“If you say so, Sir Giles,” said the man as he hurried away.
“Thursday, Thursday, Thursday. Always say Thursday,” said Fielding. “God knows you’ve told me often enough.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Giles. “It will soon become a habit, and frankly you’re a much better candidate than I was at my first election.”
The young man smiled for the first time. “Hello, my name is Bob Fielding, and I’m the Labour candidate for the by-election on Thursday May twentieth,” he said as Emma walked up to join her brother.
“Are you beginning to regret not standing?” she whispered, continuing to hand out leaflets. “Because it’s pretty clear that the voters have either forgiven or forgotten Berlin.”
“But I haven’t,” said Giles, shaking hands with another passerby.
“Has Walter Scheel been back in touch?”
“No, but that man won’t call until he’s got something to say.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” said Emma, “otherwise you really are going to regret it.”
“Yes, but what you going to do about it?” another constituent was demanding.
“Well, bringing the country to a standstill with a three-day week isn’t the answer,” said Fielding, “and the Labour party’s first priority has always been unemployment.”
“Never unemployment,” whispered Giles. “Employment. You must always try to sound positive.”
“Good morning, my name is Bob…”
“Is that who I think it is?” said Emma, looking across the road.
“It most certainly is,” said Giles.
“Will you introduce me?”
“You must be joking. Nothing would please the lady more than to have her photo on every front page tomorrow morning shaking hands with the former member.”
“Well, if you won’t, I’ll have to do it myself.”
“You can’t—”
But Emma was already halfway across the road. Once she was on the other side, she walked straight up to the secretary of state for education and science and thrust out her hand.
“Good morning, Mrs. Thatcher. I’m the sister of Sir Giles—”
“And more important, Mrs. Clifton, you were the first woman to chair a public company.”
Emma smiled.
“Women should never have been given the vote!” shouted a man, shaking his fist from a passing car.
Mrs. Thatcher waved and gave him a magnanimous smile.
“I don’t know how you cope with it,” said Emma.
“In my case, I’ve never wanted to do anything else,” said Thatcher. “Although I confess that a dictatorship might make one’s job a little easier.” Emma laughed, but Mrs. Thatcher didn’t. “By the way,” she said, glancing across the road, “your brother was a first-class MP as well as a highly respected minister both at home and abroad. He’s sadly missed in the House—but don’t tell him I said so.”
“Why not?” said Emma.
“Because it doesn’t fit in with his image of me and I’m not sure he’d believe it.”
“I wish I could tell him. He’s rather low at the moment.”
“Don’t worry, he’ll be back in one house or the other soon enough. It’s in his blood. But what about you? Have you ever considered going into politics, Mrs. Clifton? You have all the right credentials.”
“Never, never, never,” said Emma vehemently. “I couldn’t handle the pressure.”
“You handled it well enough during your recent trial, and I suspect pressure doesn’t worry you when it comes to facing up to your fellow directors.”
“That’s a different kind of pressure,” said Emma. “And in any case—”
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Secretary of State,” said an agitated minder, “but the candidate seems to be in a spot of trouble.”
Mrs. Thatcher looked up to see an old woman jabbing a finger at the Tory candidate. “That’s not a spot of trouble. That lady probably remembers this street being bombed by the Germans—now that’s what I call a spot of trouble.” She turned back to Emma. “I’ll have to leave you, Mrs. Clifton, but I do hope we’ll meet again, perhaps in more relaxed circumstances.”
“Secretary of State?”
“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” said Mrs. Thatcher. “If he can’t handle one old lady without me having to hold his hand, how’s he ever going to cope with the baying opposition in the Commons?” she added before hurrying away.
Emma smiled and walked back across the road to rejoin her brother, who was telling a military-looking gentleman the sanitized version of why he wasn’t standing in the by-election.
“So what did you think of her?” asked Giles once he’d broken away.
“Remarkable,” said Emma. “Quite remarkable.”
“I agree,” said Giles. “But don’t ever tell her I said so.”
*
The call came when he least expected it. Giles turned on the light by the side of his bed to find it was a few minutes after five, and wondered who could possibly be phoning him at that time in the morning.
“Sorry to ring you so early, Giles, but this is not a call I can make from my office.”