In High Places

The 'sir' was strictly for effect. In private, the two men had used first names for years.

'The eighth,' the Governor General said. 'Natalie's coerced me into going by sea from New York. Fine damn thing for an ex-Chief of Air Staff, isn't it?'

'You'll be seeing Her Majesty in London, of course,' the Prime Minister said. 'When you do, I wonder if you'd raise the question of the state visit here we've suggested for March. I think perhaps a few words from you might help towards a favourable decision.'

The invitation to the Queen had been tendered several weeks earlier through the High Commissioner in London. It had been calculated – at least by James Howden and his senior party colleagues – as a manoeuvre before a late spring or early summer election, since a royal visit was usually a sure vote getter for the party in power. Now, with the developments of the past few days and the new vital issues which the country would soon know about, it was doubly important.

'Yes, I'd heard the invitation had gone.' The Governor General's tone held a hint of reservation. 'Rather short notice, I'd say. They seem to like at least a year's warning at Buck House.'

'I'm aware of that.' Howden felt a momentary annoyance that Griffiths should presume to instruct him on a subject he was fully familiar with. 'But sometimes these things can be arranged. I think it would be a good thing for the country, sir.'

Despite the 'sir' again, James Howden made it clear by inflection that he was issuing an order. And, he reflected, in some ways it would be close to that when received in London. The Court was fully conscious of Canada's position as the richest and most influential member of the shaky British Commonwealth, and if other commitments could be shuffled it was a virtual certainty that the Queen and her husband would come. Actually, he suspected the present delay in acceptance was probably merely for effect; but even so it was a precaution to use all the pressure he had.

'I'll pass on your sentiments. Prime Minister.'

'Thank you.' The exchange reminded Howden that he must begin to think about a successor to Sheldon Griffiths, whose twice-extended term of office was due to expire next year.

Across the hall from the Long Drawing Room a line had formed at the dining-room buffet. It was not surprising; the Government House chef, Alphonse Goubaux, was justly famed for his culinary -.skill. Once there had been a strong rumour ' that the US President's wife was trying to lure Chef Goubaux from Ottawa to Washington. Until the report was quashed there had been all the makings of an international incident.

Howden felt Margaret touch his arm, and they moved with the others. 'Natalie's boasting about the lobster in aspic; she claims it must be tasted to be believed.'

'Tell me when I bite on it, dear,' he said, and smiled. It was an old joke between them. James Howden took scant interest in food and, unless reminded, sometimes missed meals entirely. At other times he ate with his mind preoccupied, and occasionally in the past, when Margaret had prepared special delicacies, he had consumed them with no idea afterwards what he had eaten. Early in their married life Margaret had been moved to anger and tears by her husband's disinterest in cooking, which she loved, but had long since switched to amused resignation.

Glancing at the well-stocked buffet, where an attentive waiter held two plates in readiness, Howden observed, 'It looks impressive. What is it all?'

Pleased with the distinction of serving the Prime Minister, the waiter rattled off the name of each dish: beluga Malossol caviar, oysters Malpeque, pate maison, lobster aspic, Winnipeg smoked gold-eye, foie gras Mignonette, cold roast prime ribs, galantine of capon, hickory-smoked turkey, Virginia ham.

'Thank you,' Howden said. 'Just give me a little beef, well done, and some salad.'

As the man's face fell, Margaret whispered, 'Jamie!' and the Prime Minister added hastily, 'And also some of whatever it was my wife was recommending.'

As they turned from the table the naval aide reappeared. 'Excuse me, sir. His Excellency's compliments, and Miss Freedeman is telephoning you.'

Howden put down his untouched plate. 'Very well.'

'Must you go now, Jamie?' There was annoyance in Margaret's tone.

He nodded. 'Milly wouldn't call if it could wait.'

'The call is put through to the library, sir.' After bowing to Margaret the aide preceded him.

A few minutes later: 'Milly,' he said into the phone, 'I made a promise that this would be important.'

His personal secretary's soft contralto voice answered, 'It is, I think.'

Sometimes he liked to talk just for the sake of hearing Milly speak. He asked, 'Where are you?'

'At the office; I came back. Brian is here with me. That's why I called.'

He had an irrational flash of jealousy at the thought of Milly Freedeman alone with someone else… Milly who had shared with him, years before, the liaison he had remembered with a trace of guilt tonight. At the time their affair had been passionate and all-consuming, but when it ended, as he had known from the beginning it must, both had resumed their separate lives as if closing and locking a door between two rooms which continued to adjoin. Neither had ever spoken of that singular, special time again. But occasionally, as at this moment, the sight or sound of Milly could thrill him anew, as if he were once again young and eager, the years falling away… But afterwards, always, nervousness would supervene: the nervousness of one who – in public life – could not afford to have the chink in his armour penetrated.

'All right, Milly,' the Prime Minister instructed. 'Let me talk to Brian.'

There was a pause, and the sound of the telephone changing hands. Then a strong male voice declared crisply, 'There's been a press leak in Washington, chief. A Canadian reporter ' down there has found out you're expected in town to meet the Big Wheel. We need a statement out of Ottawa. Otherwise, if the news comes from Washington, it could look as if you're being sent for.'

Brian Richardson, the energetic forty-year-old director and national organizer of the party, seldom wasted words. His communications, spoken and written, still retained a flavour of the clear, crisp advertising copy he used to produce, first as a skilled copy-writer, then as a top-flight agency executive. Nowadays, though, advertising was something he delegated to others, his principal duty being to advise James McCallum Howden on day-to-day problems in retaining public favour for the Government. Howden inquired anxiously, 'There's been no leak about the subject matter?'

'No,' Richardson said. 'All the taps are tight on that. It's just the fact of the meeting.'

Appointed to his job soon after Howden's own accession to party leadership, Brian Richardson had already masterminded. two victorious election campaigns and other successes in between. Shrewd, resourceful, with an encyclopaedic mind and an organizing genius, he was one of the three or four men in the country whose calls were unquestioningly passed through the Prime Minister's private switchboard at any hour. He was also one of the most influential, and no government decision of a major nature was ever taken without his knowledge or advice. Unlike most of Howden's ministers, who as yet were unaware of the forthcoming Washington meeting, or its purport, Richardson had been told at once.

And yet, outside a limited circle, the name of Brian Richardson was almost unknown, and on the rare occasions his picture appeared in newspapers it was always discreetly – in the second or third row of a political group.

'Our arrangement with the White House was no announcement for a few days,' Howden said. 'And then it'll be a cover statement that the talks are about trade and fiscal policy.'