This Was A Man

49

‘It’s that time of the year,’ said Emma as she raised a glass of mulled wine.

‘When we all throw our toys out of the pram,’ said Giles, ‘and refuse to join in with any of your games?’

‘It’s that time of the year,’ repeated Emma, ignoring her brother, ‘when we raise a glass in memory of Joshua Barrington, founder of the Barrington Shipping Line.’

‘Who made a profit of thirty pounds, four shillings and tuppence in his first year, but promised his board he would make more in the future,’ Sebastian reminded everyone.

‘Thirty-three pounds, four shillings and tuppence, actually,’ said Emma. ‘And he did make more, a lot more.’

‘He must have turned in his grave,’ said Sebastian, ‘when we sold the company to Cunard for a cool forty-eight million.’

‘Mock you may,’ said Emma, ‘but we should be grateful to Joshua for all he did for this family.’

‘I agree,’ said Harry, who stood, raised his glass and said, ‘To Joshua.’

‘To Joshua,’ declared the rest of the family.

‘And now to business,’ said Emma, putting down her glass.

‘It’s New Year’s Eve,’ protested Giles, ‘and you seem to forget you’re in my house, so I think we’ll have a year off.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Emma. ‘Only Lucy will be spared this year.’

‘But be warned, young lady,’ said Harry, smiling at his great-granddaughter, who was fast asleep in her mother’s arms, ‘your reprieve is only temporary.’

‘That is correct,’ said Emma, as if Harry hadn’t been joking. ‘The time has come for everyone to tell us their New Year’s resolutions.’

‘And the brave ones,’ said Harry, ‘will remind us of last year’s.’

‘Which I’ve recorded in this little red book,’ said Emma, ‘just in case anyone’s forgotten.’

‘Of course you have, Chairman Mao,’ said Giles, refilling his glass.

‘Who’d like to go first?’ said Emma, once again ignoring her brother.

‘I’m looking for another job,’ said Samantha.

‘Still in the art world?’ asked Harry.

‘Yes. The Wallace Collection is advertising for a deputy director, and I’ve applied for the position.’

‘Bravo,’ said Grace. ‘The Courtauld’s loss will be the Wallace’s gain.’

‘It’s just the next step on the ladder,’ said Sebastian. ‘My bet is that by this time next year, Samantha’s New Year’s resolution is to be chairman of the Tate.’

‘So what about you, Seb? What will you have achieved by this time next year?’

‘I intend to go on annoying my aunt Grace by making her more and more money.’

‘Which I can then distribute to more and more worthy causes,’ said Grace.

‘Don’t worry, Victor’s already seeing to that, as Karin will confirm.’

‘I read Mr Kaufman’s report,’ said Grace, ‘and it does great credit both to you and to the bank, Sebastian.’

‘Praise indeed,’ said Emma, making a note before looking across at her sister. ‘As you’re one of the few among us who has a tick by her name every year, Grace, what have you got planned for the next twelve months?’

‘Seven of my young charges are hoping to be offered a place at university this year, and I am determined that all seven of them will achieve it.’

‘What are their chances?’ asked Harry.

‘I’m confident that the four girls will all make it, but I’m not so sure about the boys.’

Everyone laughed except Grace.

‘My turn, my turn!’ demanded Jake.

‘Now, if I remember correctly,’ said Emma, ‘last year you wanted to leave school. Do you still want to?’

‘No,’ said Jake firmly. ‘I want Mom to get that job.’

‘Why?’ asked Samantha.

‘Because then I won’t be late for school every morning.’

‘From out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,’ said Harry, unable to hide a smile.

Samantha reddened, while the rest of the family burst out laughing. ‘Then I’d better have two resolutions this year,’ she managed eventually. ‘One for me, and one for Jake.’

‘As Giles seems unwilling to join in this year,’ said Emma, ‘how about you, Karin? Will you be running another marathon?’

‘Never again. But I have joined the committee of the Marsden charitable trust, and I’m hoping the family will finance a mission. That doesn’t include Sebastian, by the way.’

‘Does that mean I’m off the hook this year?’

‘No,’ said Karin. ‘I’ve convinced Victor that the bank should finance its own mission, the Farthings Kaufman Mission.’

‘What’s that going to cost me?’

‘It will cost the bank twenty-five thousand pounds,’ said Karin, ‘but then I’m expecting you to finance your own mission.’

Sebastian was about to protest when Grace said, ‘And Giles and I would also like to finance a mission, the Barrington Mission.’ Giles smiled at his sister and bowed.

‘As will Emma and I,’ said Harry, which caused the rest of the family to start applauding.

‘I dread to think what your resolution will be next year,’ said Sebastian.

‘I haven’t finished with this year yet,’ said Karin.

‘Sebastian, Jessica, Richard, Lucy and I will be delighted to join you,’ said Samantha, ‘and finance our own mission.’

Sebastian looked to the heavens and said, ‘Joshua Barrington, you’ve got a lot to answer for.’

‘Well done, Karin,’ said Emma as she wrote down the details in her red book. ‘Follow that, Jessica,’ she added, smiling at her granddaughter.

‘I’m hoping to be shortlisted for the Turner Prize.’

‘I can’t imagine why,’ said Grace. ‘Turner would never have won the Turner Prize.’

‘That would be quite an achievement, young lady,’ chipped in Harry.

‘And if she is,’ said Richard, ‘she’ll be the youngest artist ever to have been shortlisted.’

‘Now that is worth achieving,’ said Grace. ‘What are you working on at the moment?’

‘I’ve just begun a series called The Tree of Life.’

‘Oh, I love trees,’ said Emma, ‘and you’ve always been so good at landscapes.’

‘It won’t be that kind of tree, Grandmama.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Emma, ‘a tree is a tree.’

‘Unless it’s symbolic,’ suggested Harry, smiling at his granddaughter.

‘And what’s your resolution, Grandpops? Is your book going to win the Booker?’

‘Not a hope,’ said Grace. ‘That prize will never be awarded to a storyteller, more’s the pity. But I can tell you all, because I’m the only person in this room who’s read it, that Harry’s latest novel is by far his most accomplished work to date. He’s more than fulfilled his mother’s hopes, so he can take a year off.’

Harry was taken by surprise. He’d planned to tell the family he’d be having a major operation in January, but that there was no need to worry because he’d only be out of action for a few weeks.

‘What about you, Emma?’ said Giles. ‘Are you planning to be PM by this time next year?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Emma. ‘But I do intend to be even more of an infidel next year than I was last year,’ she added, putting her glass down on the table, and spilling a little wine.

‘What’s an infidel?’ asked Jake.

‘Someone who votes Conservative,’ said Giles.

‘Then I want to be infidel. But only if Freddie’s an infidel too.’

‘I most certainly am,’ said Freddie.

‘Lyricist?’ demanded Grace.

‘W. S. Gilbert.’

‘Which operetta?’

‘Iolanthe,’ said Freddie, ‘and as I’m already an infidel, I’ve decided to come up with a new resolution this year.’

‘But you haven’t scored that century at Lord’s yet,’ Giles reminded him.

‘I still intend to, but by this time next year, I will have changed my name.’

Freddie’s unexpected announcement left everyone, even Jake, speechless.

‘But I’ve always liked Freddie,’ Emma eventually managed. ‘I think it rather suits you.’

‘Freddie’s not the name I want to change. From January first, I’d like to be known as Freddie Barrington.’

The round of applause that followed left Freddie in no doubt that the family approved of his New Year’s resolution.

‘It’s a simple enough procedure,’ said Grace, ever practical. ‘You only have to sign a deed poll and Fenwick will be a thing of the past.’

‘I had to sign a lot more forms to achieve that,’ said Giles, shaking hands with his son.

The phone began to ring and a moment later Markham appeared.

‘It’s Lord Waddington on the phone,’ he said.

‘The prince of infidels,’ said Giles. ‘Why don’t you take the call in my study, Emma?’

‘It must be serious for him to call me on New Year’s Eve,’ said Emma.

‘The call is not for you, my lady,’ said Markham. ‘He asked to speak to Lord Barrington.’

‘Are you sure, Markham?’

‘Quite sure, my lady.’

‘Then you’d better go and find out what he wants,’ said Emma.

If Jessica and Freddie had caused silence, a phone call from the leader of the Lords caused the rest of the family to all start talking at once. They didn’t fall silent until the door opened and their host reappeared. They all looked at him in anticipation.

‘Well, that’s sorted out my New Year’s resolution,’ was all Giles had to say.

‘You’re going to have to tell them at some point,’ said Emma, as she and Harry walked back to the Manor House early the next morning.

‘I’d intended to yesterday afternoon, but Grace rather upstaged me, not to mention Freddie and Giles.’

‘Giles couldn’t hide how delighted he was by Freddie’s decision.’

‘Did he tell you why Lord Waddington wanted to speak to him?’

‘Not a word.’

‘You don’t think he could be crossing the floor and joining the infidels?’

‘Never. That’s just not his style. But now you’ve handed in the book, is there anything else you have to do before going into hospital?’

‘I wish I could do that.’

‘Do what?’

‘Change the subject without having to include a link line. You’d never get away with it in a book. In real life, when two people are having a conversation, they switch back and forth without thinking about it, sometimes even in mid-sentence. Scott Fitzgerald wrote a short story recording a real-life conversation, and it was unreadable.’

‘How interesting. Now answer the question.’

‘No,’ said Harry. ‘Now that the line editor and the proofreader have done their damndest, there’s not a lot more I can do before the book is published.’

‘What did the redoubtable Miss Warburton catch you out on this time?’

‘I had a New York detective reading the Miranda Rights to a prisoner three years before they came into force.’

‘Oops. Anything else?’

‘Colons that should have been semi-colons, and it appears I use the expression “no doubt” too often throughout the book. Something else everyone does in normal life, but you can’t get away with it in a novel.’

‘Will you be going on any book tours this time?’

‘I expect so. Most readers will assume it’s another William Warwick novel, and I’ll have to disabuse them of that. And in any case, Aaron is already lining up a tour of the States for me, and my London publishers are pressing me to visit the Bombay Book Festival.’

‘Does the timing work? It all sounds quite demanding.’

‘It’s all rather convenient, actually. I check into St Thomas’s in a couple of weeks’ time, and by the time the novel is published, I should have fully recovered.’

‘Once you’re out of hospital, I don’t think you should come down here. Stay in London where Karin, Giles and I can fuss over you. In fact I’ve already warned my department I’ll be away for at least a couple of weeks.’

‘I think Giles might be away for a lot longer than that.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘There’s a rumour doing the rounds that our ambassador in Washington will be retiring in the spring.’

50

The office was smaller than he’d expected, but the magnificent wood panelling and fine oil portraits of his predecessors left him in no doubt of the historic importance of his new role.

His duties had been carefully explained to him by Commander Rufus Orme, his private secretary. Like the monarch, he may have had little real power in his new position, but immense influence. Indeed, when it came to state occasions he followed in the Queen’s footsteps, with the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Prime Minister a pace behind.

He was assisted by a small, well-trained team who would take care of his every need, although he wondered how long it would take him to get used to someone helping him get dressed. His valet, Croft, would appear at the same hour every day to perform a ceremony that needed to be timed to the second.

He began to take off his clothes until he was standing in only his vest and pants. He felt quite ridiculous. Croft helped him into a white shirt that had been freshly ironed earlier that morning. A starched white collar was attached to a stud in the back of the shirt, followed by a frilly lace neckerchief where a normal man would wear a tie. He didn’t need to look in the mirror. Croft was his mirror. The valet then turned his attention to a long black and gold silk gown that was draped on a wooden mannequin in a corner of the room. He lifted it carefully and held the gown up so the new recipient could place his arms in the long gold sleeves. Croft stood back, checked his master, then dropped to his knees to help him into a pair of shiny, brass-buckled shoes. He stood up again and removed a full-bottomed wig from the mannequin’s wooden head, before transferring it to the head of the Lord Chancellor. Croft stood back once again and made a slight adjustment, just a fraction to the left.

Croft’s final task was to place the great chain of office that dated back to 1643 over his head, not letting go of it until it was resting securely on Giles’s shoulders. That was the moment at which Giles recalled from his schooldays that three of his predecessors had been executed in the Tower of London.

Once dressed, he was finally allowed to glance at himself in the long mirror. He looked ridiculous, but had to admit, if only to himself, that he loved it. The valet bowed. His task completed, he left without another word.

As Croft departed, Commander Orme walked in. Orme would never have considered entering the room until the Lord Chancellor was dressed in his full regalia.

‘I’ve read today’s order paper, Orme,’ he said. ‘Is there anything I should be concerned about?’

‘No, my lord. Questions today will be answered by the minister of state for health. There may well be some robust exchanges on the subject of Aids, but nothing you need concern yourself with.’

‘Thank you.’ He glanced at his watch, aware that at seven minutes to the hour, he would leave his office in the North Tower and set off on his journey to the Prince’s Chamber.

The door opened again, this time to allow a young page to make his entrance. He bowed low, moved quickly behind him and picked up the hem of his long robe.

‘Thirty seconds, my lord,’ said Orme, moments before the door opened again to allow the Lord Chancellor to set out on the seven-minute journey through the Palace of Westminster to the House of Lords.

He stepped out on to the red carpet and progressed slowly along the wide corridor. Members of the House, door keepers and badge messengers stood to one side and bowed as he passed, not to him, but to the monarch he represented. He maintained a steady pace, which he had practised the day before when the House was not in session. Commander Orme had emphasized that he must be neither too fast nor too slow if he was to arrive in the Prince’s Chamber just moments before Big Ben struck twice.

As he proceeded down the north corridor, he could have been forgiven for wondering how many of his colleagues would be in the chamber to greet him when he took his seat on the Woolsack for the first time. Only then would he discover how his surprise appointment had been received by his fellow peers.

On a normal day, there would only have been a handful of members present. They would rise from their places as the Lord Chancellor entered the chamber, give a slight bow, and remain standing while his old friend, the Bishop of Bristol, conducted daily prayers.

He felt more and more nervous as he continued to place one foot in front of the other, and his heartbeat reached another level when he stepped on to the blue and gold carpet of the Prince’s Chamber with ninety seconds to spare. He turned right and made his way down the long red-carpeted corridor to the far end of the House, before he could finally make his entrance. As he reached the Members’ Lobby, in which the public were standing in silence, he heard Big Ben’s first chime echoing around the building.

On the second chime, two doormen in full morning dress pulled open the great doors of the chamber to allow the new Lord Chancellor to enter the Upper House. He tried not to smile when he saw what a theatre producer would have called a full house. In fact, several of his colleagues had had to stand in the aisles, while others sat on the steps of the throne.

Their lordships stood as one as he entered the chamber and greeted him with loud cries of ‘Hear, hear!’ and the traditional waving of order papers. Giles later told Freddie that his colleagues’ welcome was the greatest moment in his life.

‘Even better than escaping from the Germans?’

‘Just as terrifying,’ Giles admitted.

While the Bishop of Bristol conducted prayers, Giles glanced up at the Distinguished Strangers’ Gallery, to see his wife, son and oldest friend looking down at him. They couldn’t hide the pride they felt.

When the bishop had finally blessed his packed congregation, their lordships waited for the Lord Chancellor to take his place on the Woolsack for the first time, then resumed their seats once Giles had settled and arranged his robes. He couldn’t resist pausing for a moment before he nodded in the direction of the Rt Hon. the Baroness Clifton, to indicate that she could rise to answer the first question on the order paper.

Emma stood to address the House.

‘My lord chancellor,’ she began. ‘I know the whole House will want to join me in congratulating you on your appointment, and to wish you many happy years presiding over the business of the House.’

The cries of acclamation came from all sides of the chamber as Giles bowed to his sister.

Question number one.

Emma turned to face the cross benches.

‘I can assure the noble lord, Lord Preston, that the government is taking the threat of Aids most seriously. My department has set aside one hundred million pounds for research into this terrible disease, and we are sharing our findings with eminent scientists and leading medical practitioners around the globe in the hope of identifying a cure as quickly as possible. Indeed, I should add that I am travelling to Washington next week, where I will be meeting with the Surgeon General, and I can assure the House that the subject of Aids will be high on our agenda.’

An elderly gentleman seated on the back row of the cross benches stood to ask a supplementary question.

‘I am grateful for the minister’s reply, but may I ask how our hospitals are coping with the sudden influx of patients?’

Giles sat back and listened with interest to the way his sister dealt with every question that was thrown at her, recalling his own time on the front bench. Although there was the occasional hesitation, she no longer needed to constantly check the brief prepared by her civil servants. He was equally impressed that she now had total command of the House, something some ministers never mastered.

For the next forty minutes, Emma answered questions on subjects that ranged from cancer research funding, to assaults on A&E staff following football matches, to ambulance response times to emergency calls.

Giles wondered if there was any truth in the rumours being whispered in the corridors that if the Conservatives won the next election, Margaret Thatcher would appoint her as leader of the House of Lords. Frankly, if that were to happen, he didn’t think any of his colleagues in the Upper House would be surprised. However, another rumour that had recently been echoing around the corridors of power was that a Tory backbencher was preparing to challenge Thatcher for the leadership of the party. Giles dismissed the idea as speculation, because although the lady’s methods were considered by some in her party to be draconian, even dictatorial, Giles couldn’t imagine that the Tories would even consider removing a sitting prime minister who had never lost an election.

‘I can only tell the noble lord,’ said Emma, when she stood to answer the final question on the order paper, ‘that my department will continue to sanction the sale of generic drugs, but not before they have undergone the most rigorous testing. It remains our aim to ensure that patients will not have to pay exorbitant prices to drug companies whose priority often seems to be profit, and not patients.’

Emma sat down to loud ‘Hear, hear!’s, and when a Foreign Office minister rose to take her place in order to open a debate on the Falkland Islands, she gathered up her papers and hurried out of the chamber, as she did not wish to be late for her next appointment with the gay rights campaigner Ian McKellen, who she knew held strong views on how the government should be handling the Aids crisis. She was looking forward to telling him how much she’d enjoyed his recent performance as Richard III at the National Theatre.

As she left the chamber, she stumbled and dropped some papers, which a passing whip picked up and handed back to her. She thanked him, and was about to hurry on when a voice behind her called out, ‘Minister, I wonder if I might have a word with you?’

Emma turned to see Lord Samuels, the president of the Royal College of Physicians, chasing after her. If she had made a blunder during question time, he wasn’t the kind of man who would have embarrassed her in the chamber. Not his style.

‘Of course, Lord Samuels. I hope I didn’t make some horrendous gaffe this afternoon?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Samuels, giving her a warm smile. ‘It’s just that there is a subject I would like to discuss with you, and wondered if you could spare a moment.’

‘Of course,’ repeated Emma. ‘I’ll ask my private secretary to give your office a call and arrange a meeting.’

‘I’m afraid the matter is more urgent than that, minister.’

‘Then perhaps you could join me in my office at eight tomorrow morning?’

‘I’d prefer to see you privately, away from the prying eyes of civil servants.’

‘Then I’ll come to you. Just tell me when and where.’

‘Eight o’clock tomorrow morning, in my consulting rooms at 47A Harley Street.’

Emma was well aware of the unpleasant and, some suggested, personal antagonism between the president of the Royal College of Physicians and the president of the Royal College of Surgeons, concerning the merger of Guy’s, St Thomas’s and King’s into one NHS trust. The physicians were in favour, the surgeons against. Both declaring, ‘Over my dead body.’

Emma had been careful not to take sides, and asked the department to prepare a brief that she could consider overnight, before her meeting with Lord Samuels. However, back-to-back meetings, some of which overran, prevented her from reading the brief before she climbed into bed just after midnight. Harry was snoring, which she hoped would keep her awake. But she was so tired she found it hard to concentrate on the details, and soon fell into a deep sleep.

The following morning, Emma reopened the red box even before she’d made herself a cup of tea.

The ‘Tommy’s, Guy’s, King’s’ brief still rested on top of a dozen other urgent files, including a confidential DNA report by two distinguished American academics. She already knew the results of their initial findings, and now at last she felt able to share the good news with Harry.

Emma jumped up, grabbed the phone on the sideboard and dialled Harry at the Manor House.

‘This better be good,’ he said, ‘because Alexander is just about to decide whether to jump in the crate going to America or the one going to England.’

‘It’s good, better than good,’ said Emma. ‘The DNA report shows that Arthur Clifton was without doubt your father.’

There was a long silence before Harry shouted, ‘Alleluia, that is indeed good news. I’ll put a bottle of champagne on ice so we can celebrate when you get home this evening.’

‘America,’ said Emma, and put the phone down. After taking several phone calls during breakfast, she still hadn’t had a chance to consider the arguments for and against Lord Samuels’ proposal before her driver pulled up outside the front door at 7.25 a.m. It was going to be another back-to-back day.

Emma read the detailed submissions from both presidents during her journey across London, but hadn’t come down in favour of either side by the time her car pulled into Harley Street. She placed the file back in the red box and checked her watch: 7.57. She hoped the discussion wouldn’t go on for too long, as she needed to be back at the department for a meeting with the new chairman of the BMA, a firebrand, who she had been warned by her Permanent Secretary considered all Tories should be drowned at birth. What Pauline described as the King Herod solution.

Emma was about to press the bell of No. 47A when the door was opened by a young woman.

‘Good morning, minister. Let me take you through to Lord Samuels.’

The president of the Royal College of Physicians rose as the minister entered the room. He waited until she was seated before offering her coffee.

‘No, thank you,’ said Emma, who didn’t want to waste any more time than necessary, while trying not to give the impression that she was in a hurry.

‘As I explained yesterday, minister, the matter I wish to discuss with you is personal, which is why I didn’t want us to meet in your office.’

‘I fully understand,’ said Emma, waiting to hear his arguments in favour of Guy’s and St Thomas’s being joined at the hip with King’s.

‘During question time yesterday’ — Ah, thought Emma, so I must have made some blunder after all, which he was kind enough not to raise in the chamber — ‘I noticed that when you paused to take a drink, you spilt some water over your papers. You then answered the question without referring to your notes so no one noticed, although it was not for the first time.’

Emma wondered where all this was leading, but didn’t interrupt.

‘And when you left the chamber, you stumbled and dropped some papers.’

‘Yes, I did,’ said Emma, her mind now racing. ‘But neither incident struck me as important at the time.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Samuels. ‘But may I ask if you’ve recently found it difficult to grasp objects like cups, your briefcase, even your pen when you’re signing letters?’

Emma hesitated, before saying, ‘Yes, now that you mention it. But my mother always accused me of being clumsy.’

‘I also noticed that you hesitated on a couple of occasions while you were addressing the House yesterday. Was that because you were considering your reply, or was your speech in some way restricted?’

‘I put it down to nerves. My brother is always warning me never to relax when I’m at the despatch box.’

‘Do your legs sometimes feel weak, so you need to sit down?’

‘Yes, but I am nearly seventy, Lord Samuels, and I’d be the first to admit I ought to take more exercise.’

‘Possibly, but I wonder if you would allow me to conduct a short neurological examination, if only to dismiss my own concerns.’

‘Of course,’ said Emma, wanting to say no, so she could get back to her office.

The short examination took over an hour. Lord Samuels began by asking Emma to take him through her medical history. He then listened to her heart and checked her reflexes with a patella hammer. Had those tests proved satisfactory, he would have apologized for troubling her and sent her off to work. But he didn’t. Instead, he went on to assess the cranial nerves. Having done so, he moved on to a close study of her mouth, looking for fasciculation of the tongue. Satisfied that he was far from satisfied, Lord Samuels said, ‘The examination I’m about to conduct may be painful. In fact, I hope it is.’

Emma made no comment when he produced a needle and proceeded to stick it into her upper arm. She immediately reacted with a yelp, which clearly pleased Samuels, but when he repeated the exercise on her right hand, she did not respond.

‘Ouch!’ she said as he stuck the needle into her thigh, but when he proceeded to her lower calf, she might as well have been a pincushion, because she felt nothing. He moved on to her back, but Emma often couldn’t tell when he was sticking the pin in her.

While Emma put her blouse back on, Lord Samuels returned to his desk, opened a file and waited for her to join him. When he looked up, she was sitting nervously in front of him.

‘Emma,’ he said gently, ‘I’m afraid that what I’m about to tell you is not good news.’

51

When a minister resigns because of some scandal, the press dip their pens in the blood and make the most of it. But if they have to surrender their seals of office because of illness, a very different attitude prevails, especially when the minister in question is both liked and respected.

The traditional letters between a prime minister and a colleague who has to resign unexpectedly were exchanged, but on this occasion no one could have missed the genuine regret felt on both sides.

It has been the most exciting job I’ve ever done in my life, and a privilege to serve in your administration.

The Prime Minister wrote in response, Your exceptional contribution to public life, and unstinting service to your country, will not be forgotten.

Neither the Prime Minister nor the departing minister of state mentioned the reason for Emma’s sudden departure.

The senior physician in the land had never known a patient to take such news with more dignity and composure. The only sign of human frailty Emma revealed expressed itself as he accompanied her to her car, when for a moment she leant on his arm. She only made one request of him, to which he agreed without hesitation.

Lord Samuels remained on the pavement until the minister’s car was out of sight. He then returned to his office and, as she had requested, made three telephone calls to three people to whom he’d never spoken before: the Lord Chancellor, the Prime Minister and Sir Harry Clifton.

One of them broke down and wept, and was quite unable to respond, while the other immediately cleared her diary, explaining to her staff that she wished to visit a friend. Both of them, Lord Samuels concluded, were cut from the same cloth as the great lady who had just left his consulting rooms. But the call he was most dreading was the one he had put off until last.

As gently as he could, Lord Samuels told Harry that his wife had motor neurone disease, and could only hope to live for another year, eighteen months at the most. The gentle man of letters could find no words to express his feelings. After a long silence, he eventually managed, ‘Thank you, Lord Samuels, for letting me know,’ before putting the phone down. It was some time before he recovered sufficiently to accept that one of them needed to remain strong.

Harry left Heads You Win in mid-sentence, and drove himself to the station. He was back in Smith Square long before Emma arrived.

When Emma left the department for the last time, she was driven home to find Harry waiting for her on the doorstep. Neither spoke as he took her in his arms. How little needs to be said when you’ve been together for more than fifty years.

By then, Harry had phoned every member of the family to let them know the devastating news before they read about it in the press. He had also written half a dozen letters, explaining that, for personal reasons, he was cancelling all his existing engagements and would not be accepting any new ones, whether social or professional.

The following morning, Harry drove Emma down to their home in Somerset so they could begin their new life. He made up a bed in the drawing room so she wouldn’t have to climb the stairs, and cleared everything from his desk in the library, so she could set about answering the sackfuls of letters that were arriving by every post. Harry opened each one and placed them in separate piles: family, friends, colleagues, those who worked for the NHS, with a special pile for young women up and down the country, of whom until then Emma had not even been aware, who not only wanted to say thank you, but again and again mentioned the words ‘role model’.

There was another particularly large pile that lifted Emma’s spirits every time she read one of them. Those of her colleagues who did not share her political persuasion, but wanted to express their admiration and respect for the way in which she had never failed to listen to their views, and had on occasions even been willing to change her mind.

Although her postbag didn’t diminish for several weeks, Emma replied to each and every person who had taken the trouble to write to her, only stopping when she no longer had the strength to hold her pen. After that, she dictated her replies to Harry, who added ‘scribe’ to his many other responsibilities. However, she still insisted on checking every letter before adding her signature. When, in the fullness of time, even that became impossible, Harry signed them on her behalf.

Dr Richards dropped in twice a week, and kept Harry informed of what he should expect next, although the old GP admitted that he felt quite helpless because there was little he could do other than show sympathy and write out endless prescriptions for pills that he hoped would ease Emma’s pain.

For the first few weeks, Emma was able to enjoy a morning walk around the grounds with Harry, but it was not long before she had to lean on his arm, then rely on a walking stick, before finally succumbing to a wheelchair that Harry had bought without her knowing.

During those early months, Emma did most of the talking, never failing to express her strongly held views on what was happening in the world, although she now only picked it up second-hand from the morning papers and the evening news on television. She delighted in watching President Bush and Mrs Thatcher signing a peace treaty with Chairman Gorbachev in Paris, finally bringing the Cold War to an end. But only a few days later she was horrified to learn that some of her old parliamentary colleagues back in London were plotting to remove the PM from office. Did she need to remind them that the Iron Lady had won three elections in a row?

Emma rallied enough to dictate a long letter to Margaret, making her views clear, and was astonished to receive an even longer reply by return of post. She wished she was still in Westminster, where she would have roamed the corridors letting her colleagues know exactly what she thought of them.

Although her brain remained sharp, her body continued to deteriorate, and her ability to speak became more restricted with each passing week. However, she never failed to express her joy whenever a member of the family appeared and took their turn to wheel her around the garden.

Little Lucy would chatter away, keeping her great-grandmother up to date on what she’d been doing. She was the one member of the family who didn’t fully understand what was happening, which made their relationship very special.

Jake was now in long trousers and pretending to be very grown-up, while her nephew Freddie, in his first year at Cambridge, was quiet and considerate, and discussed current affairs with Emma as if she was still in high office. She would have liked to live long enough to see him take a seat in the House of Commons, but knew that wouldn’t be possible.

Jessica told her grandmother as she pushed her wheelchair around the garden that her Tree of Life exhibition would be opening soon, and that she still hoped to be shortlisted for the Turner Prize, but added, ‘Don’t hold your breath!’

Sebastian and Samantha drove down to Somerset every weekend, and Seb tried gallantly to remain cheerful whenever he was in his mother’s presence, but he confided to his uncle Giles that he was becoming as anxious about his father as he was his mother. Harry’s running himself into the ground were the words Giles wrote in a letter to his sister Grace that evening.

Giles and Karin spent as much time as they could at the Manor House, and regularly phoned Grace, who was torn between her responsibilities to her pupils and her sister’s well-being. The day school broke up for the summer holidays, she took the first train to Bristol. Giles picked her up at Temple Meads and warned her just how much their sister had deteriorated since she’d last seen her. Grace was well prepared for Emma’s condition, but the shock came when she saw Harry, who had become an old man.

Grace began to nurse them both, but when Giles next visited, she warned him that she didn’t think Emma would see the autumn leaves fall.

The publication of Heads You Win came and went, making no impact on the Cliftons’ daily lives. Harry did not travel to America for his planned eleven-city tour, nor did he visit India to address the Bombay Literary Festival.

During this period, he only went up to London once, not to visit his publisher, or to speak at the Foyle’s literary lunch, but to tell Roger Kirby that he wouldn’t be going ahead with his prostate cancer operation, as he wasn’t willing to be out of commission for any length of time.

The surgeon was sympathetic, but warned, ‘If the cancer escapes from your prostate and spreads to your bowel or liver, your life will be in danger. Tell me, Harry, have you had any sharp pains in your back recently?’

‘No,’ Harry lied. ‘Let’s discuss it again, when...’

Harry had one more task to carry out before he could return to the Manor House. He had promised Emma he would pick up a copy of her favourite novel from Hatchards, so he could read a chapter to her every evening. When he got out of the taxi in Piccadilly, he didn’t notice the window in which only one book was displayed, with a banner that proclaimed:

He walked into the bookshop and once he’d found a hardback copy of The Mill on the Floss, he handed over a ten-pound note to the young woman behind the counter. She placed the book in a bag, and as he turned to leave she took a closer look at the customer, wondering for a moment if it was possible.

She crossed to the central display table, picked up a copy of Heads You Win and turned to the author’s photograph on the back flap, before peering through the window at the man who was climbing into a taxi. She had thought for a moment it might be Harry Clifton, but looking at the photograph more closely, she realized the unshaven man with dishevelled grey hair she had just served was far too old. After all, the photograph had been taken less than a year ago.

She returned the book to the top of the table of bestsellers, where it had been for the past eleven weeks.

When Emma was finally confined to her bed, Dr Richards warned Harry that it could now only be a matter of weeks.

Although Harry rarely left her alone for more than a few minutes, he found it hard to bear the pain she had to endure. His wife was now barely able to swallow anything but liquids, and even the power of speech had deserted her, so she had begun to communicate by blinking. Once for yes, twice for no. Three times please, four times thank you. Harry pointed out to her that three and four were somewhat redundant, but he could hear her saying good manners are never redundant.

Whenever darkness crept into the room, Harry would switch on the bedside light and read her another chapter, hoping she would quickly fall asleep.

After one of his morning visits, Dr Richards took Harry to one side.

‘It won’t be long now.’

For some time, Harry’s only concern had been how much longer Emma would have to suffer. He replied, ‘Let’s hope you’re right.’

That evening, he sat on the edge of the bed and continued reading. ‘This is a puzzling world, and Old Harry’s got a finger on it.’

Emma smiled.

When he came to the end of the chapter, he closed the book and looked down at the woman who had shared his life, but who clearly no longer wanted to live. He bent down and whispered, ‘I love you, my darling.’ Four blinks of the eyelids.

‘Is the pain unbearable?’ One blink.

‘It won’t be much longer now.’ Three blinks, followed by a pleading look.

He kissed her gently on the lips. ‘I have only ever loved one woman in my life,’ he whispered. Four blinks. ‘And I pray it will not be long before we see each other again.’ One blink, followed by three, followed by four.

He held her hand, closed his eyes and asked a God of whose existence he was no longer sure to forgive him. He then picked up a pillow before he could change his mind, and looked at her one more time.

One blink, followed by three.

He hesitated.

One blink, repeated every few seconds.

He lowered the pillow gently on to Emma’s face.

Her hands and legs twitched for a few moments before she fell still, but he continued to press down. When he finally lifted the pillow, there was a smile on her face as if she was enjoying her first rest in months.

Harry held her in his arms as the first of the autumn leaves began to fall.

Dr Richards dropped by the following morning, and if he was surprised to find that his patient had died during the night, he did not mention it to Harry. He simply wrote on the death certificate Died in her sleep as a result of Motor Neurone Disease. But then he was an old friend, as well as the family doctor.

Emma had left clear instructions that she wanted a quiet funeral, attended only by family and close friends. No flowers, and donations to the Bristol Royal Infirmary. Her wishes were carried out to the letter, but then she had no way of knowing how many people looked upon her as a close friend.

The village church was packed with locals, and others who were not quite so local, as Harry discovered when he shuffled down the aisle to join the rest of the family in the front pew and passed a former prime minister seated in the third row.

He couldn’t recall a great deal about the service, as his mind was preoccupied, but he did try to concentrate when the vicar delivered his moving eulogy.

After the coffin was lowered into the ground and the rough sods of earth had been cast upon it, Harry was among the last to leave the graveside. When he returned to the Manor House to join the rest of the family, he found he couldn’t recall Lucy’s name.

Grace kept a close eye on him as he sat quietly in the drawing room where he’d first met Emma — well, not exactly met.

‘They’ve all gone,’ she told him, but he just sat there, staring out of the window.

When the sun disappeared behind the highest oak, he stood, walked across the hall and slowly climbed the stairs to their bedroom. He undressed and got into an empty bed, no longer caring for this world.

Doctors will tell you, you can’t die of grief. But Harry died nine days later.

The death certificate gave the cause of death as cancer, but as Dr Richards pointed out, if Harry had wanted to he could have lived for another ten, perhaps twenty years.

Harry’s instructions were as clear as Emma’s had been. Like her, he wanted a quiet funeral. His only request was to be buried beside his wife. His wishes were adhered to, and when the family returned to the Manor House after the funeral, Giles gathered them all together in the drawing room and asked them to raise a glass to his oldest and dearest friend.

‘I hope,’ he added, ‘that you’ll allow me to do one thing that I know Harry wouldn’t have approved of.’ The family listened in silence to his proposal.

‘He most certainly wouldn’t have approved,’ said Grace. ‘But Emma would have, because she told me so.’

Giles looked in turn at each member of the family, but he didn’t need to seek their approval, because it was clear that they were as one.