'I believe I should talk to you more often, Claire,' he offered. 'I believe you should.'
'Aren't you the Booza's parliamentary twin?' he continued, 'I seem to remember reading somewhere. You both came into the House together, what -seven years ago? Same age. Both wealthy, darlings of the party conference. Both tipped to go far.' 'If only I had his talent.'
'Foreign Secretary, d'you think, in a Makepeace Cabinet?' He turned back to his original target.
Makepeace paused, as though to emphasize his words with elaborate consideration. 'Not in a million dawns,' he replied softly. 'The man wouldn't recognize a political principle or an original idea if it were served up en croute with oysters.' 'Ah, at last! A breach in your famous collective Ministerial loyalty, Tom. There's hope for you yet,' the editor beamed, delighted to have discovered a point of such obvious antipathy. He turned to Claire. 'I feel an editorial coming on. Although to tell you the truth, my dear, I'm a little worried by all his talk about principles and original ideas. It's not good for an ambitious man. We're going to have to work on him.'
She laughed, a genuine expression full of white teeth and pleasure. 'You know, Bryan, I think we are.'
Civilian Area, Dhekelia Army Base, British Sovereign Territory, Cyprus 'Greetings, my Greek friend. Welcome to a humble carpenter's workshop. What part of Allah's bounty may His servant share with you?'
'Sheep. Seven of them. A week on Friday. And not all fat and sinews like your wife.'
'Seven?' the Turk mused. 'One for every night of your week, Glafko. For you I shall endeavour to find the most beautiful sheep in the whole of Turkish Cyprus.'
'It's Easter, you son of Saladin,' Glafkos the Plumber spat. 'And my daughter's getting married. A big feast.' 'A thousand blessings on the daughter of Glafkos.'
The Greek, an undersized man with a hunched shoulder and the expression of a cooked vine leaf, remained unimpressed. 'Chew on your thousand blessings, Uluc. Why was I five shirts short on last week's delivery?' The Turk, a carpenter, put aside the plane with which he was repairing a broken door and brushed his hands on the apron spread across his prominent stomach. The sports shirts, complete with skilfully counterfeited Lacoste and Adidas logos, were manufactured within the Turkish sector by his mother's second cousin, who was obviously 'taking the chisel' to them both. But the Greek made a huge mark-up on the smuggled fakes which were sold through one of the many sportswear outlets in the village of Pyla, in a shop owned by his nephew. He could afford a minor slicing. Anyway, he didn't want a damned Greek to know he was being cheated by one of his own family.
'Shrinkage,' he exclaimed finally, after considerable deliberation.
'You mean you've been pulling the sheet over to your side again.'
'But my dear Greek friend, according to our leaders we are soon to be brothers. One family.' His huge hand closed around the plane and nonchalantly he began scraping at the door again. 'Why, perhaps your daughter might yet lie with a Turk.'
'I'll fix the leaking sewers of hell first. With my bare hands.'
The Turk laughed, displaying black teeth and gruff humour. Their battle was incessant, conducted on the British base where they both worked and at various illicit crossing points along the militarized buffer zone which separated Greek and Turkish communities. They could smuggle together, survive and even prosper together, but that didn't mean they had to like each other, no matter what those fools of politicians decreed.
'Here, Greek. A present for your wife.' He reached into a drawer and removed a small bottle marked Chanel. 'May it fill your nights with happiness.'
Glafkos removed the top and sniffed the contents, pouring a little into the open palm of his hand. 'Smells like camel's piss.'
'From a very genuine Chanel camel. And very, very cheap,' Uluc, responded, rolling his eyes.
The Greek tried to scrape off the odour on his shirt then examined the bottle carefully. 'I'll take six dozen. On trial. And no shrinkage.' The Turk nodded. 'Or evaporation.'
Uluc, entered upon another hearty chuckle, yet as quickly as it had arrived his pleasure was gone and in place a grey cloud hovered about his brow. He began stroking his moustache methodically with the tip of a heavily callused finger, three times on each side, as though attempting to smooth away an untidiness that had entered his life.
'Wind from your wife's cooking?' Glafkos the Plumber ventured.
Uluc the Carpenter ignored the insult. 'No, my friend, but a thought troubles me. If we are all told to love one another, Turk and Greek, embracing each other's heart instead of the windpipe – what in the name of Allah are you and I going to do?' As individuals most were modest, middle class, often dull. And proud of it. Collectively, however, they shared a blood lust of animalistic intensity that found expression in waves of screamed enthusiasm which were sent crashing across the court.
'Changed, hasn't it?' Sir Henry Ponsonby mused, his thin face masked by the shade of a large Panama. He didn't need to add that in his view this could not have been for the better. As Head of the Civil Service he took a deal of convincing that change was anything other than disruptive.
'You mean, you remember when we English used to win?'
'Sadly that's ancient history of a sort that isn't even part of the core curriculum anymore.' He sniffed. 'No. I mean that every aspect of life seems to have become a blood sport. Politics. Journalism. Academia. Commerce. Even Wimbledon.'
Down on the court the first Englishman to have been seeded at the All England Tennis Championships for more than two decades scrambled home another point in the tie-break; a further two and he'd survive to fight a deciding set. The crowd, having sulked over the clinical humiliation of its national hero throughout the first hour and a half, had woken to discover he was back in with a chance. On the foot-scuffed lawn before them a legend was in the making. Perhaps. Better still, the potential victim was French.
'I may be an academic, Henry. Even an international jurist. But deep inside there's part of me that would give everything to be out there right now.'
Sir Henry started at this unanticipated show of emotion. From unexceptional origins Clive Watling had established a distinguished career as an academic jurist and steady hand, QC, MA, LLB and multiple honorary distinctions, red-brick reliable, a man whose authority matched his broad Yorkshire girth. Flights of physical enthusiasm were not part of the form book. Still, everyone was allowed a touch of passion, and better tennis balls than little boys.
'Well, that's not exactly what we had in mind for you, old chap,' Sir Henry began again. 'Wanted to sound you out. You know, you've established a formidable standing through your work on the International Court, widely respected and all that.'
Another point was redeemed for national honour and Watling couldn't resist an involuntary clenching of his fists in response. Sir Henry's thin red line of lips closed formation. The mixture of tension and heat on Number One Court stifled any further attempt at conversation as the tennis players squared up once more.
A blow. A flurry of arms and fevered shouts. Movement of a ball so fast that few eyes could follow while all hearts sailed with it. A cloud of English chalk dust, a cry of Gallic despair, and an eruption of noise from the stands. The set was won and from the far end of the court came the sound of hoarse voices joined together in the chorus of 'Rule Britannia'. Sir Henry raised his eyes in distaste, failing to notice his companion's broad grin. Sir Henry was a traditionalist, unaccustomed to expressing emotion himself and deprecating its expression by others. As he was to express to others in his club later that week, this was scarcely his scene. They were forced to wait until the inevitable Mexican wave had washed across them – good grief, was Watling actually flexing his thighs? – before being allowed to resume their thoughts.