“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 four to six percent, 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 around and faced a screen on the wall. “If you study this X-ray,” he said, pointing a thin pencil beam of light onto 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 toward 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 watercolors 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 Schools’ 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 humor wouldn’t do any harm.”
“Especially as humor is my brother’s forte.”
“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 judgment 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 favor 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’ judgment 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 wa
ited for the main event.
Giles made his entry toward 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 dispatch 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 backbenches, 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. the Lord Barrington of Bristol Docklands, who would be summing up on behalf of the opposition, and the Rt. Hon. the 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 backbenches, 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 program, 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.