‘Will you be joining us for breakfast, my darling, now that you’ve done your job?’
She yawned and stretched her arms. ‘Not a bad idea, Harry Clifton, because it’s time I got back to work.’
‘So what’s the plot for today?’
‘I have to get back to Bristol, sharpish. I’ve got a meeting with the newly appointed chairman of the hospital at three this afternoon, to discuss priorities for the next year.’
‘Are you happy with your successor?’
‘Couldn’t be more pleased. Simon Dawkins is a first-class administrator and he was a loyal deputy, so I’m expecting the handover to be seamless.’
‘Then I’ll leave you to get dressed,’ said Harry, before handing his wife her tea and heading back downstairs to join Giles for breakfast.
Giles was seated at the far end of the table surrounded by the morning papers, which didn’t make good reading. He smiled for the first time that day when his brother-in-law entered the room.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Harry, placing a consoling hand on the shoulder of his oldest friend.
‘I’ve had better mornings,’ admitted Giles, pushing the papers to one side. ‘But I’m hardly in a position to complain. I’ve served as a minister for nine of the past fourteen years, and I must still have a chance of holding office in five years’ time, because I can’t believe that woman will last.’
Both men stood when Emma entered the room.
‘Congratulations, sis,’ said Giles. ‘You were a worthy opponent, and it was a deserved victory.’
‘Thank you, Giles,’ she said, giving her brother a hug, something she hadn’t done for the past twenty-eight days. ‘So what are you up to today?’ she asked as she sat in the chair beside him.
‘Some time this morning I’ll have to hand in my seals of office so that woman,’ he said, stabbing a finger at the photograph on the front page of the Daily Express, ‘can form her first, and I hope last, administration. Thatcher’s due at the palace at ten, when she’ll kiss hands before being driven to Downing Street in triumph. You’ll be able to watch it on television, but I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t join you.’
After Emma had finished packing, Harry placed their suitcases by the front door before joining her in the drawing room, not surprised to find her glued to the television. She didn’t even look up when he entered the room.
Three black Jaguars were emerging from Buckingham Palace. The crowds standing on the pavement outside the palace gates were waving and clapping as the convoy made its way up the Mall to Whitehall. Robin Day kept up a running commentary.
‘The new Prime Minister will spend the morning appointing her first Cabinet. Lord Carrington is expected to be foreign secretary, Geoffrey Howe chancellor, and Leon Brittan home secretary. As for the other appointments, we will have to wait and see who is preferred. I don’t suppose there will be many surprises, although you can be quite sure there will be several anxious politicians sitting by their phones hoping for a call from Number Ten,’ he added as the three cars swept into Downing Street.
As the Prime Minister stepped out of her car, another cheer went up. She made a short speech quoting Saint Francis of Assisi before disappearing into No. 10.
‘Better get moving,’ said Harry, ‘or we’ll miss the train.’
Emma spent the afternoon with Simon Dawkins, her successor at Bristol Royal Infirmary, before clearing out her second office that day. She filled the back seat of her car as well as the boot with all the personal possessions she had accumulated over the past decade. As she drove slowly out of the hospital grounds for the last time, she didn’t look back. She was looking forward to a quiet supper at the Manor House with Harry, and later to placing her head on a pillow before midnight for the first time in weeks, while hoping for more than four hours’ sleep.
Emma was in her dressing gown enjoying a late breakfast when the call came.
Harry picked up the phone on the sideboard and listened for a moment, before covering the mouthpiece and whispering, ‘It’s Number Ten.’
Emma leapt up and took the phone, assuming it would be Mrs Thatcher on the other end of the line.
‘This is Number Ten,’ said a formal voice. ‘The Prime Minister wonders if you could see her at twelve thirty this afternoon.’
‘Yes of course,’ said Emma without thinking.
‘When?’ asked Harry as she put the phone down.
‘Twelve thirty at Number Ten.’
‘You’d better get dressed immediately while I bring the car round. We’ll have to get a move on if you hope to catch the ten past ten.’
Emma ran upstairs and took longer than she intended deciding what to wear. A simple navy suit and a white silk blouse won the day.
Harry managed ‘You look great,’ as he accelerated down the driveway and out of the front gates, glad to have avoided the morning rush. He pulled up outside Temple Meads just after ten.
‘Call me as soon as you’ve seen her,’ he shouted at the departing figure, but couldn’t be sure if Emma had heard him.
Emma couldn’t help thinking as the train pulled out of the station, that if Margaret just wanted to thank her, she could have done it over the phone. She scanned the morning papers, which were covered with pictures of the new Prime Minister and details of her senior appointments. The cabinet were due to meet for the first time at ten o’clock that morning. She checked her watch: 10.15 a.m.
Emma was among the first off the train, and ran all the way to the taxi rank. When she reached the front of the queue and said, ‘Number Ten Downing Street, and I have to be there by twelve thirty,’ the cabbie looked at her as if to say, Pull the other one.
When the taxi drove into Whitehall and stopped at the bottom of Downing Street, a policeman glanced in the back, smiled and saluted. The taxi drove slowly up to the front door of No. 10. When Emma took out her purse, the driver said, ‘No charge, miss. I voted Tory, so this one’s on me. And by the way, good luck.’
Before Emma could knock on the door of No. 10, it swung open. She stepped inside to find a young woman waiting for her.
‘Good morning, Lady Clifton. My name is Alison, and I’m one of the Prime Minister’s personal secretaries. I know she’s looking forward to seeing you.’
Emma followed the secretary silently up the stairs to the first floor where they came to a halt in front of a door. The secretary knocked, opened it and stood aside. Emma walked in to find Mrs Thatcher on the phone.
‘We’ll speak again later, Willy, when I’ll let you know my decision.’ The Prime Minister put the phone down. ‘Emma,’ she said, rising from behind her desk. ‘So kind of you to return to London at such short notice. I’d assumed you were still in town.’
‘Not a problem, Prime Minister.’
‘First, my congratulations on winning fifty-nine of the sixty-two targeted marginal seats. A triumph! Although I expect your brother will tease you about failing to capture Bristol Docklands.’
‘Next time, Prime Minister.’
‘But that could be five years away and we’ve got rather a lot to do before then, which is why I wanted to see you. You probably know that I’ve invited Patrick Jenkin to be Secretary of State for Health, and of course he will need an undersecretary in the Lords to steer the new National Health Bill through the Upper House and safely on to the books. And I can’t think of anyone better qualified to do that job. You have vast experience of the NHS, and your years as chairman of a public company make you the ideal candidate for the post. So I do hope you’ll feel able to join the government as a life peer.’
Emma was speechless.
‘One of the truly wonderful things about you, Emma, is that it hadn’t even crossed your mind that was the reason I wanted to see you. Half my ministers assumed they got no more than they deserved, while the other half couldn’t hide their disappointment. I suspect you’re the only one who’s genuinely surprised.’