Stamper offered words of rueful admiration as the bulk of the Italian benefactor disappeared through the door, then Elizabeth Urquhart was with them once more, wafting perfume and muttering something about attending a reception for the cast after the opera was finished. Urquhart heard scarcely a word. His fighting fund had been opened and the wind had started blowing in his direction yet again. But even as he felt the satisfaction wash over him, he dared not forget that winds in politics rarely blow fair for long. He mustn't let this one blow out of control, if he did it would form a whirlwind of destruction, probably his own. But if they blew strong enough, and long enough, perhaps it was possible after all. By March. As the cymbals clashed to announce the commencement of the second act, he sat back in his seat and gazed at the ceiling. The cherub bottoms reminded him of someone, an undergraduate, on a Chesterfield. He couldn't recall her name.
The Leader of the Opposition was an earnest man, the son of a crofting family from the Western Isles of Scotland. He was not noted for his sense of humour, the peat moors of the Western Isles being too dour to encourage frivolity, but even his rivals acknowledged his dedication and hard work. Government Ministers privately acknowledged he made an excellent Leader of the Opposition, while in public providing every assistance to ensure he continued in this well-fitting job. At times it appeared as if the inevitable pressure on him came more from within his own ranks than from his political opponents; there had been several press stories in recent days suggesting that, following the narrow election defeat of the previous year and the arrival of a fresh face in Downing Street, his party was getting restless and his position coming under threat. The stories were vague and thin, tending to feed off each other as much as on hard views, but The Times seemed to have a particularly strong handle on it and had quoted one 'senior party source' as suggesting that 'the party leadership is not a retirement job for losers'. It was more a rumble than a revolution, the polls still pointed to the Opposition having a four-point lead, yet political parties always find difficulty in containing the swirling personal ambitions of its also-rans and, as one editorial had put it, there was no smoke without someone lighting a few matches. So Gordon McKillin had welcomed the opportunity to clear the air on a popular current affairs programme which pitted politician against three leading journalists.
For most of the forty minutes the programme had been uneventful, a little dull even, certainly unsuccessful from the point of view of the producer, whose own job security depended on the regular spillage of someone else's blood. McKillin had parried every thrust with skill and patience – none of the supposed opponents had been identified, he suggested, the real issue was not his leadership but the looming recession which threatened millions of jobs. It was the Prime Minister's job under threat, not his. The story of his troubles had been whipped up by the press, he argued, casting a baleful eye in the direction of Bryan Brynford-Jones, whose journal had published the first and most dramatic report. 'Are you able to name a single one of your sources for this story?' he challenged. The editor, unaccustomed to being in the firing line, quickly moved the discussion on. Scarcely two minutes remained before the wrap and, much to the producer's despair, the discussion had become stranded in the marshy fields of the Opposition's environmental credentials. It was Brynford-Jones' turn once again. McKillin smiled generously, as a farmer might eye a prize hog on market day. He was enjoying it.
'Mr McKillin, let me turn in the short time we have left to a more personal question.' Brynford-Jones was toying with some form of brochure. 'You are an elder of the Wee Free Church of Scotland, are you not?' The politician nodded sagely.
'Now the Church has just published a pamphlet – I have it here – which is entitled "Towards the Twenty First Century: A Moral Guide for Youth". It's fairly wide-ranging and contains, in my view, some excellent prescriptions. But there is one section which intrigued me. On page… fourteen, it reaffirms its attitude to homosexuality, which it describes as "a pernicious sin". Do you, Mr McKillin, believe homosexuality is a pernicious sin?'
The politician swallowed. 'I'm not sure this is the right time to get into this sort of complex and difficult discussion. This is, after all, a programme on politics rather than the Church-'
'But it's a relevant question, nonetheless,' Brynford-Jones interrupted. 'A simple one, too. Do you hold homosexuality to be a sin?'
A small bead of sweat had begun to gather in the politician's sideburn, only just perceptible to the professional eye of the producer, who began to brighten.
'I find it difficult to imagine how to respond to such a broad-ranging question as that on a programme like this-'
'Let me help you, then. Imagine your dreams have been fulfilled and you are Prime Minister, at the Dispatch Box, and I'm the Leader of the Opposition. I'm asking you a direct question. Do you believe homosexuality to be evil, a sin? I think the accepted parliamentary phrase goes: "Since the question is a very simple one, which even he should be able to understand, a simple yes or no will suffice".'
All those present and several million viewers recognized the phrase, McKillin's own, which he had used so frequently in taunting Urquhart at Question Time. It was his own hook. The bead of sweat was beginning to trickle.
'Let me rephrase it, if you like,' the editor encouraged. 'Do you believe your kirk's moral guidance is wrong?'
McKillin struggled for his words. How could he explain, in an atmosphere like this, that it had been his kirk's guidance which since his earliest days had fuelled the desire to help others and to mount his own crusade, giving him a clear personal creed on which he had based his political beliefs and guiding him through the moral cesspits around Westminster, that as an elder he had to accept his kirk's teachings with an open heart and without question or compromise. He understood sin and others' weaknesses and could accept them, but his faith would not permit him to deny them.
'I am an elder of the Kirk, Mr Brynford-Jones. Of course I accept my church's teachings, as an individual soul. But as a politician such matters can be more complicated-'
'Let me be clear, absolutely clear. You accept your church's edict on this matter?' 'As an individual, I must. But allow me to-'
It was too late. The end credits were already rolling and the signature music beginning to flood the studio. Several million viewers had to struggle to discern Brynford-Jones' sign-off. 'Thank you, Mr McKillin. I'm afraid that's all we have time for. It's been a fascinating forty minutes.' He smiled. 'We are grateful to you.'
Kenny and Mycroft had watched the evening news in silence. It had contained a factual report of McKillin's interview, and also of the volcanic response. The Opposition Leader's office was said to be in the process of issuing a statement of clarification, but it was inevitably too late. Leaders of rival church groups had already opined, gay campaigners had assailed, his own Front Bench transport spokesman had stated boldly that on this issue his leader was utterly, miserably and inexcusably wrong. 'Is there a leadership crisis?' he had been asked. 'There is now,' had been his response.
There was no need for the newspapers to keep their sources anonymous any longer, the protesters were tripping over themselves in the rush to denounce bigotry, medieval morality and cant. Even those who agreed with McKillin had been of no help, a leading anti-gay campaigner being dragged from obscurity to demand in venomous tones that McKillin sack all homosexual MPs in his party or be branded a hypocrite.
Kenny switched off the television. Mycroft sat silently for some time, slumped amongst bean bags piled in front of the screen, while Kenny quietly prepared two mugs of hot coffee, laced with brandy out of miniatures smuggled back from one of his trips. He had seen it all before, the outrage, the alarm, the invective, the inevitable suspicion it brought. He could also see how upset was Mycroft. The older man had seen none of this before, not from this angle.