Elizabeth didn’t move from the corridor for another day and another night, and she didn’t return home until the surgeon told her it was all over.
When she heard the news she fell on her knees and wept.
“God must want the Irish problem solved as well,” he added. “Your husband will live, Dr. Kerslake, but it’s a miracle.”
“Got time for a quick one?” asked Alexander Dalglish.
“If you press me,” said Pimkin.
“Fiona,” shouted Alexander. “It’s Alec Pimkin, he’s dropped in for a drink.”
She came through to join them. She was dressed in a bright yellow frock and had allowed her hair to grow down past her shoulders.
“It suits you,” said Pimkin, tapping his bald head.
“Thank you,” said Fiona. “Why don’t we all go through to the drawing room?”
Pimkin happily obeyed and had soon settled himself into Alexander’s favorite chair.
“What will you have?” asked Fiona, as she stood by the drinks cabinet.
“A large gin with just a rumor of tonic.”
“Well, how’s the constituency faring since my resignation?”
“It ticks along, trying hard to survive the biggest sex scandal since Profumo,” chuckled Pimkin.
“I only hope it hasn’t harmed your election chances,” said Alexander.
“Not a bit of it, old fellow,” said Pimkin, accepting the large Beefeaters and tonic Fiona handed him. “On the contrary, it’s taken their minds off me for a change.”
Alexander laughed.
“In fact,” continued Pimkin, “interest in the date of your wedding has only been eclipsed by Charles and Lady Di. Gossips tell me,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself, “that my Honorable friend, the member for Sussex Downs, made you wait the full two years before you could place an announcement in The Times.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said Fiona. “Charles didn’t even answer my letters during that period, but lately when any problem’s arisen he’s been almost friendly.”
“Could that be because he also wants to place an announcement in The Times” said Pimkin, downing his gin quickly in the hope of being offered a second.
“What do you mean?”
“The fact that he has lost his heart to another.”
“Another?” said Alexander Dalglish.
“No less—” Pimkin paused as he sipped pointedly at his empty glass “—than Miss Amanda Wallace, only daughter of the late and little-lamented Brigadier Boozer Wallace.”
“Amanda Wallace?” said Fiona in disbelief. “Surely he’s got more sense than that.”
“I don’t think it has a lot to do with sense,” said Pimkin holding out his glass. “More to do with sex.”
“But he’s old enough to be her father.”
“If that is the case,” said Pimkin, “Charles can always adopt her.”
Alexander laughed.
“But I am informed by a reliable source,” continued Pimkin, “that marriage is being proposed.”
“You can’t be serious,” said Fiona flatly.
“The subject has most certainly been broached for she is undoubtedly pregnant and Charles is hoping for a son,” said Pimkin in triumph as he accepted his second double gin.
“That’s not possible,” said Fiona under her breath.
“And I am also informed,” continued Pimkin, “that some of the more ungenerous of our brethren are already suggesting the name of several candidates for the role of father.”
“Alec, you’re incorrigible.”
“My dear, it is common knowledge that Amanda has slept with half the Cabinet and a considerable cross section of back-benchers.”
“Stop exaggerating,” said Fiona.
“And what’s more,” continued Pimkin as if he hadn’t heard her, “she has only stopped short of the Labour front bench because her mother told her they were common and she might catch something from them.”
Alexander laughed again. “But surely Charles hasn’t fallen for the pregnancy trick?”
“Hook, line, and sinker. He’s like an Irishman who’s been locked into a Guinness brewery over the weekend. Dear Amanda has my Honorable friend uncorking her at every opportunity.”
“But she’s plain stupid,” said Alexander. “The only time I met her she assured me that Michael Parkinson was turning out to be an excellent chairman of the party.”
“Stupid she may well be,” said Pimkin, “but plain she is not and together, I’m told, they are updating the Kama Sutra.”
“Enough, Alec, enough,” said Fiona, laughing.
“You’re right,” said Pimkin, aware that his glass was nearly empty once again. “A man of my impeccable reputation cannot afford to be seen associating with people living in sin. I must leave immediately, darlings,” he said, rising to his feet. Pimkin put his glass down and Alexander accompanied him to the front door.
As it closed Alexander turned to Fiona. “Never short of useful information, our former member,” he said.
“I agree,” said Fiona. “So much gleaned for such a small investment in Beefeaters.”
As Alexander walked back into the drawing room he added, “Does it change your plans for the return of the Holbein?”
“Not in any way,” said Fiona.
“So you’ll still be at Sotheby’s next week for their Old Masters sale?”
Fiona smiled. “Certainly. And if the price is right we won’t have to worry about what we give Charles for a wedding present.”
Three weeks after the bombing Simon left the Westminster Hospital on crutches, Elizabeth by his side. His right leg had been so shattered that he had been told he would never walk properly again. As he stepped out on to Horseferry Road a hundred cameras flashed to meet their editors’ demand to capture the instant hero. He smiled as if there were no pain. “Don’t let those murderers think they got to you,” he was warned by both sides. Elizabeth’s smile showed only relief that her husband was still alive.
After three weeks of complete rest Simon returned to his Irish Charter against doctor’s orders, knowing the document was still due to be debated in the House in less than a fortnight. The Secretary of State and the other Minister of State for Northern Ireland visited him at home on several occasions and it was agreed that the Minister of State would take over Simon’s responsibilities temporarily and deliver the winding-up speech. During his absence the whole Northern Ireland office grew to realize just how much work Simon had put into the Charter, and no one was at all complacent about taking his place.
The attempt on Simon’s life and the build up to the special debate on the Charter became of such national interest that the BBC decided to broadcast the entire proceedings on Radio Four from three-thirty to the vote at ten o’clock.
On the afternoon of the debate Simon sat up in bed listening to every word on the radio as if it were the final episode in his favorite serial and he was desperate to know the outcome. The speeches opened with a clear and concise presentation of the Charter by the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, which left Simon feeling confident that the whole House would support him. The Opposition spokesman followed with a fair-minded speech, raising one or two queries he had over the controversial Patriots’ Clause with its special rights for Protestants in the south and Catholics in the north, and also how it would affect the Catholics unwilling to register in Northern Ireland. Otherwise he reassured the House that the Opposition supported the Charter and would not be calling for a division.