This Was A Man

44

When Harry woke, he tried to recall a dream that didn’t seem to have had an ending. Was he yet again the captain of the England cricket team about to score the winning run against Australia at Lord’s? No, as far as he could remember, he was running for a bus that always remained a few yards ahead of him. He wondered what Freud would have made of that. Harry questioned the theory that dreams only ever last for a few moments. How could the scientists possibly be sure of that?

He blinked, turned over and stared at the fluorescent green figures on his bedside clock: 5.07. More than enough time to go over the opening lines in his mind before getting up.

The first morning before starting a new book was always the time when Harry asked himself why. Why not go back to sleep rather than once again embark upon a routine that would take at least a year, and could end in failure? After all, he had passed that age when most people have collected their gold watch and retired to enjoy their twilight years, as insurance companies like to describe them. And Heaven knows, he didn’t need the money. But if the choice was resting on his laurels or embarking on a new adventure, it wasn’t a difficult decision. Disciplined, was how Emma described him; obsessed, was Sebastian’s simple explanation.

For the next hour, Harry lay very still, eyes closed, while he went over the first chapter yet again. Although he’d been thinking about the plot for more than a year, he knew that once the pen began to move across the page, the story could unfold in a way he wouldn’t have predicted only a few hours before.

He’d already considered and dismissed several opening lines, and he thought he’d finally settled on one, but that could easily be changed in a later draft. If he hoped to capture the readers’ imagination and transport them into another world, he knew he had to grab their attention with the opening paragraph, and certainly by the end of the first page.

Harry had devoured biographies of other authors to find out how they went about their craft, and the only thing they all seemed to have in common was that there is no substitute for hard work. Some mapped out their entire plot even before they picked up a pen or began to tap away on a typewriter. Others, after completing the first chapter, would then make a detailed outline of the rest of the book. Harry always thought himself lucky if he knew the first paragraph, let alone the first chapter, because when he picked up his pen at six o’clock each morning, he had no idea where it would lead him, which was why the Irish said he wasn’t a writer, but a seannachie.

One thing that would have to be decided before setting out on his latest journey, was the names of the main characters. Harry already knew the book would open in the kitchen of a small house in the back streets of Kiev, where a young boy, aged fifteen, perhaps sixteen, was celebrating his birthday with his parents. The boy must have a name that could be abbreviated, so that when readers were following the two parallel stories, the name alone would immediately tell them if they were in New York or London. Harry had considered Joseph/Joe — too associated with an evil dictator; Maxim/Max — only if he was going to be a general; Nicholai/Nick — too royal, and had finally settled on Alexander/Sasha.

The family’s name needed to be easy to read, so readers didn’t spend half their time trying to remember who was who, a problem Harry had found when tackling War and Peace, even though he’d read it in Russian. He’d considered Kravec, Dzyuba, Belenski, but settled on Karpenko.

Because the father would be brutally murdered by the secret police in the opening chapter, the mother’s name was more important. It needed to be feminine, but strong enough for you to believe she could bring up a child on her own, despite the odds being stacked against her. After all, she was destined to shape the character of the book’s hero. Harry chose Dimitri for the father’s name, and Elena for the mother — dignified but capable. He then returned to thinking about the opening line.

At 5.40 a.m., he threw back the duvet, swung his legs out of bed and placed his feet firmly on the carpet. He then uttered the words he said out loud every morning before he set off for the library. ‘Please let me do it again.’ He was painfully aware that storytelling was a gift that should not be taken for granted. He prayed that like his hero, Dickens, he would die in mid-sentence.

He padded across to the bathroom, discarded his pyjamas, took a cold shower, then dressed in a T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms, tennis socks and a Bristol Grammar School 2nd XI sweater. He always laid out his clothes on a chair before going to bed, and always put them on in the same order.

Harry finally put on a pair of well-worn leather slippers, left the bedroom and headed downstairs, muttering to himself, ‘Slowly and concentrate, slowly and concentrate.’ When he entered the library he walked across to a large oak partner’s desk situated in a bay window overlooking the lawn. He sat down in an upright, red buttoned-back leather chair and checked the carriage clock on the desk in front of him. He never began writing before five minutes to six.

Glancing to his right he saw a clutch of framed photographs of Emma playing squash, Sebastian and Samantha on holiday in Amsterdam, Jake attempting to score a goal, and Lucy, the latest member of the family, in her mother’s arms, reminding him that he was now a great-grandfather. On the other side of the desk were seven rollerball pens that would be replaced in a week’s time. In front of him a 32-lined A4 pad that he hoped would be filled with 2,500 to 3,000 words by the end of the day, meaning the first draft of the first chapter had been completed.

He removed the top from his pen, placed it on the desk beside him, stared down at a blank sheet of paper and began to write.

She had been waiting for over an hour, and no one had spoken to her.

Emma followed a routine every bit as disciplined and demanding as her husband’s, even if it was completely different. Not least because she wasn’t her own mistress. When Margaret Thatcher had won a second term, she had promoted Emma to minister of state at the Department of Health, in acknowledgement of the contribution she had made during her first term of office.

Like Harry, Emma often recalled Maisie’s words, that she should strive to be remembered for something more than just being the first woman chairman of a public company. She hadn’t realized when she accepted that challenge that it would pit her against her own brother, whom Neil Kinnock had shrewdly selected to shadow her. It didn’t help when even the Daily Telegraph referred to Giles as one of the most formidable politicians of the day, and possibly the finest orator in either House.

If she was going to defeat him on the floor of the House, she accepted that it would not be with some witty repartee or a memorable turn of phrase. She would have to rely on blunter instruments: complete command of her brief, and a grasp of detail that would convince her fellow peers to follow her into the Contents lobby when the House divided.

Emma’s morning routine also began at six o’clock, and by seven she was at her desk in Alexander Fleming House, signing letters that had been prepared the day before by a senior civil servant. The difference between her and many of her parliamentary colleagues was that she read every single letter, and didn’t hesitate to add emendations if she disagreed with the proposed script or felt a crucial point had been overlooked.

Around eight a.m., Pauline Perry, her principal private secretary, would arrive to brief Emma on the day ahead; a speech she would be making at the Royal College of Surgeons that evening needed the odd tweak here and there before it could be released to the press.

At 8.55 a.m., she would walk down the corridor and join the Secretary of State for the daily ‘prayer meeting’, along with all the other ministers in the department. They would spend an hour discussing government policy to make sure they were all singing from the same hymn sheet. A casual remark picked up by an alert journalist could all too easily end up as a front-page story in a national newspaper the following day.

Emma was still mercilessly teased about the headline, MINISTER SUPPORTS BROTHELS, when she’d said in an unguarded moment, ‘I have every sympathy with the plight of women who are forced into prostitution.’ She hadn’t changed her mind, but had since learnt to express her views more cautiously.

The main topic for discussion that morning was the proposed bill on the future of the NHS, and the role each one of them would play in seeing any legislation through both Houses. The Secretary of State would present the bill in the Lower House, while Emma would lead for the government in the Upper House. She knew this would be her biggest challenge to date, not least because her brother would, to quote him, be lying in wait.

At eleven a.m., she was driven across Westminster Bridge to the Cabinet Office to attend a meeting to consider the financial implications for the government of keeping to pledges the party had made in the last election manifesto. Some of her colleagues would have to make sacrifices when it came to their pet projects, and each minister knew that just promising to cut costs in their department by being more efficient wouldn’t suffice. The public had heard the paperclips solution once too often.

Lunch with Lars van Hassel, the Dutch minister for health, in the privacy of her office; no civil servants in attendance. A pompous and arrogant man, who was quite brilliant, and knew it. Emma accepted that she would learn more in an hour over a sandwich and a glass of wine with Lars than she would from most of her colleagues in a month.

In the afternoon, it was her department’s turn to answer questions in the Lords, and although her brother landed the occasional blow, no blood was spilt. But then, Emma knew he was saving his heavy artillery for when the NHS bill came before the House.

Questions were followed by a meeting with Bertie Denham, the chief whip, to discuss those members who sat on the government benches but had voiced misgivings when the white paper on the bill was first published. Some sincere, some ill-informed, while others who had sworn undying loyalty to the party if they were offered a peerage suddenly discovered they had minds of their own if it resulted in favourable coverage in the national press.

Emma and the chief whip discussed which of them could be bullied, cajoled, flattered, and in one or two cases bribed with the promise of a place on a parliamentary delegation to some exotic land around the day of the vote. Bertie had warned her that the numbers were looking too close to call.

Emma left the chief whip’s office to return to the ministry and be brought up to date on any problems that had arisen during the day. Norman Berkinshaw, the general secretary of the Royal College of Nursing — Emma could only wonder how much longer it would be before a woman held that post — was demanding a 14 per cent pay rise for his members. She had agreed to a meeting with him, when she would point out that if the government gave way to his demands, it would bankrupt the NHS. But she knew only too well that her words would fall on deaf ears.

At 6.30 p.m. — but by then she would probably be running late — Emma would attend a drinks party at the Carlton Club in St James’s, where she would press the flesh of the faithful and listen intently to their views on how the government should be run, a smile never leaving her face. Then she would be whisked off to the Royal College of Surgeons, with just about enough time to check over her speech in the car. More emendations, more crossings out, then finally underlining the key words that needed to be emphasized.

Unlike Harry, Emma needed to be at her best in the evening, however exhausted she felt. She’d once read that Margaret Thatcher survived on only four hours’ sleep a night, and was always at her desk by five o’clock in the morning, writing notes to ministers, constituency chairmen, civil servants and old friends. She never forgot a birthday, an anniversary or, as Emma had recently experienced, a card of congratulations on the birth of a great-granddaughter.

‘Never forget,’ the Prime Minister had added as a postscript, ‘your dedication and hard work can only benefit Lucy’s generation.’

Emma arrived home at Smith Square just after midnight. She would have phoned Harry, but she didn’t want to wake him, aware that he would be up at six in the morning, working on chapter two. She retired to the study to open another red box, delivered while she was having dinner with the president of the Royal College of Surgeons. She sat down and began working on the first draft of a speech that she knew might well define her entire political career.

‘My lords, it is my privilege to present to the House for its consideration, the second reading of the government’s NHS bill. Let me begin by saying...’

45

‘What brought this on?’ Emma asked as they left the house for their evening walk into Chew Magna.

‘You know I had my annual check-up recently,’ said Harry. ‘Well, I received the results this morning.’

‘Nothing to worry about, I hope?’ said Emma, trying not to sound anxious.

‘All clear. It seems I ticked all the boxes except one, and although I’ve stopped jogging, Dr Richards is pleased that I’m still walking for an hour every morning.’

‘I only wish I could say the same,’ said Emma.

‘Your diary secretary would make sure it was never possible. But at least you try to make up for it at the weekend.’

‘You said every box except one,’ Emma said as they walked along the driveway towards the main road.

‘He says I have a couple of small lumps on my prostate. Nothing to worry about, but it might be wise to deal with it in the not-too-distant future.’

‘I agree with him. After all, you can have an operation nowadays, or a course of radiotherapy, and be back to normal in a few weeks.’

‘I only need another year.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Emma, stopping in her tracks.

‘By then I should have finished Heads You Win, and fulfilled the terms of my contract.’

‘But knowing you, my darling, by then you’ll have another half a dozen ideas racing around in your head. Dare I ask how this one’s going?’

‘Every author believes their latest work is the best thing they’ve ever done, and I’m no exception. But you don’t really have a clue until you read the reviews or, as Aaron Guinzburg says, three weeks later, when you find out if the tills are still ringing up sales once the initial hype is over and you only have word of mouth to rely on.’

‘To hell with Aaron Guinzburg. How do you feel?’ pressed Emma.

‘It’s the best thing I’ve ever done,’ said Harry, beating his chest with bravado, only to add, ‘Who knows? But then, are you able to be realistic about how your speech is coming along?’

‘There’s only one thing I can be sure about. My colleagues will let me know how I’ve done the moment I sit down. They won’t wait three weeks to tell me.’

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘You could get hold of a copy of Giles’s speech so I can find out what I’ll be up against.’

‘Have a word with Karin. I’m sure she could lay her hands on a copy.’

‘That’s exactly what Seb suggested, and I told him that if Giles ever found out, I wouldn’t be the only person he wasn’t speaking to.’

‘Giles’s speech,’ said Harry, ‘will be like Falstaff in full flow, lots of grandiose ideas, most of them impractical, and certainly unaffordable, along with one or two golden nuggets that you’ll be able to steal, and possibly even implement before the next election.’

‘You’re a crafty old thing, Harry Clifton. You would have made a formidable politician.’

‘I would have made a dreadful politician. To start with, I’m not altogether sure which party I support. It’s usually the one in opposition. And the thought of having to expose myself to the press, let alone the electorate, would be enough to make me become a hermit.’

‘What guilty secret are you hiding?’ mocked Emma, as they walked on towards the village.

‘All I’m willing to admit is that I intend to go on writing until I drop, and frankly there are enough politicians in this family already. In any case, like a typical politician, you haven’t answered my question. How’s your speech coming on?’

‘Well enough, but I’m worried it’s a bit dull and workmanlike at the moment. I think I’ve dealt with most of my colleagues’ reservations, even if one or two of them still remain unresolved. Frankly the speech needs a big idea that will keep Giles in his place, and I’ve been hoping you might find the time to read it and give me your honest opinion.’

‘Of course I will. Though I suspect Giles is every bit as anxious as you are and would like nothing better than to get his hands on a copy of your speech. So I wouldn’t be too worried.’

‘Can I ask another favour?’

‘Anything, my darling.’

‘Promise me you’ll go and see a specialist, otherwise I’ll worry,’ said Emma as they linked arms.

‘I promise,’ said Harry, as they passed the parish church and turned down a public footpath that would lead them back across the meadows to the Manor House. ‘But in return, I expect something from you.’

‘That sounds rather ominous.’

‘It’s just that I’d sleep more easily if we both updated our wills.’

‘What’s brought this on?’

‘The realization that I’ll be seventy next year and will have fulfilled the Maker’s contract, not to mention the birth of a great-granddaughter. It would be irresponsible of us not to make sure our affairs are in order.’

‘How morbid, Harry.’

‘Possibly, but it shouldn’t be avoided. It isn’t my will that’s the problem because, other than a few gifts to charities and old friends, I’ve left everything to you, which, according to Seb, is both sensible and at the same time tax advantageous. But both of us should start giving gifts to the children, and as long as we live for another seven years, they won’t be liable for any tax. However, the real problem, he tells me, is your will.’

‘Unless I die before you, darling, then all your best-laid plans...’

‘That’s unlikely, because I think you’ll find that actuaries, like bookies, usually get the odds right. It’s how they make their living. Insurance companies currently work on the assumption that women will outlive their husbands by seven years. The average man will live to the age of seventy-four, while their wives will carry on to eighty-one.’

‘There’s nothing average about you, Harry Clifton, and in any case, I’ve already planned to die about a fortnight after you.’

‘Why a fortnight?’

‘I wouldn’t want the vicar to find the house untidy.’

Harry couldn’t stop grinning. ‘Be serious for a moment, my darling. Let’s assume we’re typical. As I’m a year older than you, you should survive me by eight years.’

‘Bloody statistics.’

‘Nevertheless, I think it’s time for you to update your will, with a view to minimizing the children’s inheritance tax liability, which is still at forty per cent, despite Mrs Thatcher’s promises.’

‘You’ve thought very seriously about this, haven’t you, Harry?’

‘The thought of cancer is a wake-up call that shouldn’t be ignored. In any case, I read the small print in the Prudential’s life policy and couldn’t find any reference to immortality.’

‘I hope we’re not going to have this conversation too often.’

‘Once a year should suffice. But I’ll feel happier when I know your will is in order.’

‘I’ve already left the Manor House to Sebastian and most of my jewellery to Samantha, Jessica and Lucy.’

‘What about Jake?’

‘I don’t think he’d look good in a pearl necklace. In any case, I have a feeling he has inherited all his father’s worst traits and will end up a multimillionaire.’

Harry took her hand as they headed back to the house.

‘On to more pleasant matters,’ he said. ‘Where would you like to spend your summer holidays this year?’

‘On a small island in the Indian Ocean where none of my colleagues will be able to find me.’

‘We haven’t seen Harry and Emma for weeks,’ said Karin. ‘Why don’t we invite them over for lunch on Sunday?’

‘I have no intention of fraternizing with the enemy,’ said Giles, tugging at the lapels of his dressing gown, ‘until the final vote has been cast and the Tories have been defeated.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Giles. She’s your sister.’

‘We only have my parents’ word for that.’

‘So when can I expect to see them again?’

‘Not until the captains and the kings have departed.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Do you think, for one moment, that Wellington would have considered dining with Napoleon the night before Waterloo?’

‘It might have been a damned sight better for everyone concerned if he had,’ said Karin.

Giles laughed. ‘I have a feeling Napoleon might have agreed with you on that.’

‘How much longer do we have to wait before we discover which one of you is to be exiled on St Helena?’

‘Not much longer. A provisional date for the debate has been pencilled into the parliamentary calendar for a week on Thursday.’

‘Dare I ask how your speech is going?’

‘Never better. I think I can safely say it will be greeted with the waving of order papers and prolonged and rapturous applause.’ Giles paused. ‘Actually, I haven’t got a clue, my darling. All I can tell you is that I’ve never worked harder on a speech.’

‘Even if you win the argument, do you really have any chance of defeating the government while it has a built-in majority?’

‘A very real chance. If the crossbenchers and Liberals join us in the lobby, it will be a close-run thing. I’ve also identified about a dozen Tories who are not at all happy with the bill, and are still wavering. If I can convince some of them to cross the floor, or just abstain, it will be neck and neck.’

‘But surely the Conservative whips will be working overtime cajoling, threatening and even bribing any possible rebels?’

‘That’s not quite so easy to pull off in the Lords, where the whips don’t have too many jobs to offer, promotions to hint at or honours to dangle in front of ambitious young politicians. Whereas I can appeal to their vanity by claiming they are courageous, independent men of conscience, who place what is good for the nation ahead of what is good for their party.’

‘What about the women?’ demanded Karin.

‘It’s much harder to bribe women.’

‘You’re a scoundrel, Giles Barrington.’

‘I know, my darling, but you have to understand that being a scoundrel is simply part of a politician’s job description.’

‘If you were to win the vote,’ said Karin, sounding serious for the first time, ‘would that mean Emma might have to resign?’

‘All’s fair in love and war.’

‘I hope you’ve got some better clichés than that in your speech.’

‘Traitor,’ said Giles, as he put his slippers on, disappeared into the bathroom and turned on the hot water. He looked in the mirror, which was rapidly steaming up, and declared, ‘How can the minister pretend to understand the plight of a young mother in Darlington, Doncaster or Durham?

‘Which one do you think?’ he asked, his voice returning to normal.

‘Darlington,’ said Karin. ‘Emma’s unlikely ever to have been there.’

‘—or the hardships suffered by a miner from South Wales, who spends half his life down a pit, or a crofter in the Highlands, who begins work at four in the morning. For these are the very people who rely on their local hospital when they fall sick, only to discover that it’s been closed by those decent, caring Tories opposite, who aren’t interested in saving lives, just saving pennies.’

‘So they can build a bigger, better-equipped hospital just up the road?’ suggested Karin.

‘How can the right honourable lady begin to understand...’ continued Giles, ignoring his wife’s interruption.

‘How long are you going to be in there, Giles?’

‘Stop heckling, woman. I’ve just begun my peroration.’

‘And I need to go to the loo, now.’

Giles came out of the bathroom. ‘And you dare to accuse me of underhand tactics,’ he said, brandishing his shaving brush at her.

Karin didn’t reply, but glared at her half-shaven husband and retreated into the bathroom.

Giles picked up the latest copy of his speech from the bedside table and replaced Durham with Darlington.

‘And how can the right honourable lady hope to understand—’ he leant down and crossed out hope, replacing it with begin, as the bathroom door opened.

‘The minister of state just might remind the noble lord, that she fully understands, as she had the privilege of chairing one of the largest NHS hospitals in the country for seven years.’

‘Whose side are you on?’ demanded Giles.

‘I won’t make up my mind until I’ve heard both sides of the argument,’ said Karin. ‘Because so far, I’ve only listened to one side, several times.’

‘Love, honour and obey,’ said Giles, returning to the bathroom to finish shaving.

‘I didn’t promise to obey,’ said Karin, just before the door was closed.

Karin sat on the end of the bed and began to read Giles’s speech. She had to admit, it wasn’t half bad. The bathroom door swung open and a fully shaven Giles reappeared.

‘It’s time to discuss more pressing matters,’ he said. ‘Where shall we go on holiday this year? I thought perhaps a few days in the South of France. We could stay at La Colombe d’Or, visit the Matisse museum, drive along the Corniche coast, even spend a weekend in Monte Carlo.’

‘Berlin.’

‘Berlin?’ repeated Giles, sitting down beside her on the bed.

‘Yes,’ said Karin, sounding serious. ‘I have a feeling it won’t be long before that barbaric wall finally comes down. Thousands of my countrymen and women are standing on the Western side in silent protest every day, and I’d like to go and join them.’

‘And so you shall,’ said Giles, placing an arm around her shoulder. ‘I’ll give Walter Scheel a call as soon as I get to the office. If anyone knows what’s happening behind the scenes, it will be him.’

‘I wonder where Emma will be going on holiday this year?’ said Karin as she returned to the bathroom.

Giles waited for the door to shut before he said quietly, ‘The island of St Helena, if I have anything to do with it.’

46

‘I must confess, Sir Harry, that I have never read any of your books,’ said the Harley Street specialist, as he looked across the desk at his patient. ‘My colleague Mr Lever, however, is an ardent fan. He was disappointed to hear that you’ve chosen to have an operation rather than a course of radiotherapy, which is his particular field of expertise. Can I begin by asking if that is still the case?’

‘It most certainly is, Mr Kirby. I’ve discussed it at length with my GP, Dr Richards, and my wife, and they’re both of the opinion that I should opt for an operation.’

‘Then my next question,’ said Kirby, ‘and I think I already know the answer, is whether you would prefer to go private or have the operation done on the NHS?’

‘On that particular decision,’ said Harry, ‘I wasn’t given a lot of choice. If your wife has chaired an NHS hospital for seven years, and gone on to become a minister of health, I have a feeling going private would constitute grounds for divorce.’

‘Then all we need to discuss is the timing. I’ve studied your test results and agree with your GP that while your PSA level remains around six, there is no need for alarm. But as it has been increasing steadily year by year, it might be wise not to hold off the operation for too much longer. With that in mind, I’d like to book you in for some time in the next six months. That will have the added bonus that no one will be able to suggest that you jumped the queue because of your connections.’

‘Frankly, that would suit me as well. I’ve just completed the first draft of my latest novel, and I plan to hand in the manuscript to my publishers just before Christmas.’

‘Then that’s one problem settled,’ said Kirby, as he began to turn over several pages of a large desk diary. ‘Shall we say January eleventh at ten o’clock? And I suggest you clear your diary for the following three weeks.’

Harry made a note in his diary, placed three asterisks at the top of the page, and put a line through the rest of the month.

‘I do most of my NHS work at Guy’s or St Thomas’s,’ Kirby continued. ‘I presume that as Tommy’s is just over Westminster Bridge from your home, it would be more convenient for you and your wife.’

‘Indeed it would, thank you.’

‘Now, there is one small complication that has arisen since your last consultation with Dr Richards.’ Kirby swung his chair round and faced a screen on the wall. ‘If you study this X-ray,’ he said, pointing a thin pencil beam of light on to the screen, ‘you will observe that the cancer cells are currently confined to one small area. However, if you look more carefully,’ he added, magnifying the image, ‘you will see that one or two of the little miscreants are attempting to escape. I intend to remove every one of them before they spread to other parts of your body, where they will be able to do far more damage. Although we have recently developed a cure for prostate cancer, the same cannot be said for the bones or liver, which is where these little blighters are heading.’

Harry nodded.

‘Now, I expect, Sir Harry, you may well have some questions of your own.’

‘How long will the operation take, and how quickly will I recover?’

‘The operation usually takes three to four hours, after which you will experience a fairly unpleasant fortnight, but the average patient is pretty well back to normal after three weeks at most. You will be left with little more than half a dozen small scars on your stomach that will quickly fade, and I would expect you to be back at your desk writing within a month.’

‘That’s reassuring,’ said Harry. He hesitated before asking tentatively, ‘How many times have you performed this particular operation?’

‘Over a thousand, so I think I’ve got the hang of it by now,’ said Kirby. ‘How many books have you written?’

‘Touché,’ said Harry, standing up to shake hands with the surgeon. ‘Thank you. I look forward to seeing you again in January.’

‘No one looks forward to seeing me again,’ said Kirby. ‘But in your case, I consider it a privilege to have been chosen as your surgeon. I may not have read any of your books, but I had just started my first job as a registrar at UCH when you made your speech to the Nobel Prize Committee in Stockholm on behalf of Anatoly Babakov.’ He removed a pen from an inside pocket, held it in the air and said, ‘The pen is mightier than the sword.’

‘I’m both flattered and appalled in equal measure,’ said Harry.

‘Appalled?’ said Kirby, a look of surprise on his face.

‘Flattered that you remember my speech, but appalled that you were a young registrar at the time. Am I that old?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Kirby. ‘And when I’m finished with you, you’ll be good for another twenty years.’

‘What do you think?’ whispered Emma.

‘I can’t pretend it would have been my first choice as Jessie’s entry for the RA School’s gold medal,’ admitted Richard.

‘Nor mine. And to think she could have entered one of her traditional portraits, which would surely have given her a chance of winning.’

‘But it is a portrait, Mama,’ said Sebastian.

‘Seb, it’s a giant condom,’ whispered Emma.

‘It is indeed, but you have to look more closely to see its real significance.’

‘Yes, I must confess I’ve missed its real significance,’ said Emma. ‘Perhaps you’d be kind enough to explain it to me.’

‘It’s Jessie’s comment on mankind,’ said Samantha, coming to Seb’s rescue. ‘Inside the condom is a portrait of modern man.’

‘But that’s a—’

‘Yes,’ said Harry, unable to resist any longer. ‘It’s an erect penis in the place of the man’s brain.’

‘And his ears,’ said Emma.

‘Well done, Mama, I’m glad you worked that one out.’

‘But look more closely at the eyes,’ said Samantha, ‘and you’ll see two images of naked women.’

‘Yes, I can see them, but why is the man’s tongue poking out?’

‘I can’t imagine, Mother,’ said Seb.

‘But at three thousand pounds,’ continued Emma, still unconvinced, ‘will anyone buy it?’

‘I intend to,’ said Seb.

‘That’s very loyal of you, my darling, but where on earth will you hang it?’

‘In the banking hall, so everyone can see it.’

‘Sebastian, it’s a giant condom!’

‘It is indeed, Mother, and I suspect one or two of our more enlightened customers might even recognize it as such.’

‘And no doubt you can also explain the title to me,’ said Emma. ‘Every Seven Seconds?’

Sebastian was saved when a distinguished-looking gentleman appeared by their side.

‘Good evening, minister,’ he said to Emma. ‘May I say how delighted I am to see you and your husband at the RA.’

‘Thank you, Sir Hugh. We wouldn’t have missed it.’

‘Is there a particular reason you interrupted your busy schedule to join us?’

‘My granddaughter,’ said Emma, gesturing towards Every Seven Seconds, unable to hide her embarrassment.

‘You must be very proud,’ said the former president of the RA. ‘It is to her credit that she has never mentioned her distinguished grandparents.’

‘I suspect that if your father is a banker and your grandmother a Tory politician, it’s not something you would want to share with your artistic friends. But then I doubt if she’s ever told you we have two of your watercolours hanging in our home in the country.’

‘I’m flattered,’ said Sir Hugh. ‘But I confess I wish I had been born with your granddaughter’s talent.’

‘That’s kind of you, but can I ask you for your candid opinion of Jessica’s latest work?’

The PPRA took a long look at Every Seven Seconds, before saying, ‘Original, innovative. Stretches the boundaries of one’s imagination. I would suggest it is influenced by Marcel Duchamp.’

‘I agree with you, Sir Hugh,’ said Sebastian, ‘which is precisely the reason I’m going to buy the picture.’

‘I’m afraid it’s already been sold.’

‘Someone’s actually bought it?’ said Emma incredulously.

‘Yes, an American dealer snapped it up as soon as the show opened, and several other customers, like you, have been disappointed to find it had already been sold.’

Emma was speechless.

‘Please, will you excuse me, because it’s time to announce the winner of this year’s gold medal.’ Sir Hugh gave a slight bow before leaving them to walk over to the stage at the far end of the room.

Emma was still speechless when a couple of photographers began taking pictures of her standing beside the painting. A journalist turned a page of his notepad and said, ‘May I ask, minister, what you think of your granddaughter’s portrait?’

‘Original, innovative. Stretches the boundaries of one’s imagination. I would suggest it was influenced by Marcel Duchamp.’

‘Thank you, minister,’ said the journalist, writing down her words before hurrying away.

‘You are not only shameless, Mama, but your audacity stretches the boundaries of one’s imagination. I’ll bet you’d never heard of Duchamp before today.’

‘Let’s be fair,’ said Harry, ‘your mother never behaved like this before she became a politician.’

There was a gentle tap on the microphone, and everyone turned to face the stage.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Hugh Casson, and I’d like to welcome you to the Royal Academy School’s exhibition. As chairman of the awards panel, it is now my privilege to announce the winner of this year’s gold medal. I usually preface my words by saying what a difficult decision it has been for the judges, and how unlucky the runners-up were, but not on this occasion, because the panel was unanimous in awarding this year’s gold medal to—’

‘You must be so proud of your granddaughter,’ said the Permanent Secretary when she joined the minister in her office the next morning. ‘She’ll be among such illustrious company.’

‘Yes, I read the details in this morning’s papers, and all the different interpretations of the picture, but tell me, Pauline, what did you make of it?’

‘Original, innovative, and it stretches the boundaries of one’s imagination.’

‘That’s all I need,’ said Emma, not attempting to hide her sarcasm. ‘But I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that it’s a giant condom, which the Sun featured on its front page.’

‘And that condom got more coverage than the government’s entire PR campaign for safer sex, which as I’m sure you remember, minister, you launched last year.’

‘Well, I did manage the odd headline when I said I hoped the campaign would be penetrative,’ said Emma with a smile. ‘Anything else, Pauline?’

‘I’ve just read the latest version of your speech for next Thursday’s debate, minister.’

‘And it sent you to sleep?’

‘I did find it a little prosaic.’

‘A polite way of saying it was dull.’

‘Well, let’s say that an injection of humour wouldn’t do any harm.’

‘Especially as humour is my brother’s forté.’

‘It just might make a difference if the press are right in suggesting it’s going to be a close-run thing.’

‘Can’t we rely on the facts to persuade the waverers?’

‘I wouldn’t count on it, minister. And I think you ought to know that the PM has asked what plans we have in place should we lose the vote.’

‘Has she indeed? Then I’d better go over the speech yet again this weekend. The irony is that if it wasn’t my brother I was up against, I’d be asking him to add the odd bon mot.’

‘I’m sure he’d like to,’ said Pauline, ‘but no doubt that’s why Kinnock gave him the job in the first place.’

‘Hardly subtle,’ said Emma. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, minister, I wonder if I might discuss a personal matter with you.’

‘That sounds rather serious, Pauline, but yes, of course.’

‘Have you been following the latest research to come out of the States concerning DNA?’

‘Can’t say I have,’ said Emma. ‘My red boxes provide me with quite enough reading as it is.’

‘It’s just that I felt the most recent breakthrough in the field might interest you.’

‘Why?’ said Emma, genuinely puzzled.

‘Scientists can now prove conclusively if two people are related.’

‘How did you know?’ asked Emma quietly.

‘When someone is appointed as a minister to the Crown, we prepare a file on them, so that if the press contact us about their past, we are at least forewarned.’

‘And have the press been in touch?’

‘No. But I was at school when the trial was held in the House of Lords that passed judgement on whether your brother or Harry Clifton was the first born, and therefore the lawful heir to the Barrington title and estates. All of us at Berkhamsted High thought it was very romantic at the time, and were delighted when their lordships came down in favour of your brother, making it possible for you to marry the man you loved.’

‘And now I would finally be able to discover if their lordships’ judgement was correct,’ said Emma. ‘Give me a little time to think about it, because I certainly wouldn’t be willing to go ahead without Harry’s blessing.’

‘Of course, minister.’

‘On a lighter note, Pauline, you said you kept a file on me. Does that mean you have a file on every other minister?’

‘We most certainly do. However, that does not mean I would be willing to divulge which of your colleagues is a transvestite, who was caught smoking marijuana in Buckingham Palace, and which law lord likes to dress up as a policeman and go on night patrols.’

‘Just one question, Pauline. Are any of them among the waverers?’

‘Sadly not, minister.’

47

Although most of their lordships had made up their minds how they would vote long before the House assembled for the crucial debate, both Emma and Giles accepted that the fate of the bill now rested in the hands of a dozen or so peers who were yet to be persuaded either way.

Emma had risen early that morning and gone through her speech once again before leaving for the department. She rehearsed several of the key paragraphs out loud, with only Harry as her audience, and although he made some excellent suggestions, she reluctantly accepted that the responsibility of government didn’t allow her the freedom of rhetorical hyperbole that Giles so enjoyed in opposition. But then his single purpose was to embarrass the government when the House divided. Hers was to govern.

When Emma arrived at her office in Alexander Fleming House, she was pleased to find her diary had been cleared so she could concentrate on the one thing uppermost in her mind. Like a restless athlete preparing for an Olympic final, how she spent the last few hours before the race might well decide the outcome. However, in politics there are no prizes for second place.

For the past week, she had tried to anticipate any awkward questions that might arise during the course of the debate, so nothing could take her by surprise. Would Field Marshal Montgomery prove to be right? Nine-tenths of a battle is won in preparation long before the first shot is fired.

Emma was shaking as she climbed into the ministerial car to be driven across the river to the Palace of Westminster. On arrival, she retired to her room, accompanied by a ham sandwich and a black coffee. She went over her speech one more time, adding a couple of minor changes, before making her way to the chamber.

As Big Ben struck twice, the Lord Speaker took his place on the Woolsack, so the day’s business could begin.

The Right Reverend Bishop of Worcester rose from the bishops’ bench, to conduct prayers for the assembled House. Worcester, like his fellow peers, was well aware of the significance of today’s debate, and the fact that although there were over a thousand hereditary peers who had the right to attend proceedings, along with six hundred life peers, the chamber could only hold around five hundred, so it was no surprise that the benches were already packed.

Home Office questions were first on the order paper, but few peers were interested in the answers, and a gentle hum of chatter descended on the House while they waited for the main event.

Giles made his entry towards the end of questions, and was greeted warmly by his colleagues, like a heavyweight boxer before he steps into the ring. He took his seat in the only remaining place on the front bench.

Emma appeared a few moments later, and was greeted equally warmly as she made her way along the government front bench before taking her seat next to the leader of the House.

When questions came to an end, the Lord Speaker indicated that the main business of the day could begin. Lord Belstead rose slowly from his place, put his speech on the despatch box and with all the confidence of a man who had held several offices of state, delivered the opening salvo on behalf of the government.

Once he had delivered his opening remarks, Lord Cledwyn, equally familiar with his surroundings, rose to reply from the opposition benches.

There then followed a series of speeches from the back benches, which Emma and Giles, like the rest of the House, listened to with varying degrees of interest. Everyone was clearly waiting to hear the contributions from the Rt Hon. Lord Barrington of Bristol Docklands, who would be summing up on behalf of the opposition, and the Rt Hon. Baroness Clifton of Chew Magna, who would put the case for the government.

Neither Emma nor Giles left the chamber at any time during the debate, both eschewing a break for supper as they continued to listen to their colleagues’ contributions, while making the occasional note when a particular point was well argued.

Although gaps on the red benches appeared between the hours of seven and nine, Emma and Giles knew the stalls would fill up long before the second-act curtain was due to rise. Only John Gielgud making his last West End appearance in Best of Friends could take such a packed house for granted.

By the time the final speaker rose to make his contribution from the back benches, the only empty seat was on the throne, which was only ever occupied by the monarch when she delivered the Queen’s speech at the opening of Parliament. The steps below the throne and in the aisles between the red benches were packed with noble lords who had been unable to secure a seat. Behind the bar of the House, at the far end of the chamber, stood several members of the House of Commons, including the Secretary of State, who had promised the Prime Minister that everything had been done to ensure that the bill would be passed so the government could make progress with its heavy legislative programme, for which time was fast running out. But from the looks on the faces of those attendees from the Lower House, they were equally unsure of the outcome.

Emma glanced up at the Distinguished Strangers’ Gallery to see members of her family seated in the front row, but they were also members of Giles’s family, and she suspected that they were equally divided. Harry, Sebastian and Samantha unquestionably supported her, while Karin, Grace and Freddie would back Giles, leaving Jessica to hold the casting vote. Emma felt they only mirrored the feelings of her fellow peers.

When Lord Samuels, an eminent former president of the Royal College of Physicians, sat down having delivered the last speech from the cross benches, a buzz of expectation went up around the chamber.

If Giles was nervous when he got to his feet, there was no sign of it. He gripped the sides of the despatch box firmly and waited for silence before delivering his opening line.

‘My lords, I stand before you this evening painfully aware that the fate of the National Health Service rests in our hands. I wish I was exaggerating, but I fear I am not. Because tonight, my lords, you, and you alone, will decide if this dreadful bill’ — he waved the order paper high above his head — ‘will become law, or simply a collector’s item for those interested in the footnotes of history.

‘I do not have to remind your lordships, that it was the Labour Party, under Clem Attlee, which not only founded the NHS, but has been defending its very existence ever since. Whenever this country has had to suffer the travails of a Conservative administration, it has been Labour’s responsibility to ensure that the NHS survives attack after attack from the infidels storming its hallowed gates.’

Loud cheers erupted from behind him, which allowed Giles to turn a page of his script and check the next sentence.

‘My lords, I am ashamed to admit,’ he continued, with an exaggerated sigh, ‘that the latest of these infidels is my own kith and kin, the Baroness Clifton of Chew Magna.’

Both sides of the House joined in the laughter, while Emma wished she had been bestowed with the gift to switch from grave pronouncement to light humour in a moment, and at the same time to carry the House with her.

Giles spent the next twenty minutes dismantling the bill line by line, concentrating particularly on those clauses about which Tory waverers had expressed concerns. Emma could only admire the skill with which her brother heaped praise on the statesmanlike contributions of the few Tories who remained undecided, before adding, ‘We can only hope that those men and women of conscience display the same courage and independence of mind when the time comes to enter the division lobby, and do not at the last moment cast their true beliefs aside, hiding behind the false mask of party loyalty.’

Even by Giles’s standards, it was a formidable performance. Colleagues and opponents alike were on the edge of their seats as he continued, like Merlin, to cast his spell over a mesmerized House. Emma knew she would have to break that spell and drag her colleagues back to the real world if she hoped to win the vote.

‘Let me end, my lords,’ said Giles, almost in a whisper, ‘by reminding you of the power you hold in your hands tonight. You have been granted the one opportunity to throw out this flawed and counterfeit bill, which, were it to become law, would spell the end of the National Health Service as we know it, and stain the memory of its glorious past, and of those good old days.’

He leant across the despatch box and looked slowly up and down the government front bench before saying, ‘This bill proves only one thing, my lords: dinosaurs are not only to be found in the Natural History Museum.’ He waited for the laughter to die down before he lowered his voice and continued, ‘Those of you who, like myself, have studied this bill word for word, will have noticed that one word is conspicuously absent. Search as I might, my lords, nowhere could I find the word “compassion”. But why should that come as a surprise, when the minister opposite, who will shortly present this bill, has herself personally denied hard-working nurses a living wage?’

Cries of ‘Shame!’ came from the opposition benches, as Giles stared across at his sister. ‘And you don’t have to read between the lines to understand that the government’s real purpose in this bill is to replace the word “National” with “Private”, because its first priority is to serve those who can afford to be sick, while leaving on the scrap heap those of our citizens who are unable to bear the cost. That is, and always has been, the overriding philosophy of this government.

‘My lords,’ said Giles, his voice rising in a crescendo, ‘I invite you to vote decisively against this iniquitous bill, so those same citizens can continue to enjoy the security of a truly national health service, because I believe that when it comes to our health, all men —’ he paused and stared across the despatch box at his sister — ‘and women, are born equal.

‘My lords, I don’t ask you, I beg you, to let your views be clearly heard by our fellow countrymen when you cast your votes tonight, and soundly reject this bill.’

He sat down to resounding cheers and the waving of order papers from behind him, and silence from the benches opposite. When the cheers finally died down, Emma rose slowly from her seat, placed her speech on the despatch box and gripped its sides firmly in the hope that no one would see just how nervous she was.

‘My lords,’ she began, her voice trembling slightly, ‘it would be churlish of me not to acknowledge the performance of my noble kinsman, Lord Barrington, but performance it was, because I suspect that when you read his words in Hansard tomorrow, you will see that his speech was long on rhetoric, short on substance and devoid of facts.’

A few muted ‘Hear, hear’s could be heard from her colleagues seated behind her, while the members opposite remained silent.

‘I spent seven years of my life running a large NHS hospital, so I don’t have to prove that I am just as concerned about the future of the National Health Service as anyone sitting on the benches opposite. However, despite all the passion mustered by the noble lord, the truth is that, in the end, someone has to pay the bills and balance the books. The NHS has to be funded with real money, and paid for with the taxes of real people.’

Emma was delighted to see a few heads nodding. Giles’s speech had been well received, but it was her responsibility to explain the finer details of the proposed legislation. She took their lordships through the substance of the bill clause by clause, but was unable to kindle the flame of passion that her brother had ignited so successfully.

As she turned another page, she became aware of what her grandfather, Lord Harvey, once described as losing the attention of the House, that moment when members become listless and begin chattering among themselves. Far more damning even than jeering or cries of ‘Shame’.

She glanced up to see an elderly peer nodding off, and when, moments later, he began to snore, the members seated on either side of him made no attempt to wake him, as they were all too clearly enjoying the minister’s discomfort. Emma realized the minutes were slipping away before the House would be asked to divide and the votes would be counted. She turned another page. ‘And now I would like to acknowledge the backbone of the NHS, our magnificent nurses, who—’

Giles leapt to his feet to interrupt the minister, and in doing so strayed on to enemy territory. Emma immediately gave way, allowing her brother to command the despatch box.

‘I am grateful to the noble lady for giving way, but may I ask, if she considers nurses are doing such a magnificent job, why are they only receiving a three per cent pay rise?’ Convinced that Emma was now on the ropes, he sat down to loud cries of ‘Hear, hear!’

Emma resumed her place at the despatch box. ‘The noble lord, if I recall his words correctly, demanded a fourteen per cent pay rise for nurses.’ Giles nodded vigorously. ‘So I am bound to ask him where he expects the government to find the extra money to pay for such an increase?’

Giles was quickly back on his feet, ready to deliver the knockout blow. ‘It could start by putting up taxes for the highest earners, who can well afford to pay a little more to assist those less fortunate than themselves.’ He sat down to even louder cheers, while Emma waited patiently at the despatch box.

‘I’m glad the noble lord admitted that would be a start,’ she said, picking up a red file that a Treasury official had handed her that morning, ‘because a start is all it would be. If he is asking this House to believe that the Labour Party could cover a fourteen per cent pay rise for nurses simply by raising taxes for those earning forty thousand pounds a year or more, let me tell him this, he would require a tax hike to ninety-three per cent year on year. And I confess,’ she added, borrowing her brother’s brand of sarcasm, ‘I hadn’t realized that a tax rate of ninety-three per cent was Labour Party policy, because I didn’t spot it in their manifesto, which I read word for word.’

Emma could hear the laughter coming from behind her, even if she couldn’t see her colleagues jabbing their fingers at her brother and repeating, ‘Ninety-three per cent, ninety-three per cent.’

Like Giles, she waited for silence before adding, ‘Perhaps the noble lord would tell the House what other ideas he has for covering the extra cost?’

Giles remained seated.

‘Might I be allowed to suggest one or two ways of raising the necessary funds that would help him to reach his target of fourteen per cent?’

Emma had recaptured the attention of the House. She turned a page of the Treasury memo inside the red file. ‘For a start, I could cancel the three new hospitals planned for Strathclyde, Newcastle and Coventry. That would solve the problem. Mind you, I’d need to close another three hospitals next year. But I am not willing to make that sacrifice, so perhaps I should look at some other departments’ budgets and see what my colleagues have to offer.’

She turned another page.

‘We could cut back on our plans for new universities, or withdraw the three per cent increase in the old age pension. That would solve the problem. Or we could cut back on our armed forces by mothballing the odd regiment. No, no, we couldn’t do that,’ she said scornfully, ‘not after the noble lord spoke so passionately against any cutbacks in the armed forces budget only a month ago.’

Giles sank further into his seat.

‘And remembering the noble lord’s distinguished record in another place, as a Foreign Office minister, perhaps we could close half a dozen of our embassies. That should do the trick. We could even leave him to decide which ones. Washington? Paris? Moscow perhaps? Beijing? Tokyo? I’m bound to ask, is this another Labour Party policy they forgot to mention in their manifesto?’

Suddenly the government benches were alight with laughter and cheering.

‘No, my Lord Speaker,’ continued Emma once the house had fallen silent again, ‘the truth is, words are cheap, but action comes more expensive, and it’s the duty of a responsible government to consider priorities and make sure it balances the books. That undertaking was in the Tory manifesto, and I make no apology for it.’

Emma was aware that she only had a couple of minutes left, and the cheering of her delighted colleagues was eating away at her time.

‘I must therefore tell the House that I consider education, pensions, defence and our role in world affairs every bit as important as my own department. But let me assure your lordships, when it comes to my own department, I fought the Treasury tooth and nail to keep those three new hospitals in the budget.’ She paused, raised her voice and said, ‘This morning the Chancellor of the Exchequer agreed that the nurses will be awarded a six per cent pay rise.’

The benches behind her erupted in prolonged cheers.

Emma abandoned the final pages of her script and, looking directly at her brother, said, ‘None of this, however, will be possible if you follow the noble lord into the Not Contents lobby tonight and vote against this bill. If I am, as he suggests, an infidel storming the hallowed gates of the National Health Service, then I must tell him that I intend to open those gates to allow all patients to enter. Yes, my lords, free at the point of use, to quote his hero Clement Attlee. And that is the reason, my lords, I do not hesitate to urge you to join me in the real world and support this bill, so that when I return to my department tomorrow morning, I can set about making the necessary changes that will ensure the future of the National Health Service and not allow it to languish in the past, along with my noble kinsman, Lord Barrington, who will presumably still be reminiscing fondly about the good old days. I, my lords, will be telling my grandchildren, and also my great-granddaughter, about the good new days. But that will only be possible if you support this bill, and join me in the Contents lobby tonight. My lords, I beg to move the second reading.’

Emma sat down to the loudest cheer of the night, while Giles sat slumped back, aware that he shouldn’t have raised his head above the parapet, but should simply have feigned boredom and allowed Emma to dig her own grave. She glanced across the chamber at her brother, who raised a hand, touched his forehead and mouthed the word ‘Chapeau’. Praise indeed. But both of them were well aware that the votes still had to be counted.

When the division bell rang, members began to make their way towards the corridors of their conviction. Emma entered the Contents lobby, where she spotted one or two fence-sitters and waverers casting their vote. But would it be enough?

Once she had given her name to the teller seated at his high desk, ticking off each member, she returned to her seat on the front bench and joined in the inconsequential chatter that always rises like hot air from both sides while members wait for the whips to return and deliver the verdict of the House.

A hush descended on the chamber when the four gentlemen ushers lined up and marched slowly towards the table at the centre of the chamber.

The chief whip held up a card and, once he’d double-checked the figures, declared, ‘Contents to the left, four hundred and twenty-two.’ Emma held her breath. ‘Not Contents to the right, four hundred and eleven. The Contents have it. The Contents have it.’

Cheers erupted from the benches behind Emma. As she made her way out of the chamber, she found herself surrounded by supporters telling her they had never doubted she would win. She smiled and thanked them.

She finally managed to break away and join Harry and the rest of the family in the peers’ guest room, where she was delighted to find Giles opening a bottle of champagne. He filled her glass and raised his own.

‘To Emma,’ he said, ‘who not only won the argument but also the battle, as our mother predicted she would.’

Once the rest of the family had departed, Harry, Giles, Emma, Karin and Freddie — his first glass of champagne — walked slowly back to their home in Smith Square. Emma climbed into bed exhausted, but an intoxicating mix of adrenaline and success made it impossible for her to sleep.

The following morning, Emma woke at six, her cruel body clock ignoring her desire to go on sleeping.

Once she had showered and dressed, she hurried downstairs, looking forward to reading the reports of the debate in the papers while enjoying a cup of tea, and perhaps even a second slice of toast and marmalade. The papers were already laid out on the dining table. She read the headline in The Times and collapsed into the nearest chair, her head in her hands. That had never been her intention.

Emma knew that ‘resigned’ was a parliamentary euphemism for sacked.

48

Harry put down his pen, leapt in the air and shouted ‘Hallelujah!’, which was what he always did whenever he wrote those two words. He sat back down, looked up at the ceiling, and said, ‘Thank you.’ Another ritual fulfilled.

In the morning, he would send copies of the script to three people, so they could read Heads You Win for the first time. Then he would suffer his annual neurosis, while he waited to hear their opinions. But just like him, they all had their own routines.

The first, Aaron Guinzburg, his American publisher, would leave his office and go home the moment the manuscript landed on his desk, having given clear instructions that he was not to be disturbed until he had turned the last page. He would then call Harry, sometimes forgetting what time it was in England. His view could often be discounted because he was always so enthusiastic.

The second was Ian Chapman, his English publisher, who always waited until the weekend before he read the book, and would call Harry first thing on Monday morning to offer his opinion. As he was a Scotsman who was unable to hide his true feelings, this only made Harry more apprehensive.

The third, and by far the most intuitive of his first readers, was his sister-in-law, Grace, who not only offered her disinterested opinion, but invariably accompanied it with a ten-page written report, and occasionally, forgetting he was not one of her pupils, corrected his grammar.

Harry had never considered Grace to be an obvious William Warwick fan until in an unguarded moment she admitted to a penchant for racy novels. However, her idea of racy was Kingsley Amis, Graham Greene (the ones he described as entertainments) and her favourite, Ian Fleming.

In return for her opinion, Harry would take Grace to lunch at the Garrick, before accompanying her to a matinee, preferably by her favourite racy playwright, Terence Rattigan.

Once the three manuscripts had been despatched by courier, the agonizing wait began. Harry’s three readers had all been warned that Heads You Win was a departure from his usual fare, which only made him more anxious.

He had considered allowing Giles, who had a lot more time on his hands lately, and Sebastian, his most ardent fan, to also be among the first to read his latest manuscript, but decided not to break with his usual routine. He would allow them to read the final draft over Christmas, after his line editor had suggested any changes.

Miss Eileen Warburton, a spinster of this parish, was a woman Harry suspected lived alone in a basement flat and, like Mole, didn’t emerge until spring. During those winter months, she would spend her time toiling away on her authors’ hapless scripts, correcting their mistakes, some of which were so inconsequential no one else would ever have noticed them. While others, howlers, as she liked to describe them, had they gone uncorrected, would have caused a thousand irate letters to end up on the author’s desk, pointing out his stupidity. Miss Warburton never allowed Harry to forget that Geneva was not the capital of Switzerland, and that the Titanic had sunk on April 15th, not 14th.

In a moment of flippant bravado, Harry had once reminded her that in Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, the heroine’s eyes changed from black to brown to blue and back to black again in less than a hundred pages.

‘I never comment on books I haven’t edited,’ she said, without any suggestion of irony.

Emma would be among the last to read the manuscript, when it was in proof form. Everyone else would have to wait until publication day before they could get their hands on a copy.

Harry had planned to spend a relaxing weekend once the book was finished. On Saturday afternoon, he and Giles would drive over to the Memorial Ground and watch Bristol play their old rivals Bath. In the evening, he would take Emma to the Bristol Old Vic to see Patricia Routledge in Come for the Ride, followed by dinner at Harvey’s.

On Sunday, he and Emma had been invited by Giles and Karin to lunch at Barrington Hall. They would later attend evensong, when he would spend most of the sermon wondering which page his three readers were on. As for an unbroken night’s sleep, that would not be back on the agenda until all three had called and given their opinion.

When the phone rang, Harry’s first thought was that it was too early for any of them to have finished the book. He picked it up to hear Giles’s familiar voice on the other end of the line.

‘Sorry to mess you about, Harry, but I won’t be able to join you for rugby on Saturday, and we’ll also have to postpone lunch on Sunday.’ Harry didn’t need to ask why, because an explanation followed immediately. ‘Walter Scheel called earlier. The East Germans have opened the floodgates at last, and their citizens are pouring across the border. I’m calling from Heathrow. Karin and I are about to board a flight to Berlin. We’re hoping to get there before they start knocking the wall down, because she and I plan to be part of the demolition crew.’

‘That’s the most wonderful news,’ said Harry. ‘Karin must be delighted. Tell her I’m envious, because when people ask where were you on the day the wall came down, you’ll be able to tell them. And if you can, bring me back a piece.’

‘I’m going to have to take an extra suitcase,’ said Giles. ‘So many people have made the same request.’

‘Just remember, you’ll be witnessing history, so before you go to bed each night, be sure to write down everything you’ve experienced that day. Otherwise you’ll have forgotten the details by the time you wake up.’

‘I’m not sure we’ll be going to bed,’ said Giles.

‘May I ask why you’re carrying a hammer in your bag, sir?’ asked a vigilant security officer at Heathrow.

‘I’m hoping to break down a wall,’ Giles replied.

‘I wish I could join you,’ said the officer, before zipping up the overnight bag.

When Giles and Karin climbed aboard the Lufthansa plane half an hour later, it was as if they had gatecrashed a party rather than joined a group of passengers who would normally be fastening their seatbelts prior to receiving safety instructions from a zealous air hostess. Once the flight had taken off, champagne corks were popping, and passengers chatted to their neighbours as if they were old friends.

Karin held on to Giles’s hand throughout the entire flight, and she must have said, ‘I just can’t believe it’ a dozen times, still fearful that by the time they landed in Berlin, the party would be over and everything would have returned to normal.

After two hours that seemed like an eternity the plane finally touched down, and the moment it had taxied to a halt, the passengers leapt out of their seats. The usual orderly queue that the Germans are so famed for disintegrated, to be replaced by an undisciplined charge as the passengers rushed down the steps, across the tarmac and into the airport. Tonight, no one would be standing still.

Once they had cleared customs, Giles and Karin headed out of the terminal in search of a taxi, only to discover a heaving mass of people with the same thought in mind. However, to Giles’s surprise, the line moved quickly, as three, four, or even five passengers piled into each cab, all of them heading in the same direction. When they finally reached the front of the queue, Giles and Karin joined a German family who didn’t need to tell the driver where they wanted to go.

‘Englishman, why you come to Berlin?’ asked the young man squeezed up against Giles.

‘I’m married to an East German,’ he explained, placing an arm around Karin’s shoulder.

‘How did your wife escape?’

‘It’s a long story.’ Karin came to Giles’s rescue, and it took her three slow miles of unrelenting traffic, speaking in her native tongue, before she came to the end of her tale, which was greeted with enthusiastic applause. The young man gave Giles a new look of respect, although he hadn’t understood a word his wife had said.

With a mile to go, the taxi driver gave up and stopped in the middle of a road that had been turned into a dance floor. Giles was the first out of the car and took out his wallet to pay the driver, who said simply, ‘Not tonight,’ before swinging round and heading back to the airport; another man who would tell his grandchildren about the role he’d played the night the wall came down.

Hand in hand, Giles and Karin weaved their way through the exuberant crowd towards the Brandenburg Gate, which neither of them had seen since the afternoon Karin had escaped from East Berlin almost two decades ago.

As they drew closer to the great monument, built by King Frederick William II of Prussia, ironically as a symbol of peace, they could see ranks of armed soldiers lined up on the far side. Giles thought about Harry’s suggestion that he should write down everything he witnessed, for fear of forgetting the moment, and wondered what his brother-in-law would have considered the appropriate word to describe the expressions on the soldiers’ faces. Not anger, not fear, not sadness; they were simply bemused. Like everyone dancing around them, their lives had been changed in a moment.

Karin stared at the soldiers from a distance, still wondering if it was all too good to be true. Would one of them recognize her, and try to drag her back across the border even now?

Although a united people were celebrating all around her, she remained unconvinced that life wouldn’t return to normal when the sun rose. As if Giles could read her thoughts, he took her in his arms and said, ‘It’s all over, my darling. You can turn the page. The nightmare has finally come to an end.’

An East German officer appeared from nowhere and barked out an order. The soldiers shouldered their weapons and marched off, which caused an even louder roar of approval. While everyone around them danced, drank and sang ecstatically, Giles and Karin made their way slowly through the crowd towards the graffiti-covered wall, on top of which hundreds of revellers were dancing, as if it were the grave of a hated foe.

Karin stopped and touched Giles’s arm when she spotted an old man hugging a young woman. It was clear that, like so many people on that unforgettable night, they were finally being reunited after twenty-eight years apart. Laughter, joy and celebration were mingled with tears, as the old man clung on to the granddaughter he had thought he would never meet.

‘I want to stand on top of the wall,’ declared Karin.

Giles looked up at the twelve-foot-high monument commemorating failure, on which hundreds of young people were having a party. He decided it wasn’t the moment to remind his wife that he was nearly seventy. This was a night for shedding years.

‘Great idea,’ he said.

When they reached the foot of the wall, Giles suddenly knew what Edmund Hillary must have felt when faced with the final ascent of Everest, but two young Sherpas, who had just descended, cupped their hands and made the first rung of a ladder, so he could take their place on the summit. He couldn’t quite make it, but two other young revellers reached down and yanked him up to join them.

Karin joined him a moment later and they stood, side by side, staring across the border. She was still unwilling to believe she wouldn’t wake up and find it was all a dream. Some East Germans were attempting to climb up from the other side, and Karin stretched down to offer a young girl a hand. Giles took a photograph of the two women, who’d never met before, hugging each other as if they were old friends. A photograph that would end up on their mantelpiece in Smith Square to commemorate the day East and West returned to sanity.

From their lofty position, Giles and Karin watched a flood of people flowing downstream to freedom, while the guards, who only the night before would have shot anyone attempting to cross the border, just stood and stared, unable to comprehend what was happening all around them.

Karin was finally beginning to believe that the genie had escaped from the communist bottle, but it took her another hour to summon up the courage to say to Giles, ‘I want to show you where I lived.’

Giles found the descent from the wall almost as difficult as clambering up it had been, but with the help of several outstretched hands, he somehow managed it, though he needed to catch his breath once his feet had touched the ground.

Karin took his hand and they battled against a one-way stampede of human traffic as she led him slowly towards the border post. Thousands of men, women and children, carrying bags, suitcases, even pushing prams laden with their life’s possessions, were heading in one direction, leaving their old lives behind, clearly unwilling to consider returning in case they should find themselves trapped once again.

After they’d passed under the red and white barrier and left the West, Giles and Karin joined a trickle of citizens who were heading in the same direction as themselves. Karin hesitated, but only for a moment, when they passed the second barrier and found themselves on East German soil.

There were no border guards, no snarling Alsatians, no thin-lipped officials to check that their visas were in order. Just an eerie, unoccupied wilderness.

There were also no taxi queues, as there were no taxis. They passed a little group of East Germans kneeling in silent prayer, in memory of those who’d sacrificed their lives to make today possible.

The two of them continued to weave their way through the crowds that were melting away with each step they took. It was well over an hour before Karin finally stopped and pointed towards a group of identical grey tenement buildings that stood in a grim line, reminding her of a past life she’d almost forgotten.

‘This is where you lived?’

She looked up and said, ‘The nineteenth floor, second window on the left is where I spent the first twenty-four years of my life.’

Giles counted until he reached a tiny curtainless window on the nineteenth floor, second from the left, and couldn’t help recalling where he’d spent the first twenty-four years of his life: Barrington Hall, a townhouse in London, the castle in Scotland in which he spent a few weeks every summer, and then of course there was always the villa in Tuscany should he need a break.

‘Do you want to go up and see who’s living there now?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Karin firmly. ‘I want to go home.’

Without another word, she turned her back on the towering blocks of grey concrete and joined those of her countrymen who were heading towards the West, to experience a freedom that she had never taken for granted.

She didn’t once look back as they walked towards the border, although a moment of anxiety returned as they approached the crossing point, but it quickly evaporated when she saw some of the guards, jackets unbuttoned, collars loosened, dancing with their newly made friends, no longer from East or West, now simply Germans.

Once they had passed under the barrier and were back in the West, they found young and old alike attempting, with sledgehammers, crowbars, chisels and even a nail file, to dismantle the 800-mile-long monstrosity piece by piece. The physical symbol of what Winston Churchill had described as the Iron Curtain.

Giles unzipped his bag, took out the hammer and handed it to Karin.

‘You first, my darling.’