The Image in the Water (10 page)

And yet Makewell did not like the man. He admitted to himself that this was partly snobbery. Redburn looked like a traditional Tory, had been educated at Radley and was often described by foolish journalists as patrician. But this was not right. He often wore tweeds, but preferred them lightweight and new, whereas Makewell's were old, indestructible and heavy. The creases on Redburn's tweeds were straight and precise; the Prime Minister's creases wandered hither and thither and occasionally disappeared. The Prime Minister's shoes were clean, cracked and English; Redburn's more highly polished, smooth and Italian. In the argument that seemed unending both men supported fox-hunting without hunting themselves, Makewell from Scotland because his children and most of his friends hunted, Redburn from Kensington because most of his constituents there thought a ban would be illiberal. The capital assets of the two men were of similar size, but Redburn's dividends and capital gains yielded twice as much as Makewell's income from agricultural and sporting assets. Makewell belonged to Boodles Club, Redburn to the Carlton. Makewell spent Christmas in Perthshire, Redburn in the Seychelles.

Makewell preferred to work in the Prime Minister's study
on the first floor of No. 10, for the uncomplicated reason that this was the room designed for that purpose. He had none of the political hang-ups that had led John Major to work in the Cabinet Room or Lord Blair in the room designed for the Prime Minister's private secretary. The authoritative spirit of Margaret Thatcher no longer hovered in the study. It was where Simon Russell had worked, where he and Peter Makewell had often talked informally and in confidence, as is necessary between Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary. However long he remained in office it would not occur to Makewell to change pictures or move furniture.

Because he did not like Martin Redburn he had thought of returning to his desk after they shook hands and letting Redburn take the hard chair in front of the desk. But Redburn headed straight towards the deep armchairs by the fireplace, and the Prime Minister followed, hoping that his bad-mannered plan had not been spotted.

‘Prime Minister, I am grateful for your time.'

In his day Simon Russell had always expected to be addressed as ‘Prime Minister'. Though a mild and essentially modest man, he had believed in and used the authority of the office. Makewell was ill at ease with the title, but had never been on first-name terms with Redburn and did not want to start now. He nodded silently.

‘The leadership contest has taken an unexpected turn.'

‘Yes, indeed.'

‘You have heard, then?'

Makewell was puzzled at the question. The story had led the news in every morning paper.

‘Roger's decision will, I suppose, give Joan Freetown a free run, give or take some stray no-hope maverick.'

‘I think not, Prime Minister.' Redburn straightened his tie, which was already straight, and crossed his legs. Makewell could see that the man was preparing to enjoy himself ‘I think not,' he repeated.

‘What do you mean?'

‘The 1922 executive met last night. I called a special meeting as soon as I heard that the Home Secretary had withdrawn from the contest.'

Makewell stayed silent. He suspected that Redburn was going to ask him to persuade Roger to change his mind and continue to stand. He could not imagine why, unless that story of Redburn's support for Joan Freetown had been wrong.

‘I have to tell you, Prime Minister, that after a short discussion, a strong majority of the executive concluded that, despite her many talents, Joan Freetown should not be allowed to succeed in the circumstances.'

Makewell was genuinely amazed.

‘This comes as a surprise to you, Prime Minister?' said Redburn, obviously pleased.

‘It certainly does.'

‘If I may say so, the sooner you appoint a parliamentary private secretary the better.' This was patronising, but well founded. The main job of a PPS was to keep the Prime Minister abreast of waves of opinion in the Commons. Makewell had not got round to choosing one.

He tried to retrieve the initiative. ‘Joan Freetown is admirably qualified, and I had understood that you—'

‘Yes, indeed, Prime Minister, but the situation has changed. Up till a few days ago this was a contest between two admirably qualified candidates, as you say, of whom I on
balance gave a slight preference to the Chancellor of the Exchequer.'

God, the man was irritating.

‘But you must see that if she became leader of the Party in the new circumstances the real winner would not be Joan Freetown but Lord Spitz. The press, by a disreputable device, would have asserted control over Parliament and the Conservative Party. This must not be allowed to happen.'

‘It was certainly a disreputable trick. But are you suggesting that Joan—'

‘Not at all, Prime Minister. Whether all of her supporters were equally scrupulous I do not know but according to my information the Chancellor of the Exchequer refused to have any part in the device.'

‘Then …?'

‘That point is not really relevant, Prime Minister.'

Martin Redburn rose, and stood in front of the empty fireplace, as if he was in his own home. Behind him was a painting of the younger Pitt, the subject slender and determined, sharp nose in the air. To his surprise Peter Makewell saw that Redburn was about to abandon his elaborate manner and speak his mind.

‘You must understand this, Prime Minister. It is the heart of the matter. My only surprise is that so many of my colleagues felt as I did. During the twenty-five years I have been in politics the power of the media has grown. Press, radio, television, I make no distinction. So far as we politicians are concerned they began as the means by which we communicate with the people. In those days they carried columns and columns of our speeches, produced word for word, hecklers and all. Fine and good, a necessary part of the growth of
democracy. Then the editors began to take a hand in advising us what we ought to do. Well and good, we had to accept that – though, God knows, they have no qualifications, no relevant experience, no mandate from anyone except whichever prejudiced millionaire happens to have bought them. But they were not content with our public affairs. They began to pry into private matters, who slept with whom, whose son was on drugs, who paid for a good meal at the Ritz. The public laps up all this stuff as entertainment, they buy the papers, listen to the programmes, and the hypocrites who write it up think that it gives them power.'

‘So it does, so it does,' said the Prime Minister. This was a weary discourse, the stuff of many smoking-room grumbles. He tried to remember if there was some small murky episode in Sir Martin Redburn's past that might have fathered this outburst. The Prime Minister of Dominica would soon be upon them.

‘But it's not real power. It's bluff. No one really cares a damn if you have a mistress or a couple of bastards hidden away in Blairgowrie.' This was really most un-Redburn-like. ‘But if they discovered them the media would start to bay at you. And you'd run. That's the point. You'd run, just as Courtauld has. Once you've started to run, they chase you, the hunt is up, the horns sound, and they chase you to death. Everyone enjoys it, and it's all unnecessary. If you'd stood your ground, you'd see them off.'

‘No bastards, I fear, not even in Blairgowrie.' Make well tried to lighten the atmosphere, and failed.

‘Nor had Courtauld down in Devon. Just an afternoon on the beach with a boyfriend. Hand in hand for an hour or two, for God's sake. I don't care if they buggered each other
senseless in the bushes. It would not in the least affect his ability to lead the Party. He failed us, failed us all, not there on the beach but yesterday when he copped out.'

Martin Redburn sat down as abruptly as he had stood up. The passion had not gone out of him but there was a pause.

‘I agree with you. But I doubt if I could get him to change his mind.' Make well had no intention of trying.

‘Of course you couldn't. He's run into some thicket now to hide. There's nothing so stubborn as a coward. He's a lost man. We have to find another candidate. Not against Joan, against the media.'

‘Ah, I see now. Have you found someone?' There was no one of any substance. The Prime Minister did not need a parliamentary private secretary to know that. No doubt they'd found some exhibitionist who'd make a show of it.

‘Yes, we have. Three of us had the same idea separately. All except two of the executive endorsed it.'

‘May I know the name?'

‘You may. It is Peter Make well.'

‘But …' Then Makewell paused. The idea was so prepostrous, so foreign to his character, his position in life, his wishes, that he could not immediately find words to reject it. ‘You must all know how reluctant I was to come here, even for a few weeks, how I hate the hassle of it all, how keen I am to get out.'

‘Of course we know that. It's part of the attraction. You belong to a different world, a different generation from the rest of us. A world before spin-doctors and focus groups, a serious world. For the moment, that's what we need.'

Peter Makewell stayed silent. His main wish was to kill this absurdity once and for all, but he did not know how.

‘The people against the press, the people against the press.' Redburn was relentless. His voice began to rise again. ‘It would win you this leadership election. Indeed, Joan Freetown might pull out and wait for another day. It might even win us the next general election. You'd scrap all this rubbish about a new Freedom of Information Bill. Straw was right about that in the old days. That's just a piece of media greed tricked out as a service to democracy. You'd need a good Privacy Bill and a stronger Press Commission between now and then. None of that would be difficult – once we realise how fed up our constituents are with being patronised and demeaned by the media slobs. All right, they've been amused, bewitched, led astray – and now they've had enough. This Courtauld thing is the last straw. The e-mails are pouring in. And you're the man to prove it.'

Peter Makewell had found time to collect his words and make them formal. ‘I am flattered,' he said, ‘but even more I am amazed. I fear I don't have time to discuss it all now. But I must ask you to thank your executive and tell them that on both personal and political grounds I regard this proposal as completely out of the question. They should dismiss it totally and immediately from their minds.'

‘They will not do that, Prime Minister …' As if on cue Patrick Vaughan appeared in the doorway.

‘The Prime Minister of Dominica, Prime Minister.'

Sir Martin Redburn rose. For the first time in the interview he was irresolute. He had expected more time. ‘Please think of what—'

‘I really have nothing more to add.' Peter Makewell was moving to the door to greet his next visitor who wore bright green. ‘Prime Minister, I'm delighted to see you again … Not
since the Commonwealth summit in Kingston. I expect you know Sir Martin Redburn?'

Now that the burden of work had somewhat lifted, Peter Makewell had reverted to his old habit of taking a bath before dinner. In the Foreign Office there was no bath. Some mean-minded predecessor had installed a flimsy plastic shower in the annex to his office. The dials, hard to manipulate, had often subjected the Foreign Secretary to jets of unwanted cold or scalding water. One small advantage of his promotion to No. 10 had been easy access to a deep, old-fashioned bath in the flat. He missed the soft brown water of the Highlands, the occasional tickle of peat against the toes, but in public life one had to make sacrifices. Peter was in a good mood as, with the water temperature just right, he reviewed the day and looked forward to the evening. He really felt extraordinarily well, and at seventy that was increasingly important. He was pleased that Martin Redburn had offered him the crown, and pleased that he had turned it down. It was all nonsense, of course. It was not surprising that the 1922 executive should feel a spasm of annoyance against the press and against Courtauld for giving in to them, but you could not build a leadership bid, let alone a government programme, on such a flimsy foundation.

There were several reasons for good humour. The Prime Minister of Dominica had been brief on bananas. The man from the Portrait Gallery in arguing for a bust had been particularly flattering about Peter's chin and the line of his jaw. But, above all, he was looking forward to his dinner with Louise. She had seemed distant and somewhat formidable as the Prime Minister's wife. He could see now that she had
been struggling to keep for herself and her daughter some thin slices of Simon Russell's life. She had been devoted to him, there had been no conceivable doubt of that. But now that he was gone she seemed more relaxed and friendly. She was also remarkably handsome and well turned-out. Peter's own wife had turned somewhat mousy in her last years, to his secret regret. She had stopped buying clothes, even in Perth, and never looked at herself in a mirror. Modest himself in dress, he liked a woman who could carry with conviction a dress that swept the ground and wore diamonds at her throat.

Not that Louise would be carrying diamonds tonight at Il Gran Paradiso, which was one reason why he had chosen the place. At the Savoy or Claridges they would be fawned on and gaped at; by the time they left the restaurant there would be a photographer in the foyer. There was a risk, too, at Il Gran Paradiso, indeed it would be strange if nothing appeared in any of the gossip columns. Somehow that risk seemed less obvious and vulgar. The food, he knew, was good and the price modest. He did not believe in spending large sums on meals, and persuaded himself that Louise would feel the same. Il Gran Paradiso had offered him their private room, but this would look as if he had something to hide, and he had turned it down. The protection officer on duty had booked a table at the back of the restaurant. He and his colleague would sit at the table nearest to the Prime Minister, and he had arranged for a third table close by to be kept vacant. Peter Makewell chose his blue suit by Hardy Amies with four buttons down the jacket. For years he had felt, without much justification, that this particular suit conveyed a slight dandyish impression. He kept it for the small number of unusual private occasions in his life.