Ted Short stared at the phone. He’d asked to have the call put straight through to him when it came, and had rejected the usual arrangement of a script. He had no idea why, but a lot of decisions he’d taken today had mystified him. Marcia was back now, her face saying nothing as she stood, prim as ever, in the corner of the room. Bernard was picking at his nails. Jack, Ted’s PPS who had received almost as big a promotion as he had, stood restlessly by the window, his eyes flitting from corner to corner.
Ted allowed himself to sink back into the chair a little. It wasn’t the same one Harold had worked in, that had been among his first requests. The desk had yet to be replaced, though. In America, they had a tradition of Presidents requesting the desk of one of their famous predecessors. Short’s mind wandered to what he would choose if that tradition meant anything over here. MacDonald? Tainted. Attlee? Too grand. Keir Hardie’s writing desk? Not grand enough. After moment he smirked to himself and said aloud, ‘George Canning.’
‘Eh?’ snapped Jack, wheeling around in surprise. Ted blinked back into the moment.
‘Sorry. Thinking aloud.’
‘Who’s George Canning?’ a now inexplicably panicking Jack demanded.
‘Prime Minister for 119 days in 1827,’ Bernard said, instantly, ‘he’s the shortest serving PM ever.’ As he ended his sentence, his eyes fell on Ted inquisitively. Behind them, Ted could see his brain working out exactly what Ted had been thinking as he mentioned the Georgian’s name. The clock on the wall said one minute to five. Ted looked around the room at his ragtag entourage.
‘Well, Comrades,’ he began.
The phone rang.
With a yelp, the Prime Minister picked it up. He felt an urge to straighten his tie.
‘Please hold for the President,’ said a voice a thousand miles away.
Ted thought he heard Bernard whistle ‘Hail To The Chief’ under his breath. The receiver crackled slightly.
‘Mr Prime Minister?’ said the President.
‘Mr President,’ replied the Prime Minister.
‘I, uh, want to begin by expressing how shocked and dismayed myself and, I know, the American people were to hear of, uh, this morning’s tragedy.’
‘Thank you, Mr President. Your sympathy means a great deal.’
‘Normally, this is a call of congratulation.’
The words hung in the air. Ted raised his eyebrows. What was he supposed to say to that?
‘Sorry, I lost my, uh, train of thought. What I am trying to say, Mr Shor-, Mr Prime Minister, is that while I of course look forward to the good working relationship the two of us will no doubt enjoy, the circumstances cause me to be more aware of my choice of words.’
‘Mr President,’ Ted began, regaining his composure, ‘I understand entirely. Please don’t allow the, er, circumstances to impinge on the business of what we need to discuss. I know Harold… my predecessor would not want us to do so in his name.’
Ted imagined the somewhat awkward figure at the other end of the line sweating in his chair. After a pause, the President resumed.
‘Well, Mr Prime Minister, with that in mind, I’d like to impress upon you my administration’s satisfaction with your assuming this post. We know you are a man that the US can deal with.’
Short raised his eyebrows. Bernard, listening on another receiver, mouthed, ‘Bollocks.’ He was almost certainly right. Ted doubted that Ford had even heard his name before today.
‘Thank you,’ he replied, ‘I can say that, equally, I look forward to working with you in the interests of both our countries.’ Was he doing alright? Was this the sort of vacuous drivel these calls were meant to consist of? His thoughts were interrupted by a distant chuckle from the man in the Oval Office.
‘Mr President?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Prime Minister. That was inappropriate. I have just realised what the press will make of our call today.’
‘Oh?’ said Short, relaxing a little.
‘They call me the Accidental President, you know.’
‘I had heard that.’
‘I suppose they will think of this as a conversation between the Accidental Prime Minister and the Accidental President!’ Ford laughed. Short forced a titter. He didn’t need to force a smile, thankfully.
‘Quite, Mr President. Quite.’
Bernard made a face. ‘The Accidental Prime Minister’? Would some Fleet Street wag caption a cartoon with that tomorrow? Would Private Eye? Short shrugged. He reminded himself that he was only going to be in the job for a week, after all. Any nickname he got now was nothing to worry about in the long term. Nor was anything else, to be honest.
Ted allowed himself to sink back into the chair a little. It wasn’t the same one Harold had worked in, that had been among his first requests. The desk had yet to be replaced, though. In America, they had a tradition of Presidents requesting the desk of one of their famous predecessors. Short’s mind wandered to what he would choose if that tradition meant anything over here. MacDonald? Tainted. Attlee? Too grand. Keir Hardie’s writing desk? Not grand enough. After moment he smirked to himself and said aloud, ‘George Canning.’
‘Eh?’ snapped Jack, wheeling around in surprise. Ted blinked back into the moment.
‘Sorry. Thinking aloud.’
‘Who’s George Canning?’ a now inexplicably panicking Jack demanded.
‘Prime Minister for 119 days in 1827,’ Bernard said, instantly, ‘he’s the shortest serving PM ever.’ As he ended his sentence, his eyes fell on Ted inquisitively. Behind them, Ted could see his brain working out exactly what Ted had been thinking as he mentioned the Georgian’s name. The clock on the wall said one minute to five. Ted looked around the room at his ragtag entourage.
‘Well, Comrades,’ he began.
The phone rang.
With a yelp, the Prime Minister picked it up. He felt an urge to straighten his tie.
‘Please hold for the President,’ said a voice a thousand miles away.
Ted thought he heard Bernard whistle ‘Hail To The Chief’ under his breath. The receiver crackled slightly.
‘Mr Prime Minister?’ said the President.
‘Mr President,’ replied the Prime Minister.
‘I, uh, want to begin by expressing how shocked and dismayed myself and, I know, the American people were to hear of, uh, this morning’s tragedy.’
‘Thank you, Mr President. Your sympathy means a great deal.’
‘Normally, this is a call of congratulation.’
The words hung in the air. Ted raised his eyebrows. What was he supposed to say to that?
‘Sorry, I lost my, uh, train of thought. What I am trying to say, Mr Shor-, Mr Prime Minister, is that while I of course look forward to the good working relationship the two of us will no doubt enjoy, the circumstances cause me to be more aware of my choice of words.’
‘Mr President,’ Ted began, regaining his composure, ‘I understand entirely. Please don’t allow the, er, circumstances to impinge on the business of what we need to discuss. I know Harold… my predecessor would not want us to do so in his name.’
Ted imagined the somewhat awkward figure at the other end of the line sweating in his chair. After a pause, the President resumed.
‘Well, Mr Prime Minister, with that in mind, I’d like to impress upon you my administration’s satisfaction with your assuming this post. We know you are a man that the US can deal with.’
Short raised his eyebrows. Bernard, listening on another receiver, mouthed, ‘Bollocks.’ He was almost certainly right. Ted doubted that Ford had even heard his name before today.
‘Thank you,’ he replied, ‘I can say that, equally, I look forward to working with you in the interests of both our countries.’ Was he doing alright? Was this the sort of vacuous drivel these calls were meant to consist of? His thoughts were interrupted by a distant chuckle from the man in the Oval Office.
‘Mr President?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Prime Minister. That was inappropriate. I have just realised what the press will make of our call today.’
‘Oh?’ said Short, relaxing a little.
‘They call me the Accidental President, you know.’
‘I had heard that.’
‘I suppose they will think of this as a conversation between the Accidental Prime Minister and the Accidental President!’ Ford laughed. Short forced a titter. He didn’t need to force a smile, thankfully.
‘Quite, Mr President. Quite.’
Bernard made a face. ‘The Accidental Prime Minister’? Would some Fleet Street wag caption a cartoon with that tomorrow? Would Private Eye? Short shrugged. He reminded himself that he was only going to be in the job for a week, after all. Any nickname he got now was nothing to worry about in the long term. Nor was anything else, to be honest.
