Her host had risen to his feet on her arrival but stayed behind his desk.
He said nothing when the young woman moved to the side of his desk and viewed the three small framed photographs on his uncluttered desk.
Marija remembered Peter’s mother, a slim, clever woman whose laugh was often forced. The second picture was of a woman in her twenties with her mother’s chin and her father’s eyes; Peter’s older sister, Elspeth, who’d emigrated to Australia before the October War. Finally, Peter looking very young and self-conscious, on parade in front of a big building with tall colonnades brandishing of all things, a ceremonial sword…
The Commander-in-Chief of all British and Commonwealth Forces in the Mediterranean Theatre of Operation chuckled lowly.
“I have more recent photographs of Peter. I make it known to his commanding officers, confidentially you understand, that I like to keep a record of his progress, you see. But that’s the picture I carry with me always.”
Marija remained silent but gave the man a quizzical, unafraid look.
“It was the day,” he explained wanly, “that I was most proud of him and yet couldn’t bring myself to tell him. I’ve never forgiven myself. He’s never forgiven me. It was the worst day of my life; I hope to live long enough to atone.”
“Oh.” The young woman was confused. She’d ponder what she’d just been told at her leisure. It was a thing that deserved long and careful consideration; possibly the most important thing the great man would ever say to her. “Lieutenant Siddall said you wanted to talk to me about the Women of Malta?”
“Another day, perhaps.”
Julian Christopher resumed his seat.
Marija continued to roam the room.
She picked up the picture of Peter wielding the sword.
“Dartmouth,” she was informed. “Peter’s passing out parade.”
“Oh.” Marija looked up and met the older man’s gaze. Subconsciously, her hand stroked the frame.
“I have made a point of not interfering in Peter’s career,” Julian Christopher said flatly. “Yes, I keep in touch with his commanding officers but always on the clearly stated basis that I am only interested in hearing realistic appraisals of his progress. Peter has achieved everything that he has achieved in the Service off his own bat. Everything. However…”
Marija frowned, unsure where this was going.
“However, in attaching Peter to the fleet staff on board HMS Hermes I have broken the rule of a lifetime. A rule that, with hindsight, I should have broken long ago. There’s no fool like an old fool, as they say.”
“I don’t understand, Admiral Christopher,” Marija confessed.
“Under the forthcoming reorganisation of my command area, from January HMS Hermes’s new home port will be Valletta.”
Chapter 50
With the collaboration of GCHQ technicians it was going to be the BBC’s first live outside broadcast since the October War. The Director General of the British Broadcasting Company had protested that his reconstructed, relocated and still ramshackle organisation — a pale imitation of its old majesty — was not ready for such a momentous step. He’d also objected to the ‘technical input by MI6’ in ‘ethical grounds’ but Margaret Thatcher had over-ruled him. Basically, if the BBC wasn’t up to the job then ‘what was it good for?’
This question had stumped the Director General who’d been sulking ever since about the iniquities of a ‘totalitarian states’ and ‘Soviet methods’. The Angry Widow had never had much time for wishy washy artistic types with fragile egos so she’d made a mental note to talk to Iain MacLeod, the Minister of Information about finding somebody capable of rebuilding the BBC ‘a little faster’ than its current chief.
The BBC had taken over Cheltenham Town Hall, a marvellous Gothic Victorian structure in the heart of the nearest town to the United Kingdom Interim Emergency Administration compound three days ago to prepare for another kind of broadcast. Edward Heath had planned to speak to the nation on his return from America. Nobody had known three days ago if he was to return with tidings of peace or war; and two scripts had been drafted.
What had happened in Washington forty-eight hours ago had altered the shape of politics forever on both sides of the North Atlantic. In America and in England the Governments of the old allies had crossed their respective Rubicons. There could be no going back.
Margaret Thatcher had been working on departmental papers in her room two nights ago when the call had come through from Washington. Iain MacLeod’s tone had been a little odd, stoic in a way that was totally alien to him. It wasn’t until he’d begun to explain what had happened in the Oval Office less than an hour before that she had understood. The Chairman of the Conservative and Unionist Party of the United Kingdom and Northern Ireland was the Prime Minister’s oldest surviving friend in Government; possibly the one man in whom — despite their recent differences — he’d trusted most.
It had been a relatively brief, cruelly pragmatic conversation because Iain Macleod, the brilliantly shrewd political tactician and strategist at the heart of one nation conservatism, had understood that his country simply couldn’t survive further divisions within its leadership. His analysis had been brutally incisive.
‘Whilst Jim Callaghan is the nominated Deputy Prime Minister, he is not the heir apparent. He won’t like being passed over but he knows that he doesn’t have an unimpeachable right to govern and his personal integrity won’t allow him to seek external backing for a bid for the premiership.’
Margaret Thatcher knew her colleague was talking about the leader of the Labour and Co-operative Party’s respect for and friendship with Sir David Luce, the First Sea Lord. Iain Macleod might be the political kingmaker; the First Sea Lord and the other Chiefs of Staff were the men who held — if they wanted to wield it — the real power in the land.
‘Within the Party,” the Minister of Information went on, “both I and Peter Thorneycroft would normally have precedence in the succession. As would a score of others in their own estimation.” Peter Thorneycroft, Jim Callaghan’s deputy at the Ministry of Defence and Edward Heath’s trusted bellwether of the mood of the Party in the country, had been Chancellor of the Exchequer in the 1950s. ‘But whoever takes over has to be able to command Jim Callaghan’s support and the whole-hearted support of the Chiefs of Staff. There is also the small matter of Royal Assent…’
Margaret Thatcher honestly hadn’t known what her colleague, with whom she’d had a somewhat troubled relationship over the years, was going with his line of thinking. She was still reeling from the terrible news from America. First there had been the rapprochement; and now this…
‘Iain,” she asked, ‘what is to be done and how can I help?’
The man had guffawed sadly.
‘I have asked Sir Henry Tomlinson to put a call through to the Queen’s Private Secretary, Margaret. When I put the phone down you must explain to Her Majesty that you are in a position to form a new Administration.’
‘Me!’ She’d yelped in horror.
That was a sleepless night and two long, draining days ago.
The Queen had been severely charming and supportive. Not so several senior and currently disinherited and estranged Grandees in her own Party. No matter. Sufficient of her own people supported her elevation to the premiership that with the support of the Labour and Co-operative Party, the formation of a new National Unity Administration was a self-evidently viable project. Especially, when Sir David Luce had visited her yesterday morning to inform her that ‘I and the other Chiefs of Staff stand foursquare behind you, ma’am’. In a peculiar sort of way she was actually beginning her tenure as the first female Prime Minister of the United Kingdom with a more solid powerbase than, on reflection, poor Ted Heath had ever had.