A flashbulb is a dazzling affair. As his eyes readjusted, the Prime Minister loosened his collar. Stiff bloody thing. No better than a stick-up.
“Just like old times,” he murmured. The Home Secretary, posed to his right, glanced at him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Isn’t nostalgia the only reason we’re here?” the PM said as the photographer, with one of the latest contraptions, gave a positive gesture and began to pack up.
“I think nostalgia is the only reason we were elected,” Sir Edward quipped, then continued, “you know it’s because we promised the Head Man a long time ago.”
“I’m a man of my word,” the PM said, prompting an eyeroll from Sir Edward, “but I’m still not convinced this is a good idea.”
“You worry too much,” Sir Edward said breezily.
“The PM and the Home Secretary visiting the College… it just seems rather gauche.”
“The world’s changing. People like peace. They like institutions. And what people like matters these days, old boy. You and I know that more than most.”
Distant applause rang in the PM’s ears. For a moment, he saw Sir Edward snatching The Prize. Well. He’d got the top gong in the end, hadn’t he? Sir Edward hadn’t even stood against him when the vacancy opened up. The lot of them had entered parliament in the same election, seen as the new blood the Conservatives needed. Their ‘thespian’ backgrounds had seen them ridiculed at first, but their joining the Tories had wrong-footed the pre-made jibes of head-in-the-clouds intellectualism. These were compassionate men, but still the right sort, and that made them exciting. Perhaps events had thrust them into the spotlight - no pun intended - a little earlier than planned. It did no good to wonder about that.
“Do you think the country will forgive us?” he asked.
“Whatever for?” Sir Edward replied. The light caught his face and the Prime Minister suppressed something.
“One wonders,” he said, as if beginning a new train of thought, “how much longer the great offices of state - and most of the cabinet - can be occupied by fellows who went to the same school.”
“I should think the mere fact it's just fellows will be an issue before that,” Sir Edward said, lighting a cigarette. The PM cocked his head to one side in puzzlement.
“I don’t follow.”
Sir Edward said nothing, but stared straight at the PM.
“Wait, yes I do. Very good.”
The Home Secretary smirked. He was not known for raucous laughter. Not many of the chaps were. At such a moment of levity, the PM imagined that under the previous short-lived administration, guffaws would have filled the air. Big-bellied trade unionists slapping their thighs, no doubt, at some base ‘witticism’ or other. Feigning concern for the common man’s plight right up until that black door closed behind them. Yes, if they actually believed the egalitarianism they came out with in public, the PM would have had some time for them. The world knew he was a lover of high ideals and fine words, after all. But their hypocrisy was as bad as that of the Tsar or the crook in the White House.
“Speaking of girls, Bonham Carter’s giving her report to the Cabinet next week, isn’t she?” Sir Edward said as the two men walked out across familiar gravel.
“Yes, and I don’t think our efforts come out of it very well,” the PM sighed, having to fight the instinct to turn left to reach the Library, and there to bury himself in first folios. A simpler time.
Sir Edward had not taken Bonham Carter’s expected verdict well. “What else does she want us to do?” he scoffed, “send the Fleet down there with nets?”
The PM’s head snapped round, his powerful frame quickly coming to bear.
“We don’t joke about that. They’re people,” he hissed, “you know that.”
Sir Edward became solemn. “My apologies, Prime Minister.” Yes, he could still do solemnity. He’d used the same tone two years ago when the King had invited the then-presumptive PM to the Palace. The twenties had been good to the party, with the Liberals smashed, and Labour discredited and dangerous thanks to a mercifully brief period in office. After all the chaos, it had made sense for a sensible group of patricians to take the rudder. That had been the case put to the country, and the country had agreed.
For all the bellowing from Labour about elitism, a confused poster campaign based on what the PM assumed was a pun on ‘acting’, and pamphlets about ‘the new ruling class’, there was no sense in the press or in the ‘air’ that his would be a one-term government. Far from it. The next election - he had his eye on the autumn of ’31 - stood a real chance of getting the Tories beyond 400 seats. The PM had little interest in parliamentary arithmetic beyond getting a King’s Speech through the Commons, but who on earth would have dreamed of that kind of Tory majority twenty years ago?
The PM stopped to admire the equestrian statue of George III, something he’d attempted to sketch as a boy, before he discovered he was better at playing kings than at drawing them. His Private Secretary appeared at his shoulder.
“A message from London, sir,” he began, continuing after the PM’s nod, “the Foreign Secretary has walked out of the talks in Berlin. He says it is impossible for progress to be made while the German government is so unstable.”
With a frustrated sigh, the PM punched his fist into his palm.
“That report’s not going to be a pleasant read,” Sir Edward muttered, patting the PM on the shoulder and strolling towards his car. But the Prime Minister was already thinking of baser matters.
“Tom is ambitious,” Sir Edward had always said. And Sir Edward was an honourable man. But Tom had also proved himself. With Russia proving for the umpteenth time that it was capable of order far more horrible than chaos, Danubians and Baltics alike needed reassurance. Tom’s arrival - by air, always, which still caused a stir - set the press and public’s hearts ablaze. That face, that hair… well, who could blame them? They said Palmerston had been dashing, but even Palmerston, for all his success in the office Tom now held, had not had the profile the youthful foreign secretary had possessed before he even took the job.
The Prime Minister looked out to the South Meadow, still green, still lovely, still horrid.
And now Tom had no doubt managed to turn an abandonment of a crucial summit into a triumphant moment, calling on one of Europe’s once-great powers to get its act together. Yes, he still had a flair for the theatrical, even if Sir Edward and the rest of the chaps had become faintly embarrassed about their ability to make a budget statement sound like Henry V. How very typically Conservative it was to gradually become bashful about one’s greatest asset. Perhaps it was Tom’s unending energy that gave him an air of dynamism that the rest of them lacked. If he were on manoeuvres, the PM was probably done-for. He sighed again, his pessimism getting the better of him as usual. But what was there to be done? To move against Tom pre-emptively would simply trigger a challenge.
Bells rang, instincts from down the years urging the PM to race to the Upper School.
And even if he could replace Tom, who with? Hugh had left the frontbench and was happier for it. Lewis wasn’t going to come back from India for anybody, and he and the PM had never got on. The Prime Minister supposed he could recall West from America and give the fellow a Peerage, but with Transatlantic relations worse than any time since the Armistice… no. If Eddie didn’t want it - and he was having far too much fun with the security measures - there simply wasn’t a realistic option.
Beaks and boys briskly passed the PM, few giving him a second glance. He supposed his get-up made him blend in. Were they the leaders of tomorrow? Some surely would be. If Tom did wield the dagger, an OE would have succeeded an OE for the goodness-knows-how-many’th time. How long would it go on? A hundred years ago, this school had provided the nation’s leaders. It still did so today. Every so often, there seemed to be an electoral dalliance with some other walk of life, but the voters always came back here. Here, to the blocks and the schoolrooms and the long nights wondering if mummy was thinking about you. A century from now, would they still be coming back?
A thought occurred. Had Tom played the lead in the Scottish play back in the day? The PM considered it. No, he didn’t think he had. Perhaps in a House production, but nothing in the wider world. He’d played his share of traitors, however. And brothers...
The vibration of his phone brought the PM back to earth, though he didn’t retrieve it to check what it said. He had been caught off-guard by the bay window at which he now stared. He’d been in this room on a great many occasions. None of them pleasant. As he took a step towards the glass and peered inside, he could hear it all unfolding. He was certain if he closed his eyes, he could watch it.
“I cannot hear you,” he muttered, his voice a quiet imitation of the roaring beak, the flexing cane still an awful inevitability, “what have you got to say for yourself?”
In top hat and tails, the Prime Minister absently reached into his pocket. Of course. A message from another OE. He put the phone to his ear.
“Your Majesty,” he began. At the other end, his summoner spluttered.
“We’ve been over this, Cumbers. Do call me Wills.”
“Just like old times,” he murmured. The Home Secretary, posed to his right, glanced at him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Isn’t nostalgia the only reason we’re here?” the PM said as the photographer, with one of the latest contraptions, gave a positive gesture and began to pack up.
“I think nostalgia is the only reason we were elected,” Sir Edward quipped, then continued, “you know it’s because we promised the Head Man a long time ago.”
“I’m a man of my word,” the PM said, prompting an eyeroll from Sir Edward, “but I’m still not convinced this is a good idea.”
“You worry too much,” Sir Edward said breezily.
“The PM and the Home Secretary visiting the College… it just seems rather gauche.”
“The world’s changing. People like peace. They like institutions. And what people like matters these days, old boy. You and I know that more than most.”
Distant applause rang in the PM’s ears. For a moment, he saw Sir Edward snatching The Prize. Well. He’d got the top gong in the end, hadn’t he? Sir Edward hadn’t even stood against him when the vacancy opened up. The lot of them had entered parliament in the same election, seen as the new blood the Conservatives needed. Their ‘thespian’ backgrounds had seen them ridiculed at first, but their joining the Tories had wrong-footed the pre-made jibes of head-in-the-clouds intellectualism. These were compassionate men, but still the right sort, and that made them exciting. Perhaps events had thrust them into the spotlight - no pun intended - a little earlier than planned. It did no good to wonder about that.
“Do you think the country will forgive us?” he asked.
“Whatever for?” Sir Edward replied. The light caught his face and the Prime Minister suppressed something.
“One wonders,” he said, as if beginning a new train of thought, “how much longer the great offices of state - and most of the cabinet - can be occupied by fellows who went to the same school.”
“I should think the mere fact it's just fellows will be an issue before that,” Sir Edward said, lighting a cigarette. The PM cocked his head to one side in puzzlement.
“I don’t follow.”
Sir Edward said nothing, but stared straight at the PM.
“Wait, yes I do. Very good.”
The Home Secretary smirked. He was not known for raucous laughter. Not many of the chaps were. At such a moment of levity, the PM imagined that under the previous short-lived administration, guffaws would have filled the air. Big-bellied trade unionists slapping their thighs, no doubt, at some base ‘witticism’ or other. Feigning concern for the common man’s plight right up until that black door closed behind them. Yes, if they actually believed the egalitarianism they came out with in public, the PM would have had some time for them. The world knew he was a lover of high ideals and fine words, after all. But their hypocrisy was as bad as that of the Tsar or the crook in the White House.
“Speaking of girls, Bonham Carter’s giving her report to the Cabinet next week, isn’t she?” Sir Edward said as the two men walked out across familiar gravel.
“Yes, and I don’t think our efforts come out of it very well,” the PM sighed, having to fight the instinct to turn left to reach the Library, and there to bury himself in first folios. A simpler time.
Sir Edward had not taken Bonham Carter’s expected verdict well. “What else does she want us to do?” he scoffed, “send the Fleet down there with nets?”
The PM’s head snapped round, his powerful frame quickly coming to bear.
“We don’t joke about that. They’re people,” he hissed, “you know that.”
Sir Edward became solemn. “My apologies, Prime Minister.” Yes, he could still do solemnity. He’d used the same tone two years ago when the King had invited the then-presumptive PM to the Palace. The twenties had been good to the party, with the Liberals smashed, and Labour discredited and dangerous thanks to a mercifully brief period in office. After all the chaos, it had made sense for a sensible group of patricians to take the rudder. That had been the case put to the country, and the country had agreed.
For all the bellowing from Labour about elitism, a confused poster campaign based on what the PM assumed was a pun on ‘acting’, and pamphlets about ‘the new ruling class’, there was no sense in the press or in the ‘air’ that his would be a one-term government. Far from it. The next election - he had his eye on the autumn of ’31 - stood a real chance of getting the Tories beyond 400 seats. The PM had little interest in parliamentary arithmetic beyond getting a King’s Speech through the Commons, but who on earth would have dreamed of that kind of Tory majority twenty years ago?
The PM stopped to admire the equestrian statue of George III, something he’d attempted to sketch as a boy, before he discovered he was better at playing kings than at drawing them. His Private Secretary appeared at his shoulder.
“A message from London, sir,” he began, continuing after the PM’s nod, “the Foreign Secretary has walked out of the talks in Berlin. He says it is impossible for progress to be made while the German government is so unstable.”
With a frustrated sigh, the PM punched his fist into his palm.
“That report’s not going to be a pleasant read,” Sir Edward muttered, patting the PM on the shoulder and strolling towards his car. But the Prime Minister was already thinking of baser matters.
“Tom is ambitious,” Sir Edward had always said. And Sir Edward was an honourable man. But Tom had also proved himself. With Russia proving for the umpteenth time that it was capable of order far more horrible than chaos, Danubians and Baltics alike needed reassurance. Tom’s arrival - by air, always, which still caused a stir - set the press and public’s hearts ablaze. That face, that hair… well, who could blame them? They said Palmerston had been dashing, but even Palmerston, for all his success in the office Tom now held, had not had the profile the youthful foreign secretary had possessed before he even took the job.
The Prime Minister looked out to the South Meadow, still green, still lovely, still horrid.
And now Tom had no doubt managed to turn an abandonment of a crucial summit into a triumphant moment, calling on one of Europe’s once-great powers to get its act together. Yes, he still had a flair for the theatrical, even if Sir Edward and the rest of the chaps had become faintly embarrassed about their ability to make a budget statement sound like Henry V. How very typically Conservative it was to gradually become bashful about one’s greatest asset. Perhaps it was Tom’s unending energy that gave him an air of dynamism that the rest of them lacked. If he were on manoeuvres, the PM was probably done-for. He sighed again, his pessimism getting the better of him as usual. But what was there to be done? To move against Tom pre-emptively would simply trigger a challenge.
Bells rang, instincts from down the years urging the PM to race to the Upper School.
And even if he could replace Tom, who with? Hugh had left the frontbench and was happier for it. Lewis wasn’t going to come back from India for anybody, and he and the PM had never got on. The Prime Minister supposed he could recall West from America and give the fellow a Peerage, but with Transatlantic relations worse than any time since the Armistice… no. If Eddie didn’t want it - and he was having far too much fun with the security measures - there simply wasn’t a realistic option.
Beaks and boys briskly passed the PM, few giving him a second glance. He supposed his get-up made him blend in. Were they the leaders of tomorrow? Some surely would be. If Tom did wield the dagger, an OE would have succeeded an OE for the goodness-knows-how-many’th time. How long would it go on? A hundred years ago, this school had provided the nation’s leaders. It still did so today. Every so often, there seemed to be an electoral dalliance with some other walk of life, but the voters always came back here. Here, to the blocks and the schoolrooms and the long nights wondering if mummy was thinking about you. A century from now, would they still be coming back?
A thought occurred. Had Tom played the lead in the Scottish play back in the day? The PM considered it. No, he didn’t think he had. Perhaps in a House production, but nothing in the wider world. He’d played his share of traitors, however. And brothers...
The vibration of his phone brought the PM back to earth, though he didn’t retrieve it to check what it said. He had been caught off-guard by the bay window at which he now stared. He’d been in this room on a great many occasions. None of them pleasant. As he took a step towards the glass and peered inside, he could hear it all unfolding. He was certain if he closed his eyes, he could watch it.
“I cannot hear you,” he muttered, his voice a quiet imitation of the roaring beak, the flexing cane still an awful inevitability, “what have you got to say for yourself?”
In top hat and tails, the Prime Minister absently reached into his pocket. Of course. A message from another OE. He put the phone to his ear.
“Your Majesty,” he began. At the other end, his summoner spluttered.
“We’ve been over this, Cumbers. Do call me Wills.”
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