"In High Places" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hailey Arthur)

Chapter 3

They entered the big stone mansion – official residence of Prime Minister for his term of office – by the awning-shielded main front door. Inside, Yarrow, the steward, vast them and took their coats. He announced, 'The American Ambassador has been trying to reach you, sir. The embassy called twice and stated the matter was urgent.'

James Howden nodded. Probably Washington had learned of the press leak too. If so, it would make Arthur Lexington's assignment that much easier. 'Wait for five minutes,' he instructed, 'then let the switchboard know that I'm home.'

'We'll have coffee in the drawing-room, Mr Yarrow,' Margaret said. 'And some sandwiches, please, for Mr Howden; he missed the buffet.' She stopped in the main-hall powder-room to arrange her hair.

James Howden had gone ahead, through the series of hallways to the third hall, with its big french doors overlooking the river and the Gatineau Hills beyond. It was a sight which always enraptured him and even at night, oriented by distant pin-point lights, he could visualize it: the wide wind-flecked Ottawa River; the same river which the adventurer Etienne Brule had navigated three centuries and a half before; and afterwards Champlain; and later the missionaries and traders, plying their legendary route westward to the Great Lakes and the fur-rich North. And beyond the river lay the distant Quebec shoreline, storied and historic, witness to many changes: much that had come, and much that would one day end.

In Ottawa, James Howden always thought, it was difficult not to have a sense of history. Especially now that the city -once beautiful and then commercially despoiled – was fast becoming green again: tree-thronged and laced with manicured parkways, thanks to the National Capital Commission. True the government buildings were largely characterless, bearing the stamp of what a critic had called 'the limp hand of bureaucratic art'. But even so there was a natural ruggedness about them, and given time, with natural beauty restored, Ottawa might one day equal Washington as a capital and perhaps surpass it.

Behind him beneath the wide, curved staircase, one of two gilt telephones on an Adam side table chimed softly twice. It was the American Ambassador.

'Hullo, Angry,' James Howden said. 'I hear that your people let the cat out.'

The Hon Phillip Angrove's Bostonian drawl came back. 'I know. Prime Minister, and I'm damned apologetic. Fortunately, though, it's only the cat's head and we still have a firm grip on the body.'

Tm relieved to hear it,' Howden said. 'But we must have a joint statement, you know. Arthur's on his way…'

'He's right here with me now,' the ambassador rejoined. 'As soon as we've downed a couple we'll get on with it, sir. Do you want to approve the statement yourself?'

'No,' Howden said. 'I'll leave it to you and Arthur.'

They talked for a few minutes more, then the Prime Minister replaced the gilt telephone.

Margaret had gone ahead into the big comfortable living-room with its chintz-covered sofas. Empire armchairs, and muted grey drapes. A log fire was burning brightly. She had put on a Kostelanetz recording of Tchaikovsky which played softly. It was the Howdens' favourite kind of music; the heavier classics seldom appealed to them. A few minutes later a maid brought in coffee with a piled plate of sandwiches. At a gesture from Margaret the girl offered the sandwiches to Howden and he took one absently.

When the maid had gone he untied his white tie, loosened the stiff collar, then joined Margaret by the fire. He sank gratefully into a deep overstuffed chair, hooked a footstool nearer, and lifted both feet on to it. With a deep sigh: 'This is the life,' he said. 'You, me… no one else…' He lowered his chin and out of habit stroked the tip of his nose.

Margaret smiled faintly. 'We should try it more often, Jamie.'

'We will; we really will,' he said earnestly. Then, his tone changing, 'I've some news. We'll be going to Washington quite soon. I thought you'd like to know.'

Pouring from a Sheffield coffee service his wife looked up. 'It's rather sudden, isn't it?'

'Yes,' he answered. 'But some pretty important things have come up. I have to talk with the President.'

'Well,' Margaret said, 'fortunately I've a new dress.' She paused thoughtfully. 'Now I must buy some shoes and I'll need a matching bag; gloves too.' A worried look crossed her face. 'There'll be time, won't there?'

'Just about,' he said, then laughed at the incongruity.

Margaret said decisively, 'I'll go to Montreal for a day's shopping right after the holiday. You can always get so much more there than in Ottawa. By the way, how are we for money?'

He frowned, 'It isn't too good; we're overdrawn at the bank. We shall have to cash some more bonds, I expect.'

'Again?' Margaret seemed worried. 'We haven't many left.'

'No. But you go ahead.' He regarded his wife affectionately. 'One shopping trip won't make all that difference.'

'Well… if you're sure.'

'I'm sure.'

But the only thing he was really sure of, Howden thought, was that no one would sue the Prime Minister for slow payment. Shortage of money for their personal needs was a constant source of worry. The Howdens had no private means beyond modest savings from his time in law practice, and it was characteristic of Canada – a national small-mindedness persisting in many places – that the country paid its leaders meanly.

There was biting irony, Howden had often thought, in the fact that a Canadian Prime Minister, guiding his nation's destiny, received less in salary and allowances than a US congressman. He had no official car, providing his own from an inadequate allowance, and even provision of a house was something comparatively new. As recently as 1950 the then Prime Minister, Louis St Laurent, had been obliged to live in a two-room apartment, so small that Madame St Laurent had stored the family preserves under her bed. Moreover, after a lifetime of parliamentary service, the most an ex-Prime Minister could expect to receive on retirement was three thousand dollars a year from a contributory pension scheme. One result for the nation in the past had been that Prime Ministers tended to ding to office in old age. Others retired to penury and the charity of friends. Cabinet Ministers and MPs fared even less well. It's a remarkable thing, Howden thought, that so many of us stay honest. In a remote way he sympathized a little with

Harvey Warrender for what he had done.

'You'd have done better to marry a businessman,' he told Margaret. 'Second vice presidents have more cash for spending.'

'I suppose there've been other compensations.' Margaret smiled. Thank God, he thought, we have had a good marriage.'

Political life could bleed you of so many things in return for power – sentiment, illusions, integrity even – and without the warmth of a woman close to him a man could become a hollow shell. He brushed aside the thought of Milly Freedeman, though with a sense of nervousness he had experienced earlier on.

'I was thinking the other day,' he said, 'about that time your father found us. Do you remember?'

'Of course. Women always remember those things. I thought it was you who'd forgotten.'

It had been forty-two years before in the western foothills city of Medicine Hat, himself twenty-two – the product of an orphanage school and now a new-hatched lawyer without clients or immediate prospects. Margaret had been eighteen, the eldest of seven girls, all daughters of a cattle auctioneer who, outside his work, was a dour, uncommunicative man. By the standards of those days Margaret's family had been well-to-do, compared with James Howden's penury at the end of his schooling.

On a Sunday evening before church the two of them had somehow secured the parlour to themselves. They were embracing with mounting passion, and Margaret partly in dishabille when her father had entered in search of his prayer book. He had made no comment at the time beyond a muttered 'Excuse me', but later in the evening, at the head of the family supper table, had looked sternly down its length and addressed James Howden.

'Young man,' he had said, his large placid wife and the other daughters watching interestedly, 'in my line of work when a man spreads his fingers around an udder, it indicates a more than passing interest in the cow.'

'Sir,' James Howden had said, with the aplomb which was to serve him well in later years, 'I would like to marry your eldest daughter.'

The auctioneer's hand had slammed upon the loaded supper table. 'Gone!' Then, with unusual verbosity and glancing down the table, 'One down, by the Lord Harry! and six to go.'

They had been married several weeks later. Afterwards it had been the auctioneer, now long dead, who had helped his son-in-law first to establish a law practice and later to enter politics.

There had been children, though he and Margaret rarely saw them nowadays, with the two girls married and in England, and their youngest, James McCallum Howden, Jr, heading an oil-drilling team in the Far East. But the influence of having had children lasted, and that was important.

The fire had burned low and he threw on a fresh birch log. The bark caught with a crackle and burst into flame. Sitting beside Margaret he watched the flames engulf the log.

Margaret asked quietly, 'What will you and the President be talking about?'

'There'll be an announcement in the morning. It'll say talks on trade and fiscal policy.'

'But is it really about that?' 'No,' he said, 'it isn't', 'What, then?'

He had trusted Margaret before with information about government business. A man – any man – had to have someone he could confide in.

'It'll be mostly about defence. There's a new world crisis coming and before it does, the United States may be taking over a lot of things which, until now, we've done for ourselves.'

'Military things?' He nodded.

Margaret said slowly, 'Then they'd be in control of our Army… all the rest?'

'Yes, dear,' he said, 'it looks as if they may.'

His wife's forehead creased in concentration. 'H it happened, Canada couldn't have its own foreign policy any more, could we?'

'Not very effectively, I'm afraid.' He sighed. 'We've been moving towards this – for a long time.'

There was a silence, then Margaret asked: 'Will it mean the end of us, Jamie – as an independent country?'

'Not while I'm Prime Minister,' he answered firmly. 'And not if I can plan the way I want.' His voice sharpened as conviction took hold. 'If our negotiations with Washington are handled properly; if the right decisions are made over the next year or two; if we're strong ourselves, but realistic; if there's foresight and integrity on both sides; if there's all of that, then it can be a new beginning. In the end we can be stronger, not weaker. We can amount to more in the world, not less.' He felt Margaret's hand on his arm and laughed. 'I'm sorry; was I making a speech?'

'You were beginning to. Do eat another sandwich, Jamie. More coffee?' He nodded.

Pouring, Margaret said quietly, 'Do you really think there's going to be a war?'

Before answering he stretched his long body, eased more comfortably in the chair, and crossed his feet on the footstool. 'Yes,' he said quietly, 'I'm sure there will be. But I think there's a good chance it can be delayed a little longer – a year, two years, perhaps even three.'

'Why does it have to be that way?' For the first time there was emotion in his wife's voice. 'Especially now, when everyone knows it means annihilation for the whole world.'

'No,' James Howden said, speaking slowly, 'it doesn't have to mean annihilation. That's current fallacy.'

There was a silence between them, then he went on, choosing his words with care. 'You understand, dear, that outside this room, if I were asked the question you just put to me, my answer would have to be no? I would have to say that war is not inevitable, because each time you admit the inevitability it's like adding an extra little squeeze to a trigger that's already cocked.',- '

Margaret had put the coffee cup in front of him. Now she said, 'Then surely it's better not to admit it – even to yourself. Isn't it best to keep on hoping?'

'If I were just an ordinary citizen,' her husband answered, 'I think I'd delude myself that way. I suppose it wouldn't be hard to do – without a knowledge of what was going on at the heart of things. But a head of government can't afford the luxury of delusion; not if he's to serve the people who've trusted him – as be should.'

He stirred his coffee, sipped without tasting, then put it down.

'War is inevitable sooner or later,' James Howden said slowly, 'because it's always been inevitable. It always will be, too, just as long as human beings are capable of quarrelling and anger, no matter over what. You see, any war is just a little man's quarrel magnified a million times. And to abolish war you'd need to abolish every last vestige of human vanity, envy, and unkindness. It can't be done.'

'But if all that's true,' Margaret protested, 'then there's nothing worth while, nothing at all.'

Her husband shook his head. 'That isn't so. Survival is worth while, because survival means living, and living is an adventure.' He turned, eyes searching his wife's face. 'It's been an adventure with us. You wouldn't want to change it?'

'No,' Margaret Howden said, 'I don't suppose I would.'

His voice was stronger now. 'Oh, I know what's said about a nuclear war – that it would wipe out everything and extinguish all life. But when you think of it, there have been forecasts of doom about every weapon from the breech-loading cannon to the aeroplane bomb. Did you know that when the machine gun was invented somebody calculated that two hundred machine guns firing for a thousand days would kill the whole world's population?'

Margaret shook her head. Howden went on, not pausing.

'The human race has survived other perils that logically it shouldn't have: the Ice Age and the Flood are two that we know of. A nuclear war would be a mess and, if I could, I suppose I'd give my life to prevent it. But every war is a mess, though none of us dies more than once, and maybe it would be an easier way to go than some of the older means – like an arrow through the eye or being nailed to a cross.

'We'd set civilization back, though. No one can argue that›› and maybe we'd be in the Dark Ages again, if there's a darker one than this. We'd lose the knack of a lot of living, I expect -including how to explode atoms, which might not be a bad thing for a while.

'But annihilation, no! I won't believe in it! Something will survive, come crawling from the ruins, and try again. And that's the worst way it could be, Margaret. I believe that our side – the free part of the world – can do better. If we do the right things now and use the time we have.'

With the last words James Howden had risen. He crossed the room and turned. Looking at him, Margaret said softly, 'You're going to use it, aren't you – the time we have left?'

'Yes,' he said, 'I am.' His expression softened. 'Perhaps I shouldn't have told you all this. Has it upset you very much?'

'It's made me sad. The world, mankind – whatever name you give to it – we have so much and we're going to squander it all.' A pause, then gently: 'But you wanted to tell someone.'

He nodded. 'There aren't many people I can talk with freely.'

'Then I'm glad you told me.' Out of habit, Margaret moved the coffee things together. 'It's getting late. Don't you think we should go up?'

He shook his head. 'Not yet. But you go: I'll follow later.'

Partway to the door Margaret paused. On a Sheraton games table was a pile of papers and press clippings sent over from Howden's parliamentary office earlier in the day. She picked up a slim booklet, turning it over.

'You don't really read this sort of thing, Jamie, do you?' There was a title on the cover – Stargazer. Around it were the zodiac signs of astrology.

'Good God, no!' Her husband coloured slightly. 'Well, occasionally I glance at it – just for amusement.'

'But the old lady who used to send these to you – she died, didn't she?'

'I expect someone keeps on sending them.' Howden's voice had a trace of irritability. 'It's hard to get off any mailing list once you're on.'

'But this is a subscription copy,' Margaret persisted. 'Look – it's been renewed; you can tell from the date on the label.'

'Really, Margaret, how do -I know how and when and where it's been renewed? Have you any idea how much mail comes addressed to me in the course of a day? I don't check it all. I don't even see it all. Maybe this is something which someone in the office did without telling me. If it bothers you I'll have it stopped tomorrow.'

Margaret said calmly, 'There's no need to be testy, and it doesn't bother me. I was just curious, and even if you do read it, why make such a fuss? Perhaps it'll tell you how to deal with Harvey Warrender.' She put the book down. 'You're sure you won't come to bed now?'

'I'm sure. I've a lot of planning to do, and not much time.' It was an old experience. 'Goodnight, dear,' she said. Climbing the broad, curving staircase, Margaret wondered how many times in her married life she had spent solitary evenings or gone to bed this way, alone. It was as well, perhaps, that she had never counted them. In recent years, especially, it had become a pattern for James Howden to stay up late, brooding on politics or affairs of state, and usually when he came to bed Margaret was asleep and seldom awoke. It was not the sexual intimacies of bed she missed, she told herself with feminine frankness; those, in any case, had become channelled and organized years before. But companionship at close of day was a warmth a woman cherished. There have been good things about our marriage, Margaret thought, but there has been aloneness too.

The talk of war had left her with a sense of unaccustomed sadness. Inevitability of war, she supposed, was something which men accepted but women never would. Men made war; not women, save with small exceptions. Why? Was it because women were born to pain and suffering, but men must make their own? Suddenly she had a yearning for her children; not to comfort them, but to be comforted. Tears filled her eyes and a temptation seized her to return downstairs; to ask that for just one night, at the hour of sleep, she need not be alone.

Then she told herself: I'm being silly. "Jamie would be kind, but he would never understand.