Be Careful What You Wish For: The Clifton Chronicles 4 (48 page)

The crowd’s laughter and applause helped Emma relax and feel more confident.

‘And can I add, ma’am, that your presence here today has made this an hysterical occasion—’

There was a gasp that turned into an embarrassed silence. Emma wished the ground would open up and swallow her, until the Queen Mother burst out laughing, and the whole crowd began to cheer and
throw their caps into the air. Emma could feel her cheeks burning, and it was some time before she recovered sufficiently to say, ‘It is my privilege, ma’am, to invite you to name the
MV
Buckingham.’

Emma took a step back to allow the Queen Mother to take her place. This was the moment she had been dreading most. Ross Buchanan had once told her about a notorious occasion when everything had
gone wrong and the ship had not only suffered a public humiliation, but crew and public alike had refused to sail on her, convinced that she was cursed.

The crowd fell silent once more, and waited nervously, the same fear passing through the minds of every worker in the yard as they looked up at the royal visitor. Several of the more
superstitious of them, including Emma, crossed their fingers as the first chime of twelve rang out on the shipyard clock, and the lord lieutenant handed the bottle of champagne to the Queen
Mother.

‘I name this ship, the
Buckingham,’
she declared, ‘and may she bring joy and happiness to all who sail on her, and enjoy a long and prosperous life on the high
seas.’

The Queen Mother raised the magnum of champagne, paused for a moment, and then let go. Emma wanted to close her eyes as the bottle descended in a wide arc towards the ship. When it hit the hull,
the bottle shattered into a hundred pieces, and champagne bubbles ran down the side of the ship as the crowd produced the loudest cheer of the day.

‘I don’t see how that could have gone much better,’ said Giles as the Queen Mother’s car drove out of the shipyard and disappeared.

‘I could have done without the hysterical occasion,’ said Emma.

‘I don’t agree,’ said Harry. ‘The Queen Mother clearly enjoyed your little faux pas, the workers will tell their grandchildren about it, and for once you proved to be
fallible.’

‘That’s kind of you,’ said Emma, ‘but we’ve still got a lot of work to do before the maiden voyage, and I can’t afford to have another hysterical
moment,’ she added as they were joined by her sister.

‘I’m so glad I didn’t miss that,’ said Grace. ‘But would it be possible for you not to choose term-time when you launch your next ship? And if I have a further
piece of advice for my big sister: make sure you treat the maiden voyage as a celebration, a holiday, and not just another week at the office.’ She kissed her brother and sister on both
cheeks. ‘By the way,’ she added, ‘I loved the hysterical moment.’

‘She’s right,’ said Giles as they watched Grace walk off towards the nearest bus stop, ‘you should enjoy every moment, because I can tell you I intend to.’

‘You may not be able to.’

‘Why not?’

‘You could be a minister by then.’

‘I’ve got to hold on to my seat, and the party’s got to win the election, before I can be a minister.’

‘And when do you think the election will be?’

‘If I had to guess, some time in October fairly soon after the party conferences. So you’re going to see a lot of me in Bristol over the next few weeks.’

‘And Gwyneth, I hope.’

‘You bet, although I’m rather hoping the baby will be born during the campaign. Worth a thousand votes, Griff tells me.’

‘You’re a charlatan, Giles Barrington.’

‘No, I’m a politician fighting a marginal seat, and if I win it, I think I just might make the Cabinet.’

‘Be careful what you wish for.’

G
ILES WAS
pleasantly surprised by how civilized the general election campaign turned out to be, not least because Jeremy Fordyce, his Conservative
opponent, an intelligent young man from Central Office, never gave the impression that he really believed he could win the seat, and certainly didn’t involve himself in the sort of underhand
practices Alex Fisher had engaged in when he was the candidate.

Reginald Ellsworthy, the perennial Liberal candidate, had only one aim, to increase his vote, and even Lady Virginia failed to land a blow, above or below the belt, possibly because she was
still recovering from the knockout punch Emma had landed at the Barrington’s AGM.

So when the city clerk announced, ‘I, the returning officer for the constituency of Bristol Docklands, declare the total number of votes cast for each candidate to be as follows:

Although the vote in the constituency may not have been close, the decision as to who should govern the country was, to quote the BBC’s grand inquisitor, Robin Day, looking as if it would
go to the wire. In fact, it wasn’t until the final result had been declared in Mulgelrie at 3.34 p.m. on the day after the election that the nation began to prepare itself for the first
Labour government since Clement Attlee’s thirteen years before.

Giles travelled up to London the following day, but not before he, Gwyneth and five-week-old Walter Barrington had carried out a tour of the constituency to thank the party workers for achieving
the biggest majority Giles had ever secured.

‘Good luck for Monday,’ was a sentence that was repeated again and again as he travelled around the constituency, because everyone knew that was the day the new prime minister would
decide who would join him around the Cabinet table.

Giles spent the weekend listening to colleagues’ opinions on the phone, and reading the columns of leading political correspondents, but the truth was, only one man knew who would get the
nod, the rest was mere speculation.

On Monday morning, Giles watched on television as Harold Wilson was driven to the palace to be asked by the Queen if he could form a government. Forty minutes later he emerged as prime minister,
and was driven to Downing Street so he could invite twenty-two of his colleagues to join him as members of the Cabinet.

Giles sat at the breakfast table pretending to read the morning papers, when he wasn’t staring at the phone, willing it to ring. It rang several times, but each time it was either a member
of his family or one of his friends calling to congratulate him on his increased majority, or to wish him luck on being invited to join the government. Get off the line, he wanted to say. How can
the PM call me if the phone is always engaged? And then the call came.

‘This is the Number Ten switchboard, Sir Giles. The prime minister wondered if it would be possible for you to join him at Number Ten at three thirty this afternoon.’

I might just be able to fit him in, Giles wanted to say. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, and put the phone down. Where in the pecking order was 3.30 p.m.?

Ten o’clock and you knew you were either Chancellor of the Exchequer, Foreign Secretary or Home Secretary. Those posts had already been filled, by Jim Callaghan, Patrick Gordon Walker and
Frank Soskice. Noon: Education, Michael Stewart and Employment, Barbara Castle. Three thirty was on the cusp. Was he in the Cabinet, or would he be expected to serve a probationary period as a
minister of state?

Giles would have made himself some lunch if the phone had stopped ringing every other minute. Colleagues calling to tell him what job they’d got, colleagues calling to say the PM
hadn’t phoned them yet, and colleagues wanting to know what time the PM had asked to see him. None of them seemed sure what 3.30 p.m. meant.

As the sun was shining on a Labour victory, Giles decided to walk to Number 10. He left his Smith Square flat just after 3 p.m., strolled across to the Embankment and past the Lords and Commons
on his way to Whitehall. He crossed the road as Big Ben struck a quarter past, and continued past the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, before turning into Downing Street. He was greeted by a
raucous pack of pit bull terriers, hemmed in behind makeshift barriers.

‘What job are you expecting to get?’ shouted one of them.

I only wish I knew, Giles wanted to say, while being almost blinded by the endless flashbulbs.

‘Are you hoping to be in the Cabinet, Sir Giles?’ demanded another.

Of course I am, you idiot. But his lips didn’t move.

‘How long do you think the government can survive with such a small majority?’

Not very long, he didn’t want to admit.

The questions continued to be thrown at him as he made his way up Downing Street, despite the fact that every journalist knew he had no hope of getting an answer on the way in, and not much more
than a wave and perhaps a smile on the way out.

Giles was about three paces from the front door when it opened, and, for the first time in his life, he entered Number 10 Downing Street.

‘Good morning, Sir Giles,’ said the cabinet secretary, as if they had never met before. ‘The prime minister is with one of your colleagues at the moment, so perhaps you could
wait in the anteroom until he’s free.’

Giles realized that Sir Alan already knew which post he was about to be offered, but not even the twitch of an eyebrow came from the inscrutable mandarin before he went on his way.

Giles took a seat in the small anteroom where Wellington and Nelson had reputedly sat waiting to see William Pitt the Younger, neither realizing who the other was. He rubbed his hands on the
sides of his trousers, although he knew he would not be shaking hands with the PM, as, traditionally, Parliamentary colleagues never do. Only the clock on the mantelpiece was beating louder than
his heart. Eventually the door opened and Sir Alan reappeared. All he said was, ‘The prime minister will see you now.’

Giles stood up and began what is known as the long walk to the gallows.

When he entered the Cabinet Room, Harold Wilson was sitting halfway down a long oval table surrounded by twenty-two empty chairs. The moment he saw Giles, he rose from his seat below a portrait
of Robert Peel, and said, ‘Great result in Bristol Docklands, Giles, well done.’

‘Thank you, prime minister,’ said Giles, reverting to the tradition of no longer calling him by his first name.

‘Come and have a seat,’ Wilson said as he filled his pipe.

Giles was about to sit down next to the PM when he said, ‘No, not there. That’s George’s place; perhaps one day, but not today. Why don’t you sit over there
–’ he said, pointing to a green leather-backed chair on the far side of the table. ‘After all, that’s where the Secretary of State for European Affairs will be sitting every
Thursday when the Cabinet meets.’

‘J
UST THINK
how many things can go wrong,’ said Emma as she paced up and down the bedroom.

‘Why not focus on how many things will go right,’ said Harry, ‘and take Grace’s advice, try to relax and treat the whole experience as a holiday.’

‘I’m only sorry she won’t be joining us on the voyage.’

‘Grace was never going to take two weeks off during an eight-week term.’

‘Giles seems able to manage it.’

‘Only one week,’ Harry reminded her, ‘and he’s been fairly cunning, because he plans to visit the UN while he’s in New York, and then go on to Washington to meet
his opposite number.’

‘Leaving Gwyneth and the baby at home.’

‘A wise decision given the circumstances. It wouldn’t have been much of a holiday for either of them with young Walter bawling his head off night and day.’

‘Are you packed and ready?’ asked Emma.

‘Yes I am, chairman. Have been for some time.’

Emma laughed and threw her arms around him. ‘Sometimes I forget to say thank you.’

‘Don’t get sentimental on me. You’ve still got a job to do, so why don’t we get going?’

Emma seemed impatient to leave, even though it meant they would be hanging about on board for hours before the captain gave the order to cast off and set sail for New York. Harry accepted that
it would have been even worse if they’d stayed at home.

‘Just look at her,’ said Emma with pride as the car drove on to the quayside, and the
Buckingham
loomed up ahead of them.

‘Yes, a truly hysterical sight.’

‘Oh help,’ said Emma. ‘Am I ever going to live that down?’

‘I do hope not,’ said Harry.