They had been led to believe that at eight o’clock every Thursday night, Harold shucked off the awful responsibilities of his position, lit his pipe, sat down with his wife and chuckled away for thirty minutes. Now he was telling them that he was not unfamiliar with the show. Perhaps her perception was being warped by professional oversensitivity, but it seemed to her that there was a difference.
‘And where do you come from? I’m detecting a scent of red rose.’
‘That’s right. I’m from Blackpool, Mr Wilson.’
‘Oh-ho. I’ll bet you’re keeping that from the BBC, aren’t you? They never usually give northerners much of a look-in over there. Still too many Home Counties public-school boys for my liking.’
There were a lot of looks flying around under the Prime Minister’s radar now. Tony and Bill both caught Sophie’s eye, and Marcia caught Tony and Bill looking at Sophie. Dennis was still laughing politely, as Home Counties public-school boys were wont to do, but the laugh was now all form and no content.
‘You are daft, Harold,’ said Marcia, and the moment she said it, Sophie knew what was going on between them. Marcia’s not-quite-affectionate exasperation was that of a daughter talking to her father. There was no affair, she was sure of it. ‘You know very well that Barbara’s from Blackpool.’
Harold looked confused again.
‘I thought she was Sophie?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Marcia, and shook her head. ‘Barbara in the show is from Blackpool,’ said Marcia. ‘As well.’
‘Of course she is,’ said Harold. He didn’t seem at all concerned that he’d inadvertently owned up to never having seen five minutes of the series. Perhaps he had other things to worry about. ‘What do you think of Marcia’s idea, anyway?’ the Prime Minister said. ‘Would you like to set an episode inside Number Ten?’
‘I told Dennis here how you wished you had someone as clever as Jim working for you in real life,’ said Marcia.
‘I’ve not got a bad lot,’ said Harold. ‘But there’s always room for a clever young man.’
‘I’ll tell Jim if I see him,’ said Clive.
Marcia laughed.
‘Thank you,’ said Harold uncertainly.
A photographer came in and took a few snaps of Clive and Sophie chatting to the Prime Minister, and then he said his goodbyes and disappeared.
They shared a taxi on the way back, because they were excited and indignant and giggly, and they couldn’t bear to miss a word of anything anybody had to say. To begin with, all that was said was an endless reformulation of the same outraged complaint: ‘He didn’t know us from Adam!’ ‘He’s never watched a second!’ ‘It was all a public relations stunt!’
And then Dennis managed to change the tone, from one kind of disbelief to another. ‘We’ve just been to Number Ten!’ he said, and so then everyone had a go at rewriting that line: ‘We’ve just met Harold!’ ‘We’ve had a cup of coffee with the Prime Minister!’ ‘Bloody hell!’ ‘Harold and Marcia!’ The third wave of chatter was about Marcia. Nobody was very interested in Sophie’s certainty that nothing was going on, and she understood. They already knew that they would be telling people about the morning for a long time to come, maybe for the rest of their lives, and the taxi ride was the first attempt at a first draft of a story that would have to satisfy parents, siblings, children and grandchildren. If they could somehow convey the impression that they’d been given a privileged glimpse of the Prime Minister’s unconventional personal life, then they were duty-bound to do so. Eventually, somewhere in Paddington, the interjections and exclamations and exhalations gave way to a contemplative silence.
‘How many Beatles records do you think he’d heard before he gave them MBEs?’ said Bill.
‘Oh, he thinks we’re the Beatles now,’ said Tony.
‘Do you think we’re getting an MBE?’ said Sophie. ‘Because I wouldn’t mind.’
‘Bill’s right,’ said Dennis. ‘If there’s something going on, then Harold wants a bit of it, because it’s going on under a Labour government. It’s reflected glory. Even if he doesn’t know the first thing about it.’
‘I’m sorry to go on about this,’ said Sophie, ‘but nobody answered my question. Do you think we’ll be getting MBEs?’
‘We might if we do what he wants us to do,’ said Tony.
‘And you won’t be getting anything anyway,’ said Clive gleefully. ‘It’ll only be me and Sophie. Nobody cares about the writers.’
‘Or the producer,’ said Dennis.
‘Can we do it, then?’ said Sophie.
‘No,’ said Tony, Bill and Dennis at the same time.
‘I told her we would,’ said Sophie.
‘Yes,’ said Dennis. ‘We noticed.’