Now, her mind pivoting to the present, Milly made her next call.
It was Stuart Cawston, whose wife answered drowsily with the information that the Finance Minister was in the shower. Milly passed on a message, which was relayed, and she heard Smiling Stu acknowledge with a shouted, 'Tell Milly I'll be there.'
Adrian Nesbitson, Minister of Defence, was next on her list and she had to wait several minutes before the old man's shuffling footsteps reached the phone. When she told him about the meeting he said resignedly, 'H that's what the chief wants. Miss Freedeman, I'll have to be there, I suppose. Too bad, I'd say, it couldn't have waited until after the holiday.'
Milly made sympathetic noises, despite her awareness that the presence or absence of Adrian Nesbitson would make little difference to anything decided at this morning's meeting. Something else she knew, which Nesbitson did not, was that James Howden planned several cabinet changes in the new year and among the people to go would be the present Minister of Defence.
Nowadays, Milly thought, it seemed strange to remember that General Nesbitson had once been an heroic figure in the nation – a legendary, much-decorated veteran of World War II, with a reputation for daring, if not imagination. It was Adrian Nesbitson who had once led an armoured attack against panzers, standing in an open jeep, his personal bagpiper perched, playing, on the seat behind. And as much as generals are ever loved, Nesbitson had been loved by the men who had served him.
But after the war, Nesbitson the civilian would have amounted to nothing had it not been that James Howden wanted someone well known but administratively weak in the Defence slot. Howden's objective had been to have the appearance of possessing a stalwart Defence Minister but actually to control the portfolio closely himself.
That part of the plan had worked out well enough – too well, at times. Adrian Nesbitson, the gallant soldier, had proved entirely out of his depth in an era of missiles and nuclear power and only too willing to do exactly as told without the nuisance of argument. Unfortunately he had not always grasped the briefings of his own officials, and, lately, before press and public, had assumed the appearance of a tired and harassed Colonel Blimp.
Talking with the old man depressed Milly and she replenished her coffee and went to the bathroom to freshen up before making the remaining two calls. Pausing, before going back, she looked at herself in the long bathroom mirror under the bright fluorescent light. She saw a tall, attractive woman, still young if you used the word tolerantly, full-bosomed; also a bit hippy, she thought critically. But she had good bones, a strong, well-shaped face with high classic cheekbones, and thickish eyebrows which she tweezed spasmodically when she thought of it. Eyes were big, sparkling, grey-green and wide in her face. A straight nose, broad at the end, was set over full, sensuous lips. Dark brown hair cut very short: Milly looked at it critically, wondering if it was time for cutting again. She 'disliked beauty salons and preferred to wash, set, and brush her own hair into shape. To do this, though, it had to be cut well and, it seemed, much too frequently.
Short hair had one big advantage, though – you could run your hands through it, and Milly often did. James Howden had liked doing that too, just as he had liked the old yellow robe she still wore. For the twentieth time she decided she must get rid of it soon.
Returned to the apartment living-room, she made her two remaining calls. One was to Lucien Perrault, Minister of Defence Production, who was openly annoyed at being called so early, and Milly was as snippy in return as she reasoned she could get away with. Afterwards she was a little sorry about that, remembering that someone or other had once described the right to be disagreeable in the early morning as the sixth human freedom, and most times Perrault – who wore the mantle of French Canadian leadership in Canada – treated her courteously enough.
The final call was to Douglas Martening, Clerk of the Privy Council, and procedural Solon at all cabinet meetings. With Martening, Milly was more respectful than with the others. Ministers might come and go, but the Clerk of the Privy Council, while in office, was the senior civil servant in Ottawa. He also had a reputation for aloofness and most times when Milly spoke to him gave the impression of scarcely being aware of her. But today, unusually, he was gloomily chatty.
'It will be a long meeting, I suppose. Probably go right on over into Christmas Day.'
'It wouldn't surprise me, sir,' Milly said. Then tentatively,
'But if it does I could always send out for turkey sandwiches.'
Martening grunted, then again surprisingly came back, 'It isn't sandwiches I need. Miss Freedeman. Just some other kind of work where a fellow gets a little more home life now and then.'
Afterwards Milly reflected: was disenchantment infectious? Could the great Mr Martening be about to join the parade of senior civil servants who had left the ranks of government for higher-paying industrial jobs? The question made her wonder about herself. Was this a time for departure; a time for change before it became too late for change?
She was still wondering four hours later as the members of the cabinet Defence Committee began to assemble in the Prime Minister's office suite on Parliament Hill. Dressed in a smartly tailored grey suit with a white blouse, Milly ushered them in.
General Nesbitson had been last to arrive, his balding, pudgy figure wrapped in a heavy overcoat and scarf. Helping him off with them, Milly had been shocked to see how unwell the old man appeared and now, as if to confirm the opinion, he suddenly began a coughing spell into his handkerchief.
Milly poured some ice water from a carafe and held it out. The old warrior sipped it, nodding gratefully. After an interval and more coughing, he managed to gasp, 'Excuse me – this blasted catarrh. Always get it when I have to stay the winter in Ottawa. Used to take a winter holiday down south. Can't get away now, with so many important things going on.'
Next year, maybe, Milly thought.
'A Merry Christmas, Adrian.' Stuart Cawston had joined them, his amiably ugly features beaming, as usual, like an illuminated sign.
Lucien Perrault spoke from behind him. 'And such a one to be wishing it, whose taxes pierce our souls like daggers.' Jauntily handsome, with a shock of black curls, bristling moustache, and a humorous eye, Perrault was as fluent in English as in French. At times – though not now – his manner betrayed a touch of hauteur, reminder of his seigneurial ancestors. At thirty-eight, and the youngest member of Cabinet, his influence was actually much stronger than indicated by the comparatively minor office he held. But the Defence Production Ministry had been Perrault's own choosing, and since it was one of the three patronage ministries (the others. Public Works and Transport), by ensuring that plum contracts went to the party's financial supporters, his influence in the party hierarchy was considerable.
'You shouldn't have your soul so near your bank account, Lucien,' the Finance Minister rejoined. 'In any case I'm Santa Claus to you fellows. You and Adrian here are the ones who buy the expensive toys.'
'But they explode with such a remarkable bang,' Lucien Perrault said. 'Moreover, my friend, in Defence Production we create much work and employment which bring you more taxes than ever.'
'There's an economic theory tied in there somewhere,' Cawston said. 'Too bad I've never understood it.'
The office intercom buzzed and Milly answered. Metallically James Howden's voice announced, 'The meeting will be in the Privy Council chamber. I'll be there in a moment.'
Milly saw the Finance Minister's eyebrows rise with mild surprise. Most small policy meetings aside from the full Cabinet usually took place informally in the Prime Minister's office. But obediently the group filed out into the corridor towards the Privy Council chamber a few yards away.