Leverett-Smith tilted his massive, cubical head. For the first time, he was slightly placated. He was interested to know if that was the Minister’s considered judgement. He would, of course, have to consult him to make sure.
Douglas, still smiling sweetly, as though determined to prove that pique did not exist in public business, reminded him that they had only a few hours to play with.
‘If the Minister really wishes me to undertake this duty, then naturally I should be unable to refuse,’ said Leverett-Smith, with something of the air of a peeress pressed to open a church bazaar. He had a parting shot.
‘If I do undertake this duty, Secretary, I think I can accept your draft in principle. But I shall have to ask you to call on me after lunch, so that we can go over it together.’
As Douglas left the room with me, he was silent. Pique might not exist in public business; but, I was thinking, if Leverett-Smith remained in political office at the time when Douglas became Head of the Treasury, he might conceivably remember this interview.
Yet although time might have been spent in Leverett-Smith’s ceremonies, there had been no compromise. It was Douglas who had got his own way.
The question was down for Thursday. That morning, Roger asked me to go to the House, to see how Leverett-Smith performed. He also asked me, as though it were an absent-minded thought, to drop in afterwards at Ellen’s flat for half an hour.
It was a raw afternoon, fog in the streets, ghostly residues of fog in the Chamber. About fifty members were settled on the benches, like an ill-attended matinee. As soon as prayers were finished, I had gone to the box behind the Speaker’s chair. There were several questions before ours, a lot of backchat about the reprieve of a murderer whom a Welsh Member kept referring to, with an air of passionate affection, as ‘Ernie’ Wilson.
Then, from the back bench on the Government side, on my right hand, rose the man we were waiting for — young, smart, blond, avid. He announced that he begged to ask Question 22, in a manner self-assured and minatory, his head back, his chin raised, as if he were trying to get the maximum bark from the microphones.
Leverett-Smith got up deliberately, as though his muscles were heavy and slow. He did not turn to the back-bencher in his rear: he stood gazing at a point far down on the opposite side below the gangway.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, as though announcing satisfaction, not only with security arrangements but with the universe.
The avid young man was on his feet.
‘Has the Minister seen the statement made by Professor Brodzinski on November 3rd, which has been widely published in the United States?’
Leverett-Smith’s uninflected, confident voice came rolling out: ‘My Right Honourable friend has seen this statement, which is erroneous in all respects. Her Majesty’s Government has a defence policy which is the responsibility of Her Majesty’s Government, and which is constantly being debated in this House. My Right Honourable friend acknowledges with gratitude the services of his advisers on the scientific committees and elsewhere. It does not need to be said that these men are one and all of the highest integrity and devoted to the national interest. As a matter of standard procedure, all persons including Her Majesty’s Ministers having access to secret information, are subjected to rigorous security procedure. And this is the case with each person consulted, on any matter connected with Defence whatsoever, by my Right Honourable friend.’
Subdued, respectful hear-hears. The blond young man was on his feet.
‘I should like to ask whether all scientific advisers have gone through security vetting during this past year.’
Leverett-Smith, standing once more, looked for an instant like an elephantine beast being baited. I was afraid that he would ask for notice of the question.
He stood there letting the seconds tick by. Then his voice resounded, once more impregnable.
‘My Right Honourable friend regards the publication of the details of security procedures as not being in the public interest.’
Good, I thought. That was all we wanted.
Again, hear-hears. Again, the pestering, angry voice.
‘Will the Minister produce the dates on which certain members of this scientific committee, the names of whom I am willing to supply, were last submitted to security vetting? Some of us are not prepared to ignore Dr Brodzinski—’
There were mutters of irritation from the Tory benches. The young man had gone too far.
This time, Leverett-Smith did not take so long to meditate. Solidly he announced to the middle distance: ‘This supplementary question is covered by my last answer. The question is also an unworthy reflection on gentlemen, who, often at great sacrifices to themselves, are doing invaluable service to the country.’
Vigorous hear-hears. Definite hear-hears, putting an end to supplementaries. Another question was called. Leverett-Smith sat broad-backed, basking in a job well done.
I was waiting for another question, further down the list, addressed to my own Minister. Douglas, who had been sitting beside me, left with a satisfied grin.
Sometime later, a debate was beginning. It was not yet time for me to leave for Ebury Street. Then I saw Roger coming into the Chamber. He must have picked up gossip outside, for on his way to his seat on the front bench he stopped by Leverett-Smith and slapped him on the shoulder. Leverett-Smith, turning to him, gave a serious contented smile.
Roger lolled in his seat, reading his own papers, like a man working in a railway carriage. At some quip from the Opposition benches that raised a laugh, he gave a preoccupied, good-natured smile.
As another speech began, he looked up from his scripts, turned to the box, and caught my eye. With his thumb, he beckoned me to meet him outside. I saw him get up, whisper to another Minister and stroll out.
In the central lobby, full of visitors, of little groups chatting earnestly, of solitary persons waiting with passive resignation, much like Grand Central Station on a winter night, he came up to me.
‘I hear Leverett was pretty good,’ he said.
‘Better than you’d have been.’
Roger drew down his lip in a grim chuckle. He was just going to speak, when I caught sight of Ellen walking past us. She must have come from the Strangers’ Gallery, I thought, as she gave me the slight smile of a distant acquaintance. To Roger she made no sign of recognition, nor he to her. I watched her move away from us, through the lobby doors.
Roger said: ‘She’ll be going straight home. We can follow in a few minutes. I think I’ll come along with you.’
In Palace Yard, the lamps, the taxi-lights, shone smearily through the fog. As we got near to the taxis, Roger muttered that it was better if I gave the address.
The click of the lift-door opening, the ring of the bell.
As Ellen opened the door, she was ready for me, but seeing Roger, gave an astonished, delighted sigh. The door closed behind us, and she was in his arms. It was a hug of relief, of knowledge, the hug of lovers who know all the pleasure they can give each other. For her, perhaps, it was a little more. Meeting him only in this room, pressed in by this claustrophobia of secrecy, she was glad, this once, to throw her arms round him and have someone there to watch. They would have liked to go straight to bed. Nevertheless, it was a joy to her, as well as a frustration, to have me there.
At last they sat on the sofa, I in an armchair. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’ she asked, inquiring about the incident in the House, but her tone so happy that she might have been asking another question. His eyes were as bright as hers. He answered, in the same sort of double-talk: ‘Not bad.’ Then he got down to business.