Prologue for a Draft
David had always been attentive in his appearance, especially when meeting a man younger than himself. Such was more common than not these days, he considered while regarding to his hand. Gone was soft youthful flesh; in its place sinew and liver spots. Well over half a century ago, his brother had teased him that all old people got ‘spots of senility’- not that Arthur had lived long enough to get them.
If David had been born two minutes earlier, he would have been born a Prince. At least,
the Prince, the one that mattered. Not that Princely Dukedom was the worst consolation prize in the lottery of birth. Such was cosmic luck to be born the spare to the heir.
But unlucky was Arthur’s dickey heart, for both of them.
David could still taste the salt on the air, hear the shriek of the sea birds, that bitter chill of a Newfoundland morning as the Premier’s Official yacht came into dock. It was then David saw his father, standing on the harbour. Father had flown personally from London to St. John’s. Mother stayed behind to ‘be strong’. The cruel bastard; that was always
his way.
He turned to Molly, her beautiful golden curls a halo around a face reddened by winter, and softened by sadness. It was in her eyes; it was on her lips. Somehow she knew why father had arrived. And in that moment, so did he.
And father stood there, sharp in his black mourning best, flanked by bodyguards, the worlds press swarming like flies just behind a police barricade.
It would be the death of him, he supposed, to ruminate on the ‘what ifs’. Fate was fate. Sixty years ago was ancient history.
Flexing his hand, David felt a numbness.
Looking from his liver spots to the youthful face opposite him, he noticed his Prime Minister. Not the regular one- Leo Parkin was ‘busy’, as his Private Secretary had informed him, speaking at dinner- but rather a visiting Prime Minister from one of the other crowns that weighed so heavy on his head.
He was well over half David’s age at thirty eight, clean shaven, and spoke with the cadence that came with a nose thrice broken in Montréal. It was hard for David to not feel overdressed looking at the off-the-rack suit while wearing Anderson & Shepard. The China blue Irish linen was disarmingly stylish, the Dresser had declared that morning, not that the young man seemed to care. Talking away on some detail or another, the Prime Minister didn’t even notice his Sovereign’s attention was with the air, sniffing at the faint miasma of breakfast toast.
“…and of course, we anticipate your residence ahead of Canada Day this summer…” the young man said, David’s attention drifting. He may have a warm fondness for the other Kingdom- perhaps, in another life, he could have ruled it and it alone- but the thought of a summer in that limestone monstrosity in Rideau was appalling to him. Not that
La Citadelle was much better.
“Loath I am to interrupt, Prime Minister,” David said, dryness on his lips, mouth turning cotton. “Soda water”, he meant to ask, but the words failed him. The numbness now radiated up his arm, and cascaded into his head like wild fire. The young man said something in a voice muffled and faraway, then leapt to his feet with eyes full of terror.
How odd, David thought,
I’m falling.
Staring at the beautiful ceiling, David blinked. The Equerry came into view, and was screaming into his radio. As his eyes grew heavy, and vision faded into darkness, the last thing His Majesty King David the Third of Great Britain and Northern Ireland felt was faint embarrassment at the hot wet feeling running down his leg.
First Chapter of a Draft
Even Balram Chowdhury could not resist smiling as the table around him erupted in laughter. Still chewing on a slice of steak long after the others had cleaned their plates, he reached for the large jug of water as Graham Harvey, Business & Industry Secretary and deep into his third glass of wine, leaned over.
“You should smile more, Bal. It suits you.”
Scowling, Chowdhury poured out a glass, and sipped. Harvey had graced him with another wine stain on his jacket arm; thankfully neither the Prime Minister nor Kilpatrick had noticed. Not that the feeling lasted. A moment later, another smile broke with another wave of gentle laugher, and Chowdhury’s attention returned to the topic of discussion.
“…and the ghost of Stalin appeared before President Kravstov in a dream,” the Prime Minister inhaled through his teeth, “and he says ‘I have two pieces of advice for you, Comrade: kill your opponents, and paint the Kremlin blue. Kravstov is taken aback and demands to know why he must paint the Kremlin blue- Stalin says ‘because I knew you would not oppose the first one’.”
Francis Kilpatrick, Deputy General Secretary of the Trade Union Congress, thumped the table as he turned red, guffawing with such exaggeration that Chowdhury could only believe it was genuine. “Who told you that one, Leo?” He demanded, wiping a tear from his eye.
“Would you believe me if I said Kiselyov, his Deputy?” The Prime Minister gurned.
More guffawing.
They had been at Marmor, a mercifully bright little restaurant in one of the hovels of Islington, for nearly five hours. Officially, if anyone asked, they had met for a simple dinner. Kilpatrick had gone to the LSE with the Prime Minister and Chowdhury, not that Chowdhury knew either of them while there, beyond reputation.
Unofficially, they were meant to discuss industrial strategy. Not that the Business Secretary was in any fit state to discuss anything so high-minded.
Finally swallowing the pulp of his steak, Chowdhury couldn’t help but notice a man lurking by a small mountain-range of black bins on the curb outside, shivering with hands deep in his pocket. Poor bastard; such was the mid-winter in London.
Looking back to the table, he did his best to take him mind off it. The others clearly had already, except for Sir Andrew.
Listening closely to the exchange of jokes and anecdotes, the First Secretary of State held himself with an air of dignity, only the gentle bobbing of his head as he listened into the conversation betraying he was three glasses deep into the table’s chardonnay.
Noticing that Chowdhury was looking at him, Sir Andrew leaned over. “How do you think the night is going?” He asked with a voice crisp like Exmoor morning.
“Bloody awful.” Chowdhury whispered back. “They haven’t talked a damn thing about the sanitation strikes!”
A wry smile creased the corners of Sir Andrew’s lips. “That’s the point, dear Bal.”
Running a hand over his face, Chowdhury was unable to concentrate. Of course that was the point. You don’t actually talk policy at dinner, just around it. But he had been up for too long, and he was fading. Fast. “I think I just need to go home.”
Sir Andrew nodded in understanding. “Not just you,” he said pointing to Harvey.
“Boys, boys, I thought we agreed no politics at the dinner table,” the Prime Minister chuckled in a faux-fatherly tone, “at least, as long as it doesn’t concern industrial policy.”
“I believe the Minister is working closer to his inebriation policy,” Kilpatrick giggled as Harvey spilled a mouthful of red onto an already wine soaked shirt.
“Bollocks…” Harvey slurred, clumsily patting his shirt with a napkin.
“I think Balram will be fine driving you home,” Sir Andrew smiled, “he hasn’t drunk a drop.”
“Because he’s a fletcherist.” Harvey grinned while rising to his feet.
Kipatrick raised an eyebrow. “I thought the Chancellor was Anglican.”
Harvey giggled and stumbled towards the toilet. Once he was out of earshot, Kilpatrick said more seriously: “You can’t have a drunk on Cabinet, Leo.”
The Prime Minister’s brow furrowed. “He’s not an
alcoholic, Frankie. Just a binge drinker. And regardless, he’s a good Minister.”
“Oh, is he now?” Kilpatrick chortled, “The TUC is willing to put up with a lot from this Government, considering we’re is meant to be one big happy family and all. We might be affiliated, but we aren’t your curs to whip like MPs. You and your Minister would do well to remember that when we officially discuss his White Paper.”
A frost may well have set in the room. “Frankie,” the Prime Minister smiled warmly in an attempt to thaw, “believe me when I say that I want nothing more than for the Labour movement to keep being one big happy family. But sometimes a happy family has its rows- and compromises.” His wink was obvious.
Kilpatrick’s face softened. “Of course, Leo,” he nodded, “but before we meet, if you want this to keep being one big happy family, your Minister needs to be an adult- a sober adult- and sit down with McMann,” the General Secretary of the GMB, “about the London refuse strike.”
Harvey staggered out of the bathroom. Thankfully, Chowdhury sighed, he didn’t piss himself.
“Well, it was a lovely meal, Prime Minister.” Chowdhury nodded. Sir Andrew already had his cheque book out with a flourish. Deeper pockets than most, he thought. Turning to Harvey, he said: “Come on, Graham, let’s take you home.”
But as they went to the door, Chowdhury spotted a small flock of reporters waiting outside, congregating by the mountain range where the man had been. “Goodness sake,” Chowdhury sighed, tugging Harvey towards the exit. “Prime Minister, there’s-”
“Yes, yes, I saw.” Leo ran a hand over a cloud of rusty hair, frustration plain to see. “Frankie, you should head out the back.”
Kilpatrick nodded, as a waiter came to the table with the bill and a silver dish of mints.
“You know,” Leo chuckled, slipping a mint into his cheek, “between you and me, I wish I could tape the editor’s phones, so I’d know where they’re buzzing in from. It’d save us the trouble of this skulduggery, at least.”
Kilpatrick didn’t laugh. Instead he nodded with a forced slight smile.
The waiter led the three men out through the kitchen and into a wide alley that stank thick of rotting waste. Chowdhury led Harvey to his car, dumping him in the back seat. As he went to the driver’s side, Kilpatrick stepped over, rubbing his hands for warmth.
“A bit chilling, that last remark.”
Chowdhury frowned. “What do you mean?”
“About wishing his whips could tap the press’ phones. I’m sure it’s nothing, but he shouldn’t joke about that.”
“I wouldn’t think anything of it,” Chowdhury shivered, unsure if it was the cold or the quote, “he’s just a bit ‘tired and emotional’.”
“Sure,” Kilpatrick leaned in. “Listen, Balram, while I have you, I know that this legislation is a big deal to Leo. I mean, it’s become a damn confidence issue. I want you to know now, and you didn’t here this from me…”
“Where are you going with this, Francis?”
“Among my colleagues, Leo’s on thin ice,” his voice was a knife, “as he is with Labour MPs who don’t forget why the party is called that and who pick up the phone when we call. If Leo wants to die on this hill backing Harvey’s reforms...” Kilpatrick trailed off, squeezing his wrist.
The unspoken words hung like a fog of breath on the wind.
“Whatever happens,” Chowdhury said sternly, “we’ll have to wait and see. No point in ruminating on a ‘what if’.”
Kilpatrick laughed what might have been his only genuine laugh of the evening. “Now I know you’re a Treasury Man- no future vision.”
Climbing into his car, Kilpatrick drove off.
Lingering for a moment, watching the fog of his breath, Chowdhury considered what he was offering. Leo had been Prime Minister for eight years. By all rights, he should be considering retirement by now.
But no Prime Minister ever went out on their own terms.
Sighing, Chowdhury’s shoulders collapsed and the tiredness again washed over. No point rumination on the what-if’s. Instead he turned and climbed into his car. And to him, it was a silly proposition anyway; everyone knew that England would never accept a brown man as its leader.
As he pulled out of the alley parking and drove towards Harvey’s home on Berriman Road, Chowdhury heard what he was sure was a car backfire.
