“I’m fine,” said Kate, brushing aside her tears. She walked slowly toward gate fourteen, happy that he had worn the pink shirt for the first time. She wondered if he had found the note she had left underneath the collar. If he had asked her just one more time...
Raymond stood alone and then turned to walk aimlessly toward the exit.
“An American lady, I would have guessed,” said Mr. Cox rejoining him. “I’m good on accents.”
“Yes,” said Raymond, still alone.
“A friend of yours?” he asked.
“My best friend,” said Raymond.
When ten days had passed and Elizabeth had not yet heard from Miss Wallace she decided she had no choice but to contact her direct. She flicked through her personal file and noted the latest number Amanda had given.
Elizabeth picked up the phone and dialed. It was some time before anybody answered.
“730-9712. Charles Seymour speaking.” There was a long silence. “Is anyone there?”
Elizabeth couldn’t reply. She replaced the receiver and felt her whole body come out in a cold sweat. She closed Amanda Wallace’s file and returned it to the cabinet.
Chapter twenty-five
Simon had spent nearly a year preparing a White Paper entitled “A Genuine Partnership for Ireland” for consideration by the House. The Government’s aim was to bring north and south together for a period of ten years at the end of which a more permanent arrangement could be considered. During those ten years both sides would remain under the direct rule of Westminster and Dublin. Both Protestants and Catholics had contributed to “the Charter,” as the press had dubbed the complex agreement. With considerable skill, patience, and fortitude Simon had convinced the political leaders of Northern Ireland to append their names to the final draft when and if it was approved by the House.
He admitted to Elizabeth that the agreement was only a piece of paper, but he felt it was a foundation stone on which the House could base an eventual settlement. On both sides of the Irish Sea politicians and journalists alike were describing the Charter as a genuine breakthrough.
The Secretary of State for Northern Ireland was to present the White Paper to the Commons when Irish business was next scheduled on the parliamentary calendar. Simon, as the architect of the Charter, had been asked to deliver the winding-up speech on behalf of the Government. He knew that if the House backed the concept of the document he might then be allowed to prepare a parliamentary bill and thus overcome a problem so many other politicians had failed to solve before him. If he succeeded Simon felt that all the sacrifices he had made in the past would prove worthwhile.
When Elizabeth sat down to read through the final draft in Simon’s study that evening even she admitted for the first time that she was pleased he had accepted the Irish appointment.
“Now, embryonic statesman,” she continued, “are you ready for your dinner like every normal human being at this time in the evening?”
“I certainly am.” Simon moved his copy of the 129-page Charter from the dining room table to the sideboard, planning to go over it yet again once he had finished dinner.
“Damn,” he heard Elizabeth say from the kitchen.
“What is it?” he asked, not looking up from his toy, like a child studying a jigsaw and wondering where a colorless piece fitted in.
“I’m out of Bisto.”
“I’ll go and buy some,” Simon volunteered. The two policemen on the door were chatting when the minister came out.
“Come on, my wife needs a packet of Bisto, so affairs of state must be held up for the time being.”
“I’m very sorry, sir,” said the sergeant. “When I was told you would be in for the rest of the evening I allowed the official car to go off duty. But Constable Barker can accompany you.”
“That’s no problem,” said Simon. “We can take my wife’s car. I’ll just find out where she’s parked the damn thing.”
He slipped back into the house but returned a moment later. “Been in the force long?” he asked Constable Barker as they walked down the road together.
“Not that long, sir. Started on the beat just over a year ago.”
“Are you married, Constable?”
“Fine chance on my salary, sir.”
“Then you won’t have encountered the problem of being Bisto-less.”
“They’ve never heard of gravy in the police canteen, sir.”
“You should try the House of Commons sometime,” said Simon. “I don’t think you’d find it any better — the food, that is, not to mention the salary.”
The two men laughed as they headed off toward the car.
“What does your wife think of the Mini Metro?” the constable asked as Simon put the key in the door.
Like everyone else in Beaufort Street, Elizabeth heard the explosion, but she was the first to realize what it had to be. She ran out of the front door in search of the duty policeman. She saw him running down the road and quickly followed.
The little red Metro was scattered all over the side street, the glass from its windows making the pavement look as though there had been a sudden hailstorm.
When the sergeant saw the severed head he pulled Elizabeth back. Two other bodies lay motionless in the road, one of them an old lady with the contents of her shopping bag spread around her.
Within minutes, six police cars had arrived and Special Branch officers had cordoned off the area with white ribbon. An ambulance rushed the bodies to Westminster Hospital. The job of picking up the remains of the police constable needed a very resolute man.
Elizabeth was taken to the hospital in a police car, where she learned that the old lady had died before arrival while her husband was on the critical list. When she told the surgeon in charge that she was a doctor he was more forthcoming and answered her questions candidly. Simon was suffering from multiple fractures, a dislocated hip, and a severe loss of blood. The only question he was not willing to be drawn on was when she asked about his chances.
She sat alone outside the operating theater waiting for any scrap of news. Hour after hour went by, and Elizabeth kept recalling Simon’s words: “Be tolerant. Always remember there are still men of goodwill in Northern Ireland.” She found it almost impossible not to scream, to think of the whole lot of them as evil murderers. Her husband had worked tirelessly on their behalf. He wasn’t a Catholic or a Protestant, just a man trying to do an impossible task. Although she couldn’t help thinking that it was she who had been the intended target.
Another hour passed.
A tired, gray-faced man came out into the corridor through the flapping rubber doors. “He’s still hanging on, Dr. Kerslake. Your husband has the constitution of an ox; most people would have let go by now.” He smiled “Can I find you a room so that you can get some sleep?”
“No, thank you,” Elizabeth replied. “I’d prefer to be near him.”
She rang home to check the children were coping and her mother answered the phone. She had rushed over the moment she had heard the news and was keeping them away from the radio and television.
“How is he?” she asked.
Elizabeth told her mother all she knew, then spoke to the children.
“We’re taking care of Grandmother,” Peter told her.
Elizabeth couldn’t hold back the tears. “Thank you, darling,” she said, and quickly replaced the receiver. She returned to the bench outside the operating theater, kicked off her shoes, curled her legs under her body, and tried to snatch some sleep.
She woke with a start in the early morning. Her back hurt and her neck was stiff. She walked slowly up and down the corridor in her bare feet stretching her aching limbs, searching for anyone who could tell her some news. Finally a nurse brought her a cup of tea and assured her that her husband was still alive. But what did “still alive” mean? She stood and watched the grim faces coming out of the operating theater and tried not to recognize the telltale signs of despair. The surgeon told her she ought to go home and rest: they would have nothing to tell her for several hours. A policeman kept all journalists — who were arriving by the minute — in an anteroom off the main corridor.