Among cabinet members the process had become known familiarly as 'the line-up'. Occasionally there was mild grumbling and, once, word of it had reached James Howden's ears. But his own attitude – defined to Brian Richardson, who had reported the complaints – was that the occasions were a demonstration of party and government solidarity, and the party director agreed. Not mentioned by the Prime Minister was a boyhood memory he sometimes even now recalled.
Long ago, young James Howden had journeyed from his orphanage to school to Edmonton, three hundred and fifty miles distant, where he was to write examinations for entry to the University of Alberta. He had been provided with a return train ticket and set off alone. Three days later, brimming with a success he desperately needed to share, he had returned – to an empty railway station, with no one to meet him. In the end, carrying his cardboard suitcase, he had had to walk to the orphanage three miles out of town, his first flush of excitement evaporating along the way. Ever after, he had shrunk from beginning or ending a journey alone.
There would be no aloneness today. Others, in addition to the Cabinet, had come to the airport, and from the rear seat of the chauffeur-driven Oldsmobile, with Margaret beside him, James Howden observed the chiefs of staff – Army, Navy, and Air Force, in uniform, with aides – as well as the Mayor of Ottawa, the RCMP Commissioner, several chairmen of Government boards, and discreetly in rear. His Excellency Phillip B. Angrove, US Ambassador. In a separate group were the inevitable cluster of reporters and photographers and, with them, Brian Richardson and Milly Freedeman.
'Good heavens!' Margaret whispered. 'You'd think we were going to China as missionaries.'
'I know,' he answered. 'It's a nuisance, but people seem to expect this sort of thing.'
'Don't be silly,' Margaret said softly. Her hand touched his. 'You love it all, and there's no reason you shouldn't.'
The limousine swung in a wide arc across the airport ramp, halting smoothly near the VIP Vanguard, its fuselage gleaming in the morning sunshine, the RCAF crew drawn up at attention alongside. An RCMP constable opened the car door and Margaret alighted, James Howden following. The military and police snapped to salutes and the Prime Minister raised the new pearl-grey homburg which Margaret had brought him back from her shopping trip in Montreal. There was an air of expectancy among those waiting, he thought; or perhaps it was the sharp, cold wind sweeping across the airport runways which made faces seem tense. He wondered about secrecy – whether it had been preserved, or if there had been leakage, with hints of the true importance' of today's journey.
Stuart Cawston stepped forward, beaming. Smiling Stu, as the senior member of Cabinet, would be Acting Prime Minister in Howden's absence. 'Greetings, sir – and Margaret,' the Finance Minister said. Then, as they shook hands, 'We are, as you see, a sizeable cheering section.'
'Where are the massed bands?' Margaret asked irreverently. 'It seems the only thing missing.'
'It's supposed to be a secret,' Cawston answered lightly, 'but we flew them ahead to Washington disguised as US Marines. So if you see any, assume they're ours.' He touched the Prime Minister's arm. His face becoming serious, he asked, 'Is there any further word – proof or disproof?'
James Howden shook his head. There was no need for explanations; the question was one which the world had been asking ever since, forty-eight hours earlier, Moscow had trumpeted the destruction of a US nuclear submarine, the Defiant, in the East Siberian Sea. According to the Russian claim -which Washington had since denied – the submarine had encroached on Soviet territorial waters. The incident had brought to an apparent peak mounting world tensions of the past few weeks.
'There can't possibly be any proof, not now,' Howden said softly. The welcoming group waited as he spoke earnestly to Cawston. 'I believe it's a calculated act of provocation and we should resist any temptation to retaliate. I intend to urge that on the White House because we still need time – as much as we can get.'
'I agree,' Cawston said quietly.
'I've ruled against any statement or protest ourselves,' the Prime Minister said, 'and you must understand there's to be none unless Arthur and I decide in Washington, and in that case it'll be from there. Is that clear?'
'Quite clear,' Cawston said. 'Frankly I'm glad it's you and Arthur, and not me.'
They returned to the waiting group and James Howden began to shake hands. At the same time the other three cabinet members who would accompany him on the flight – Arthur Lexington, Adrian Nesbitson, and Styles Bracken of Trade and Commerce – fell in behind.
Adrian Nesbitson looked a good deal healthier, Howden thought, than the last time they had met. The old warrior, pink cheeked and tightly cocooned in woollen scarf, fur hat, and heavy overcoat, had a touch of his parade-ground manner and was obviously enjoying the occasion, as he did all ceremonial. They must talk during the flight, Howden realized there had been no opportunity since the Defence Committee meeting and it was essential, somehow, to bring the old man into line. Even though Nesbitson would not participate directly in the Presidential talks, there must be no apparent dissension within the Canadian group.
Behind Nesbitson, Arthur Lexington wore the casual air becoming an External Affairs Minister to whom travel anywhere in the world was routine business. Seemingly unbothered by the cold, he had on a soft felt hat and light topcoat, his customary bow tie visible beneath. Bracken, the Trade and Commerce Minister, a wealthy westerner who had joined the Cabinet only a few months earlier, was being taken along- for appearance's sake, since trade was supposed to be the main topic in the Washington talks.
Harvey Warrender was in the cabinet line-up. 'A profitable -journey.' His manner was carefully correct, containing no hint of their previous clash. He added, 'And you too, Margaret.'
'Thank you,' the Prime Minister answered. His response was notably less courteous than to the others.
Unexpectedly Margaret said, 'Haven't you a Latin tag for us, Harvey?'
Warrender's eyes flickered between the two. 'Sometimes I have the impression your husband dislikes my little gambits.'
'Never mind that,' Margaret said. 'I think it's rather fun.' -
The Immigration Minister smiled slightly. 'In that. case, may it be true: vectatio, interque, et mutata regio vigorem dant.'
'I dig the vigorem bit,' Stuart Cawston said. 'What's the rest, Harvey?'
'An observation of Seneca,' Warrender responded. 'Voyage, travel, and a change of place impart vigour.'
'I'm quite vigorous, with or without travel,' James Howden declared curtly. The exchange had annoyed him and he took Margaret's arm firmly, steering her towards the US Ambassador who moved forward, doffing his hat. As if instinctively the others held back.
'Angry, this is an unexpected pleasure,' Howden said.
'On the contrary. Prime Minister – my privilege and honour.' The ambassador bowed slightly to Margaret. Phillip Angrove, a grizzled career diplomat with friends in many countries of the world, had a way of making protocol courtesies seem personally meant, as perhaps, at times, they were. We tend too much, Howden thought, to discount everything that is said politely as surface dressing only. He noticed the ambassador was stooped at the shoulders rather more than usual.
Margaret had observed too. 'I hope your arthritis hasn't bothered you again, Mr Angrove.'