In High Places Read online

  'Tell me when I bite on it, dear,' he said, and smiled. It was an old joke between them. James Howden took scant interest in food and, unless reminded, sometimes missed meals entirely. At other times he ate with his mind preoccupied, and occasionally in the past, when Margaret had prepared special delicacies, he had consumed them with no idea afterwards what he had eaten. Early in their married life Margaret had been moved to anger and tears by her husband's disinterest in cooking, which she loved, but had long since switched to amused resignation.

  Glancing at the well-stocked buffet, where an attentive waiter held two plates in readiness, Howden observed, 'It looks impressive. What is it all?'

  Pleased with the distinction of serving the Prime Minister, the waiter rattled off the name of each dish: beluga Malossol caviar, oysters Malpeque, pate maison, lobster aspic, Winnipeg smoked gold-eye, foie gras Mignonette, cold roast prime ribs, galantine of capon, hickory-smoked turkey, Virginia ham.

  'Thank you,' Howden said. 'Just give me a little beef, well done, and some salad.'

  As the man's face fell, Margaret whispered, 'Jamie!' and the Prime Minister added hastily, 'And also some of whatever it was my wife was recommending.'

  As they turned from the table the naval aide reappeared. 'Excuse me, sir. His Excellency's compliments, and Miss Freedeman is telephoning you.'

  Howden put down his untouched plate. 'Very well.'

  'Must you go now, Jamie?' There was annoyance in Margaret's tone.

  He nodded. 'Milly wouldn't call if it could wait.'

  'The call is put through to the library, sir.' After bowing to Margaret the aide preceded him.

  A few minutes later: 'Milly,' he said into the phone, 'I made a promise that this would be important.'

  His personal secretary's soft contralto voice answered, 'It is, I think.'

  Sometimes he liked to talk just for the sake of hearing Milly speak. He asked, 'Where are you?'

  'At the office; I came back. Brian is here with me. That's why I called.'

  He had an irrational flash of jealousy at the thought of Milly Freedeman alone with someone else ... Milly who had shared with him, years before, the liaison he had remembered with a trace of guilt tonight. At the time their affair had been passionate and all-consuming, but when it ended, as he had known from the beginning it must, both had resumed their separate lives as if closing and locking a door between two rooms which continued to adjoin. Neither had ever spoken of that singular, special time again. But occasionally, as at this moment, the sight or sound of Milly could thrill him anew, as if he were once again young and eager, the years falling away ... But afterwards, always, nervousness would supervene: the nervousness of one who - in public life - could not afford to have the chink in his armour penetrated.

  'All right, Milly,' the Prime Minister instructed. 'Let me talk to Brian.'

  There was a pause, and the sound of the telephone changing hands. Then a strong male voice declared crisply, 'There's been a press leak in Washington, chief. A Canadian reporter ' down there has found out you're expected in town to meet the Big Wheel. We need a statement out of Ottawa. Otherwise, if the news comes from Washington, it could look as if you're being sent for.'

  Brian Richardson, the energetic forty-year-old director and national organizer of the party, seldom wasted words. His communications, spoken and written, still retained a flavour of the clear, crisp advertising copy he used to produce, first as a skilled copy-writer, then as a top-flight agency executive. Nowadays, though, advertising was something he delegated to others, his principal duty being to advise James McCallum Howden on day-to-day problems in retaining public favour for the Government. Howden inquired anxiously, 'There's been no leak about the subject matter?'

  'No,' Richardson said. 'All the taps are tight on that. It's just the fact of the meeting.'

  Appointed to his job soon after Howden's own accession to party leadership, Brian Richardson had already masterminded . two victorious election campaigns and other successes in between. Shrewd, resourceful, with an encyclopaedic mind and an organizing genius, he was one of the three or four men in the country whose calls were unquestioningly passed through the Prime Minister's private switchboard at any hour. He was also one of the most influential, and no government decision of a major nature was ever taken without his knowledge or advice. Unlike most of Howden's ministers, who as yet were unaware of the forthcoming Washington meeting, or its purport, Richardson had been told at once.

  And yet, outside a limited circle, the name of Brian Richardson was almost unknown, and on the rare occasions his picture appeared in newspapers it was always discreetly - in the second or third row of a political group.

  'Our arrangement with the White House was no announcement for a few days,' Howden said. 'And then it'll be a cover statement that the talks are about trade and fiscal policy.'

  'Hell, chief, you can still have it that way,' Richardson said. 'The announcement will be a little sooner, that's all - like tomorrow morning.' 'What's the alternative?'

  'Speculation all over the lot, including the subjects we want to avoid. What one joe found out today others can learn tomorrow.' The party director went on crisply. 'At the moment only one reporter has the story that you're planning a trip -Newton of the Toronto Express. He's a smart cookie, called his publisher first and the publisher called me.'

  James Howden nodded. The Express was a strong government supporter, at times almost a party organ. There had been exchange of favours before.

  'I can hold up the story for twelve, maybe fourteen hours,' Richardson continued. 'After that it's a risk. Can't External Affairs get off the pot with a statement by then?'

  With his free hand the Prime Minister rubbed his long, birdlike nose. Then he said decisively, 'I'll tell them to.' The words would presage a busy night for Arthur Lexington and his senior officials. They would have to work through the US Embassy and with Washington, of course, but the White House would go along, once it was known that the Press was on to something; they were conditioned to that kind of situation down there. Besides, a plausible cover statement was as essential to the President as it was to himself. The real issues behind their meeting in ten days' time were too delicate for public chewing at this moment.

  'While we're talking,' Richardson said, 'is there anything new on the Queen's visit?'

  'No, but I talked to Shel Griffiths a few minutes ago. Hell see what he can do in London.'

  'I hope it works.' The party director sounded doubtful. 'The old boy's always so damn correct. Did you tell him to give the lady a real hard push?'

  'Not quite in those words.' Howden smiled. 'But that was the gist of my suggestion.'

  A chuckle down the line. 'As long as she comes, anyway. It could help us a lot next year, what with all the other things.'

  About to hang up, a thought occurred to Howden. 'Brian.'

  'Yes.'

  'Try to drop in over the holiday.'

  'Thanks. I will.'

  'How about your wife?'

  Richardson answered cheerfully, 'I guess you'll have to settle for me solo.'

  'I don't mean to pry.' James Howden hesitated, aware that Milly was hearing half the conversation. 'Are things no better?'

  'Eloise and I live in a state of armed neutrality,' Richardson answered matter-of-factly. 'But it has advantages.'

  Howden could guess the kind of advantages Richardson meant, and once more he had an irrational jealousy at the thought of the party director and Milly alone together. Aloud, he said, 'I'm sorry.'

  'It's surprising what you can get used to,' Richardson said. 'At least Eloise and I know where we stand, and that's separately. Anything else, chief?'

  'No,' Howden said, 'nothing else. I'll go and talk to Arthur now.'

  He returned from the library to the Long Drawing Room, the hum of conversation moving out to meet him. The atmosphere was freer now; drinks and supper, which was almost over, had contributed to an air of relaxation. He avoided several groups whose members l
ooked up expectantly as he passed, smiling and moving on.

  Arthur Lexington was standing on the fringe of a laughing cluster of people watching the Finance Minister, Stuart Cawston, do minor conjuring tricks - a pastime with which, once in a while, he relieved the tedium during breaks in cabinet meetings. 'Watch this dollar,' Cawston was saying. 'I shall now make it disappear.'

  'Hell!' someone said predictably, 'that's no trick; you do it all the time.' The Governor General, among the small audience, joined in the mild laughter.

  The Prime Minister touched Lexington's arm and for the second time took the External Affairs Minister aside. He explained the purport of what the party director had said and the need for a press announcement before morning. Typically, Lexington asked no unnecessary questions. Nodding his agreement, 'I'll call at the embassy and talk to Angry,' he said, 'then start some of my own people working.' He chuckled. 'Always gives me a sense of importance to keep others out of bed.'

  'Now then you two! No affairs of state tonight.' It was Natalie Griffiths. She touched their shoulders lightly.

  Arthur Lexington turned, beaming. 'Not even an itsy-bitsy world crisis?'

  'Not even that. Besides, I've a crisis in the kitchen. That's much more important.' The Governor General's wife moved towards her husband. She said in a distressed whisper, not meant to be overheard but carrying clearly to those nearby, 'Of all things, Sheldon, we've no cognac.'

  'That's impossible!'

  'Shush! I don't know how it happened, but it has.'

  'We'll have to get an emergency supply.'

  'Charles has phoned the air force mess. They're rushing some over.'

  'My God!' There was a plaintiveness to His Excellency's voice. 'Can't we ever entertain without something going wrong?'

  Arthur Lexington murmured, 'I suppose I must drink my coffee neat.' He glanced at the fresh glass of grape juice which a few minutes earlier had been brought to James Howden. 'You don't have to worry. They've probably got gallons of that.'

  The Governor General was muttering angrily, 'I'll have someone's scalp for this.'

  'Now, Sheldon' - still the whispers, host and hostess oblivious of their amused audience - 'it's just one of those things, and you know how careful one has to be with the help.'

  'Blast the help!'

  Natalie Griffiths said patiently, 'I thought you ought to know. But let me deal with it, dear.'

  "Oh, very well.' His Excellency smiled - a mixture of resignation and affection - and together they returned to their original place by the fire.

  'Sic (transit gloria. The voice which launched a thousand aeroplanes may not now rebuke the scullery maid.' It had been said with an edge and a shade too loudly. The Prime Minister frowned.

  The speaker was Harvey Warrender, Minister of Citizenship and Immigration. He stood beside them now, a tall, pudgily built figure with thinning hair and a bass, booming voice. His manner was habitually didactic - a hangover, perhaps, from the years he had spent as a college professor, before entering politics.

  'Steady, Harvey,' Arthur Lexington said. That's royalty you're treading on.'

  'Sometimes,' Warrender responded, his voice lower, 'I resent reminders that brass hats invariably survive.'

  There was an uncomfortable silence. The reference was well understood. The Warrenders' only son, a young air force officer, had been killed heroically in action during World War II. The father's pride in his son had been lasting, as had his grief;

  Several replies to his remark about brass hats might easily have been made. The Governor General had fought bravely in two wars, and the Victoria Cross was not awarded lightly ... Death and sacrifice in war observed no boundaries of rank or age...

  It seemed best to say nothing.

  'Well, on with the motley,' Arthur Lexington said brightly. 'Excuse me, Prime Minister; Harvey.' He nodded, then crossed the room to rejoin his wife.

  'Why is it,' Warrender said, 'that to some people certain subjects arc embarrassing? Or is there a cut-off date for remembrance?'

  'I think it's mainly a question of the time and place.' James Howden had no desire to pursue the subject. He sometimes wished he could dispense with Harvey Warrender as a member of the Government, but there were compelling reasons he could not.

  Seeking to change the subject, the Prime Minister said, 'Harvey, I've been wanting to talk about your department.' He was remiss, he supposed, in using a social occasion for so much official business. But of late many subjects he should have dealt with at his desk had to stand aside for more urgent business. Immigration was one.

  'Is it praise or blame you are about to tender me?' Harvey Warrender's question had a touch of belligerence. Plainly the drink he was holding was not his first.

  Howden was reminded of a conversation a few days ago when he and the party director had been discussing current political problems. Brian Richardson had said: 'The Immigration Department has got us a consistently bad press, and unfortunately it's one of the few issues that electors can understand. You can fool around with tariffs and the bank rate all you want, and the votes it will affect are negligible. But let the papers get one picture of a mother and child being deported -like that case last month - and that's when the party needs to worry.'

  Momentarily, Howden experienced a sense of anger at having to consider trivia when - particularly now - bigger and vital issues demanded so much of his mind. Then he reflected that the need to mix homely things with great affairs had always been a politician's lot. Often it was a key to power -never to lose sight of small events amid the big. And immigration was a subject which always disturbed him. It had so many facets, hedged around with political pitfalls as well as advantages. The difficult thing was to be certain which were which.

  Canada was still a promised land for many, and likely to remain so; therefore any Government must handle its population inlet valves with extreme caution. Too many immigrants from one source, too few from another, could be sufficient to change the balance of power within a generation. In a way, the Prime Minister thought, we have our own apartheid policy, though fortunately the barriers of race and colour are set up discreetly and put into effect beyond our borders, in Canadian embassies and consulates overseas. And definite as they are, at home we can pretend they do not exist.

  Some people in the country, he knew, wanted more immigration, others less. The 'more' group included idealists who would fling the doors wide open to all comers, and employers, who favoured a bigger labour force. Opposition to immigration usually came from labour unions, given to crying 'unemployment' each time immigration was discussed, and failing to recognize that unemployment, in some degree at least, was a necessary economic fact of life. On this side also were the Anglo-Saxon and Protestant segments - in surprising numbers - who objected to 'too many-foreigners', particularly if the immigrants happened to be Catholic. Often it was necessary for the Government to walk a tightrope to avoid alienating one side or the other.

  He decided this was a moment to be blunt. 'Your department has been getting a bad press, Harvey, and I think a good deal of it is your own fault. I want you to take a tighter hold of things and stop letting your officials have so much of their own way. Replace a few if you have to, even the top; we can't fire civil servants but we've plenty of shelves to put them on. And for God's sake keep those controversial immigration cases out of the papers! The one last month, for example - the woman and child.'

  'That woman had been running a brothel in Hong Kong,' Harvey Warrender said. 'And she had VD.'

  'Perhaps that isn't a good example. But there've been plenty of others, and when these sensitive cases come up you make the Government look like some heartless ogre, which harms us all.'

  The Prime Minister had spoken quietly but intensely, his strong eyes riveting the other man.

  'Obviously,' Warrender said, 'my question is answered. Praise is not the order of the day.'

  James Howden said sharply, 'It isn't a question of praise or blame. It's a matter of good politi
cal judgement.'

  'And your political judgement has always been better than mine, Jim. Isn't that so?' Warrender's eyes squinted upward. 'Otherwise I might be leader of the party instead of you.'

  Howden made no reply. The liquor in the other man was obviously taking hold. Now Warrender said, 'What my officials are doing is administering the law as it stands. I happen to think they're performing a good job. If you don't like it, why don't we get together and amend the Immigration Act?'

  He had made a mistake, the Prime Minister decided, in choosing this time and place to talk. Seeking to end the conversation, he said, 'We can't do that. There's too much else in our legislative programme.'

  'Balls!'

  It was like a whipcrack in the room. There was a second's silence. Heads turned. The Prime Minister saw the Governor General glance in their direction. Then conversation resumed, but Howden could sense that others were listening.

  'You're afraid of immigration,' Warrender said. 'We're all afraid - the way every other Government has been. That's why we won't admit a few things honestly, even among ourselves.'

  Stuart Cawston, who had finished his conjuring tricks a moment or two earlier, strolled with seeming casualness to join them. 'Harvey,' the Finance Minister said cheerfully, 'you're making an ass of yourself.'

  'Take care of him, Stu,' the Prime Minister said. He could feel his anger growing; if he continued to handle this himself there was a danger he would lose his temper, always volatile, which could only make the situation worse. Moving away, he joined Margaret and another group.

  But he could still hear Warrender, this time addressing Cawston.

  'When it comes to immigration I tell you we Canadians are a bunch of hypocrites. Our immigration policy - the policy that I administer, my friends - has to say one thing and mean another.'

  'Tell me later,' Stuart Cawston said. He was still trying to smile, but barely succeeding.

  'I'll tell you now!' Harvey Warrender had gripped the Finance Minister's arm firmly. 'There are two things this country needs if it's to go on expanding and everybody in this room knows it. One is a good big pool of unemployed for industry to draw on, and the other is a continued Anglo-Saxon majority. But do we ever admit it in public? No!'