facts; greater, perhaps, than in empty insurrections with which the past abounded.

But would others see it too?

Some would, he knew. Many would trust him, as they had before. Others would be won by argument, a few by tear. A large section of the nation was American in thought already; to them, the Act of Union would seem logical and right.

But there would be opposition, and a bitter fight. It had begun already.

Early this morning he had interviewed separately the eight cabinet dissidents who were supporting Adrian Nesbitson. By strong persuasion and a personal appeal he had won back three, but five were adamant. Together with General Nesbitson they would resign and resist the Act of Union as an independent opposition group. Undoubtedly a few MPs, at least, would follow them, to form a rump within the House.

It was a serious blow, though not entirely unpredictable. He could have been more confident of surviving it, however, if the Government's popularity had not decreased in recent weeks. If only there had been no stowaway incident… Resolutely, to avoid rekindling his inner, burning anger, Howden switched his thoughts away. He had noticed, though, that Harvey War-render was not yet in the House. Nor was Bonar Deitz, the Leader of the Opposition.

A hand touched his shoulder. Turning, he saw the shock of black curls and bristling moustache of Lucien Perrault. Jauntily, as he managed to do everything, the French Canadian bowed to the Speaker and dropped into the empty seat of Stuart Cawston, who had briefly left the floor.

Perrault leaned over, whispering, 'It is true, I hear, that we have a fight before us.'

'I'm afraid so,' Howden murmured. He added warmly, 'I can't tell you how much your support has meant to me.'

Perrault gave a Gallic shrug, his eyes humorous. 'Well, we shall stand together, and if we fall there will be a thunderous sound.' After a moment, smiling, he moved away to his own seat.

A page boy laid an envelope upon the Prime Minister's desk. Ripping it open, Howden read in Milly Freedeman's handwriting, 'The President is preparing to leave the White House for the Capitol.' In the Prime Minister's office, a minute or two away, Milly was monitoring an open line to Washington. It was for last minute contingencies. So far there had been none.

On the other side of the House, the Opposition Leader came in. Bonar Deitz looked paler than usual and preoccupied, Howden thought. He went straight to his front row desk and snapped his fingers for a page boy. As the boy waited, Deitz scribbled a note, then folded it. To Howden's surprise the note was delivered to himself. It read: 'Essential we discuss urgent, personal matter re you and Harvey Warrender. Please meet me immediately, Room 16 – B.D.'

Alarmed and startled, Howden looked up. But the Opposition Leader had already gone.

Chapter 2

At the same moment that Bonar Deitz had entered the House of Commons, Brian Richardson strode into the outer office of the Prime Minister's suite where Milly Freedeman waited. The party director's face was set grimly. In his hand was a sheet torn from a teletype. Without preliminary he told Milly, 'Wherever the chief is, I need him – fast.'

Milly gestured to the telephone she was holding. She mouthed silently the one word 'Washington'. Her eyes went up to the clock upon the wall.

'There's time,' Richardson said shortly. 'If he's in the House, get him out.' He laid the teletype on the desk in front of her. 'This is Vancouver. Right now it comes first.'

Milly read quickly, then, putting the telephone down on its side, wrote a hasty note. Folding the note and teletype sheet together she sealed them in an envelope and pressed a buzzer. Almost at once a page boy knocked and entered. Milly instructed, 'Please take this quickly and come straight back.' When the boy had gone, she picked up the telephone again and listened.

After a moment, covering the mouthpiece, Milly asked, 'It's pretty bad, isn't it – the way things came out in court?'

Richardson answered bitterly, 'If there's another way of making the Government look stupid, vicious, and fumbling all at once, I haven't thought of it.'

'Is there anything can be done – anything at all?'

'With luck – if the chief will agree to what I want – we can salvage about two per cent of what we've lost.' The party director dropped into a chair. He added glumly, 'The way things are, even two per cent is worth saving.'

Milly was listening to the telephone. 'Yes,' she said. 'I have that.' With her free hand she wrote another note. Covering the mouthpiece again, she told Richardson, 'The President has left the White House and is driving to the Capitol.'

He answered sourly, 'Hooray for him. I hope he knows the way.'

Milly noted the time: 3.30.

Brian Richardson got up and came close beside her. 'Milly,' he said, 'the hell with everything. Let's get married.' He paused, then added, 'I've started my divorce. Eloise is helping.'

'Oh, Brian!' Suddenly her eyes were moist. 'You pick the strangest times.' Her hand still cupped the telephone.

'There is no time – no right time ever.' He said roughly, 'We have to take what we can get.'

'I wish I were as sure as you,' she told him. 'I've thought about it; thought so much.'

'Look,' he urged, 'there's going to be a war – everybody says so; and anything can happen. Let's grab whatever's left and make the most of it.'

'If only it were that simple.' Milly sighed.

He said defiantly, 'We can make it that simple.'

Unhappily she answered, 'Brian darling, I don't know. Honestly, I don't know.'

Or do I know? she thought. Is it that I want too much: independence and marriage – the best of both, surrendering neither one? It couldn't be done, she knew. Perhaps independence had been something she had had too long.

He said awkwardly, 'I love you Milly. I guess I told you, and it hasn't changed.' He wished he could express the deeper things he felt. For some things it was hard to find the words.

Milly pleaded: 'Can't we, just for a while, go on as we are?'

Just for a while. That was the way, he thought, that it always was and would be. Just for a while, and sooner or later one of them would decide the time had come to end.

'I guess so,' he said. He had a sense of losing something he had never really possessed.

Chapter 3

In Room 16-the big luxurious sanctum adjoining the Speaker's chambers, which all parties shared – the Prime Minister faced Bonar Deitz. Except for the two of them, the room was empty.

Deitz said quietly, 'Thank you for coming promptly.'

Howden nodded. The apprehension he had felt before persisted. He asked uncertainly, 'What is it you have to tell me about Harvey Warrender?'

Instead of answering, Deitz said obliquely, 'You know that we're neighbours in Rockliffe?'

'Yes.' The Warrenders and Deitzes, Howden knew, had facing properties.

'This morning Harvey's wife called me to their house.' The Opposition Leader added, 'Harvey's wife and mine are quite good friends.'

Howden said impatiently, 'Go on.'

The other hesitated, his gaunt scholarly face troubled. Then he said, 'Harvey had locked himself in his study. He wouldn't come out. When we called to him he threatened to kill himself.'

Shocked, Howden said, 'Did he…' 'No.' Deitz shook his head. 'People who threaten usually don't; at least, that's what I'm told.' 'Then what…' 'Eventually we broke in. They have a manservant. We forced the door together.'

The slowness was infuriating. Howden snapped. What then?'

'It was like a nightmare. Harvey went berserk. We tried to subdue him. He was raving, foaming…'

As if they were speaking of something abstract, Howden said, 'I used to think that sort of thing was fictional…'

'It isn't. Believe me, it isn't.' Deitz took off his rimless glasses; he passed a hand across his face. 'I hope I never see anything like it again.'

There was an air of unreality. Howden asked, 'What happened then?' His eyes took in the other man's frail figure – the figure which a cruel cartoonist had once compared to a string bean.

'Oh, God!' Deitz closed his eyes, then opened them. With an effort he composed himself. 'Fortunately their man is strong. He held Harvey. We tied him to a chair. And all the while… struggling, raving…'

It was unbelievable, grotesque. 'I can't believe it,' Howden said. He found his hands were trembling. 'I simply can't believe it.'

'You will,' Bonar Deitz said grimly. 'You will, if you see

Harvey.'

'Where is he now?' 'In Eastview Hospital. Under restraint, I think they call it.

After it happened, Harvey's wife knew whom to call.'

The Prime Minister said sharply, 'How did she know?'

'Apparently this isn't wholly a surprise,' Deitz answered. 'Harvey's been having treatment – psychiatric treatment – for a long time. Did you know?'

Aghast, Howden said, 'I had no idea.'

'Nor had anyone, I suppose. His wife told me afterwards; also that there's a history of insanity – on Harvey's side. I gather she found out after they were married. And there was some sort of trouble while he was teaching, but it was hushed up.'

'My God!' Howden breathed. 'My God!'

They had been standing. With a sense of weakness he lowered himself into a chair. Deitz sat down beside him.

The Opposition Leader said softly, 'It's strange, isn't it, how little we know about one another until something like this?'

James Howden's mind was in turmoil. It was difficult to know what to think first. He and Harvey Warrender had never been close friends, but for years they had been colleagues…

He asked, 'How has Harvey's wife taken it?'

Bonar Deitz had cleaned his glasses with a tissue. Now he replaced them. He answered, 'Now that it's over she's surprisingly calm. In a way she almost seems relieved. I imagine it wasn't an easy situation to be living with.'

'No,' he answered slowly, 'I don't suppose it was.' Harvey Warrender had not been easy on anyone. He remembered Margaret's words: 'I've sometimes thought Harvey is a little mad.' At the time he had agreed, but never dreamed…

Bonar Deitz said quietly, 'There isn't much doubt, I imagine, that Harvey will be certified insane. They don't rush these things, but in this case it seems mostly a formality.'

Howden nodded dully. Out of habit his fingers caressed the curve of his nose.

Deitz went on, 'Whatever is necessary, we'll make it easy for you in the House. I'll pass the word to my people and there need be very little said. The newspapers won't report it, of course.'

No, Howden thought; there were certain decencies the newspapers observed.

A thought occurred to him. He moistened his lips with his tongue.

'When Harvey was… raving… was there anything, especially, he said?'

The Opposition Leader shook his head. 'Mostly it was incoherent: jumbled words; some bits of Latin. I couldn't make them out.'

'And… nothing else?'

'If you're thinking of this,' Bonar Deitz said quietly, 'perhaps you should take it now.' From an inside pocket he produced an envelope. It was addressed Rt Hon James M. How-den. The handwriting, though sprawling and uneven, was recognizable as Harvey Warrender's.

As Howden took the envelope and opened it, his hands were shaking.

There were two enclosures. One was a single sheet of stationery, the writing upon it in the same disordered hand… as if in stress – Harvey Warrender's resignation from the Government. The other was a faded convention programme, on the back the fateful scribbled agreement of nine years earlier.

Bonar Deitz was watching Howden's face. 'The envelope was open on Harvey's desk,' he said. 'I decided to seal it. It seemed better that way.'

Slowly Howden's eyes came up. The muscles of his face were working. There was trembling through his body, like an ague he could not control. He whispered, 'You… saw… what was there?'

Bonar Deitz answered, 'I'd like to say no, but it wouldn't be true.' He hesitated, then continued. 'Yes, I looked. It isn't something I'm proud of, but curiosity, I'm afraid, proved strong.'

Fear, icy fear, struck Howden's heart. Then resignation took its place.

So, in the end, a scrap of paper had destroyed him. He had been brought down by his own ambition, recklessness… a moment of ill-judgement long ago. Giving him the original document was a trick, of course; Bonar Deitz had made a copy; it would be produced and published, as exposes affecting others had been… bribes, indiscreet cheques, furtive agreements… The Press would trumpet; opponents would wallow in self-righteousness; politically he could not survive. With a strange detachment he wondered what came next.

He asked, 'What are you going to do?'

'Nothing.'

Somewhere behind, a door opened and closed. Footsteps came towards them. Bonar Deitz said sharply, 'The Prime Minister and I would like to be alone.' The footsteps retreated; again the door closed.

'Nothing?' Howden said. His voice held unbelief. 'Nothing at all?'

The Opposition Leader said carefully, 'I've done a good deal of thinking since this morning. I suppose I should use the evidence that Harvey left. If some of my own people knew I'd withheld it, they would never forgive me.'

Yes, Howden thought; there were plenty who would rejoice to destroy him, and never mind the means. In his mind a gleam of hope nickered; was there to be a reprieve after all -on Deitz's terms?

Deitz said softly, 'Somehow, though, I can't see myself doing it. I'm not partial to stirring mud; too much of it rubs off.'

But I would have done it to you, Howden thought. Without Hesitation I would have done it to you.

'I might have, though, if it hadn't been for something else. You see, I can beat you in another way.' There was a pause, then, with quiet confidence, Deitz said, 'Parliament and the country will never pass the Act of Union. You will go down to defeat and I shall win.'

'You know?'

'I've known for several days.' For the first time the other smiled. 'Your friend in the White House has his opposition too. There've been some leaks down there. Two senators and a congressman flew up to see me and they represented others who don't like the concept or its terms. The briefing, I may say, was fairly thorough.'

Howden said seriously, 'If we don't unite, it's national suicide for Canada – annihilation.'

'It seems to me it's national suicide if we do.' Calmly Deitz said, 'We've come through wars before. I'd sooner do it again – as an independent nation – and take our chances.'

'I hope you'll reconsider,' Howden said, 'think gravely, carefully…'

'I already have. Our policy has been determined! The Opposition Leader smiled, 'You'll forgive me if I save my arguments for debate and the election.' He added, 'You'll call an election, of course.'

'Yes,' Howden said.

Deitz nodded. 'I assumed you would.'

As if by consent, they stood. Howden said awkwardly, 'I suppose I should thank you for this.' He looked at the envelope in his hands.

'I'd rather you didn't. We might both become embarrassed.'

Bonar Deitz held out his hand. 'We shall be combatants, I 'expect, quite soon. There'll be name calling; there always is. I'd like to feel, to some extent, it isn't personal.'

James Howden took the proffered hand. 'No,' he said, 'it won't be personal.' Somehow, he thought, despite the other's frailty, Bonar Deitz had more stature than ever before.

Chapter 4

Hurriedly, the minutes fleeting past, the Prime Minister entered his parliamentary office, a sheaf of papers in his hand.

He had a mood of crisp incisiveness.

Four people were waiting: Richardson and Milly; Margaret Howden, who had just arrived; Elliot Prowse. The executive assistant was looking anxiously at his watch.

'There's time,' Howden snapped; 'but only just.' He asked Margaret, 'Would you wait for me inside, dear?' When she had gone into his inner office, he selected from the papers the teletype Richardson had sent him. It was the report of the Vancouver verdict: the liberation of Henri Duval, the judge's censure of Edgar Kramer. He had read it a moment ago on returning to the floor of the House.

'It's bad,' Richardson began, 'but we can salvage…' 'I'm aware of that,' Howden interrupted. 'It's what I intend.'

He was conscious of a freedom of action he had not possessed before. Despite the tragedy of Harvey Warrender, the personal threat was gone. Warrender's resignation – crudely written, but effective none the less – was in his hand.

He told the party director, 'Issue a press statement this afternoon that Duval will be given a temporary immigrant visa at once. You may quote me as saying that there will be no appeal of the Vancouver judgement or any further attempts to deport him. Also, that on my personal recommendation, the Cabinet will consider an order in council allowing Duval full immigrant status as quickly as possible. You might add something about the Government respecting, as always, the prerogatives of the courts and the rights of individuals. Is all that clear?'

Richardson said approvingly, 'You bet it's clear. Now you're talking.'

'There's something else.' The words came fast, the tone commanding. 'You can't quote me directly on this, but I want it known that this man Kramer is being relieved of his duties and recalled for disciplining. What's more, if you can implant the idea that Kramer has misadvised the Government on this whole Duval business from beginning to end, so much the better.'

'Good,' Richardson said. 'Very good indeed.'

Turning sharply to the executive assistant, the Prime Minister ordered, 'And see that it's done. Call the deputy minister and tell him those are my instructions. You may add that as far as I am concerned I consider Kramer unfit to hold a responsible post again.'

'Yes, sir,' Prowse said.

'You may also tell the deputy that Mr Warrender is indisposed and I shall name an acting minister tomorrow. Remind me.'

'Yes, sir.' Prowse was writing rapidly.

The Prime Minister paused for breath.

'There's this,' Milly interjected. Still monitoring the telephone, she passed him an External Affairs telegram which had come a moment earlier. From the Canadian High Commissioner in London, it began, 'Her Majesty has graciously agreed to accept the invitation…'

The Queen was coming.

It would help, Howden realized; help a great deal. He calculated rapidly, then said. 'I'll announce it in the House tomorrow.' Today would be premature. But coming tomorrow, the day after the Act of Union announcement, there would be an implication of royal approval. And by tomorrow, even though news of the Act of Union would have reached London, Buckingham Palace would not have had time to reconsider…

'There are cabinet resignations,' Milly told him seriously. 'The six that you expected.' She had letters clipped together. He could see Adrian Nesbitson's signature on top.

'I'll take them in the House and table them.' He thought: there was no point in delaying; the situation must be met head on. He informed Milly, 'There's one more resignation, but keep this here.' From the papers in his hand he selected Harvey Warrender's letter, then instructed, 'We'll hold it up for several days.' There was no point in advertising additional disunity; besides, Warrender's resignation was not over the Act of Union. They would wait for a week, then announce reasons of health as the cause. Genuinely, for once, he thought.

An idea occurred to him. He turned to Brian Richardson. 'There's some information I want you to obtain. Within the past few days the Leader of the Opposition has received an unofficial US delegation – two senators and a congressman; they represented others. I want names, dates, places; where they met; who was there; anything else you can get.'

The party director nodded. 'I'll try. It shouldn't be difficult.'

He could use the information in debate, James Howden decided, as a weapon against Bonar Deitz. His own meeting with the President had been publicized; Deitz's meeting could be shown as furtive. Enlarged on skilfully, it could have the odour of conspiracy. People wouldn't like it, and the revelation -coming from himself – would be a telling point. He dismissed a qualm of conscience. Bonar Deitz could afford the luxury of forbearance; as a leader fighting for his political life, the Prime Minister could not.

Elliot Prowse said nervously, 'The time…'

Howden nodded. Entering the inner office, he dosed the door behind him.

Margaret was by the window. She turned, smiling. A moment ago, when she had been banished from outside, she had suffered a feeling of exclusion, knowing there were things about to be said for the ears of others but not her own. In a way, she thought, it was the pattern of her life; beyond certain barriers – unlike Milly Freedeman – she had never been allowed to pass. But perhaps it was her own shortcoming – a lack of enthusiasm for politics; and, either way, the time for protest had gone by long ago. She said softly, 'I came to wish you luck, Jamie.'

He came towards her and kissed her upturned face. 'Thank you, my dear. It looks as if we'll need it all.' She asked, 'Is it really bad?'

'There'll be an election soon,' he answered. 'To be honest, there's a strong chance that the party might lose.'

'I know it isn't what you want,' she told him, 'but even if it happens, at least there's still ourselves.'

He nodded slowly. 'Sometimes I think it's that that keeps me going.' He added, 'Though we might not have long; the Russians don't intend it.'

He was conscious of the minutes passing. 'If it should happen that I lose,' he said, 'you know we've very little money.'. Margaret -said gravely, 'Yes, I know.'."There'll be gifts offered – perhaps large sums. I've decided I shall not accept.' He wondered: would Margaret understand? Understand that near the end of his life – the long upward road, from the orphanage to his country's highest ^office – he could not return to charity again.

Margaret reached out, her hand clasping his. 'It doesn't matter, Jamie.' There was emotion in her voice. 'Oh, I think it's a shame that Prime Ministers should be poor, when you've given-all you have and done so much unselfishly. Perhaps, someday, someone will change it. But for us it doesn't matter.' He had a sense of gratitude and love. How far, he wondered, could generous faith extend? He said, 'There's something else I should have told you years ago.' He held out the old convention programme – its written side uppermost – which Bonar

Deitz had brought him. ^ Margaret read the writing carefully. 'Wherever this came from,' she said, 'I think you should burn it now.' He asked curiously, 'You don't mind?' 'Yes,' she answered, 'I do mind in one way. You could have trusted me, at least.'

'I suppose I was ashamed.'

'Well,' Margaret said, 'I can understand that.'

As he hesitated, she went on, 'If it makes you feel any better, though, I don't believe this changed anything, except for Harvey Warrender. I always felt you were meant to be what you were; to do the things you did.' She handed the paper back, then added softly, 'Everyone does bad as well as good. Burn it, Jamie; you wiped it out long since.'

Crossing to the fireplace, he lit a match and watched the paper flare. He held it by a corner until flames approached his hand. Dropping it, he saw the rest consumed, then ground it into ashes with his heel.

Margaret was fumbling in her handbag. Producing a torn square of newsprint, she told him, 'I saw this in this morning's newspaper. I saved it for you.'

He took it and read: 'For those born under Sagittarius, today is a day of achievement. The tide is turning…' Without finishing, he crumpled the paper into a ball. 'We make our own fortunes,' he said. 'I made mine the day

I married you.'

Chapter 5

At three minutes to four, in the Government lobby, Arthur Lexington was waiting.

The External Affairs Minister said, 'You've cut it fine.' James Howden nodded. 'There were things to be done.' 'I've bad news.' Lexington spoke quickly. 'Immediately after your speech, Nesbitson and the other five are planning to cross the floor of the House.' It was the ultimate blow. A cabinet split, with six resignations, was grave enough. For the same ex-ministers to cross the floor – the utter repudiation of Government and party – had 'connotations of disaster. Once, perhaps, in a generation, a single MP might cross the floor in a moment of high drama. But for a quarter of the Cabinet…

Howden thought grimly: it would focus attention – as nothing else – upon opposition to the Act of Union and to himself.

'They've made an offer,' Lexington said. 'If you'll postpone the announcement, they'll withhold action until we've met again.'

For an instant, Howden hesitated. It would be close, but he could still reach Washington in time. Milly had the open line…

Then he remembered the President's words: There is no time. By reckoning, reason, logic, we've used it all… If we do have time it will be by God's good grace… I'm praying for the gift of the year… The very best for the children; their 'children yet to come…

He said decisively, 'There will be no postponement.'

'That's what I thought,' Lexington said quietly. He added, 'I suppose we should go in.'

The House of Commons was packed – not a vacant seat on the floor of the House, and every gallery full. Public, Press, diplomats, distinguished visitors were crammed in every inch of room. There was a stir as the Prime Minister, with Arthur Lexington behind, came in. The back-bench MP on the Government side, who had been speaking earlier, was winding up, his eye upon the clock, his orders from the party whips, explicit.

For the second time since earlier in the afternoon, James Bowden bowed to the Speaker of the House and took his seat. He was conscious of the multitude of eyes upon him. Soon, as press wires hummed and teletypes spewed out their urgent news, it would be the eyes of North America, even of the world.

Above him, in the diplomatic gallery, he could see the Soviet Ambassador, stiffly unsmiling; the US Ambassador, Phillip Angrove; the British High Commissioner; the ambassadors of France, West Germany, Italy, India, Japan, Israel… a dozen others. Reports would go, by telegraph and courier, to every major capital tonight.

There was a rustle in the Speaker's gallery as Margaret took the front row seat reserved for her. She looked down and, as their eyes met, smiled. Across the centre aisle, Bonar Deitz was attentive, waiting. Hunched behind Deitz was the crippled Arnold Geaney, his bright eyes gleaming. On the Government side, to Howden's right, Adrian Nesbitson stared stiffly ahead, a touch of colour in his cheeks, his shoulders squared.

Respectfully, a page boy placed a note upon the Prime Minister's desk. From Milly Freedeman, it read: "The Joint Session of Congress is assembled, and the President has entered the Capitol. He was delayed by cheering crowds on Pennsylvania Avenue, but will begin his speech on time.'

Delayed by cheering crowds. James Howden felt a surge of envy. The President's strength was firm and growing, his own ebbing away.

And yet… No cause was ever lost until the final hour. If he were going down, he would make a fight until the end. Six cabinet ministers were not the nation, and he would take his case to the people, as he had before. Perhaps, after all, he could survive and win. A sense of force and confidence spread over him. Ten seconds to four. The House of Commons stilled. There were commonplaces here at times: dullness and mediocrity and petty bickerings. But the House could rise, when needed, to a sense of great occasion. It had done so now. This was a moment which history would remember, whatever years for history were left.

In a way, Howden thought, we are a mirror of life itself: our weakness and our smallnesses; and yet, always beyond them, the heights which human beings can attain. Freedom was a height, in whatever form and by whichever measure. If, to sustain the greater part, a little must be lost, it was a sacrifice worth making.

As best he could, he would find words to point the way.

In the Peace Tower above, the quarters chimed. Now, majestically, the great Bourdon Bell announced the hour. The Speaker intoned: 'The Prime Minister.' Deliberately, not knowing what the future held, he rose to address the House.