“But your English is already perfect and, don’t forget, they didn’t have sex.”
“They would have done if Shaw was writing today.”
“And the play would have ended with them getting married,” said Giles, taking her in his arms.
“What time’s our flight?”
“Three twenty.”
“Good, then we have more than enough time,” said Karin, as her hotel dressing gown fell to the floor, “to rewrite the last act of Pygmalion.”
*
The last time Giles had been greeted by a bank of television cameras, photographers and journalists on returning to England was when it had looked as if he might be the next leader of the Labour Party.
As he and Karin walked down the aircraft steps, Giles placed an arm around her shoulder and guided her gently through the assembled pack of journalists.
“Karin! Karin! What’s it feel like to have escaped from East Germany?” shouted a voice as the cameras flashed, and the television crews tried to stay a yard ahead of them while walking backward.
“Say nothing,” said Giles firmly.
“Has Sir Giles proposed to you, Miss Pengelly?”
“Will you be standing for Parliament again, Sir Giles?”
“Are you pregnant, Karin?”
Karin, looking flustered, glared at the journalist and said, “No, I am not!”
“Can you be sure after last night?” whispered Giles.
Karin smiled, and was about to kiss him on the cheek when he turned toward her and their lips brushed for a brief moment, but that was the photograph that appeared on most front pages, as they discovered over breakfast the following morning.
*
“Keith Brookes has been as good as his word,” said Karin, looking up from the Telegraph.
“I agree, surprisingly generous. And the leader even more so.”
“The leader?”
“An editorial opinion on one of the leading stories of the day.”
“Ah. We never used to get those on our side of the wall. All the papers delivered the same message, written by a party spokesman, and printed by the editor, if he hopes to keep his job.”
“That would make life easier,” said Giles, as Markham appeared carrying a rack of warm toast, which he placed on the table.
“Is Markham decadent?” asked Karin once the butler had closed the door behind him.
“He certainly is,” said Giles. “I know for a fact he votes Conservative.”
Giles was reading the Times’s leader when the phone rang. Markham reappeared. “It’s Mr. Harold Wilson on the line, sir,” he said, handing him the phone.
“Is he going to send me back?” said Karin.
Giles wasn’t sure if she was joking. “Good morning, Harold.”
“Good morning, Giles,” said an unmistakable Yorkshire voice. “I wondered if you could find the time to drop into the Commons today as there’s something I need to discuss with you.”
“When would be convenient?” asked Giles.
“I’ve got a gap in my diary at eleven, if that would suit you.”
“I’m sure that’s fine, Harold, but can I check?”
“Of course.”
Giles placed a hand over the mouthpiece and said, “Karin, when’s your father expected?”
“Around ten, but I’ll have to buy some clothes before then.”
“We can go shopping this afternoon,” said Giles. He removed his hand and said, “I’ll see you in the Commons at eleven, Harold.”
“And what am I expected to wear until then?” Karin asked once he’d put the phone down.
The butler coughed.
“Yes, Markham?”
“Mrs. Clifton always leaves a change of clothes in the guest bedroom, sir, in case of an emergency.”
“This is unquestionably an emergency,” said Giles, taking Karin by the hand and leading her out of the room.
“Won’t she object?” asked Karin as they climbed the stairs to the first floor.
“It’s difficult to object to something you don’t know about.”
“Perhaps you should call her?”
“I have a feeling Emma might be doing something a little more important than worrying about which clothes she left in London,” said Giles as he opened the door to the guest bedroom.
Karin pulled open a large wardrobe to find not one, but several suits and dresses, not to mention a rack of shoes she would never have seen in a worker’s cooperative.
“Come and join me downstairs once you’re ready,” said Giles. He spent the next forty minutes trying to finish the morning papers, while being regularly interrupted by phone calls offering congratulations or trying to arrange interviews. He even found the odd moment to speculate about why Harold Wilson wanted to see him.
“Mr. Clifton is on the line, sir,” said Markham, passing him the phone once again.
“Harry, how are you?”
“I’m fine, but having read the morning papers, I’m just calling to find out how you are after escaping from the Germans a second time.”
Giles laughed. “Never better.”
“I presume being reunited with Miss Pengelly is the cause of you sounding so pleased with yourself.”