'The Minister has no such power,' James Howden snapped. 'The power is vested in the Crown in the person of the Governor General. Mr Bonar Deitz is equally aware of that as anyone else.'
There was a moment's silence, then with bland innocence the reporter asked, 'But doesn't the Governor General always do exactly what you yourself recommend, sir, including waiving the Immigration Act, which has happened quite a few times, I believe?' For all his seeming mildness, Tomkins had one of the sharpest minds in the Ottawa press corps, and Howden realized he had walked into a verbal trap.
'I have always understood that the Opposition object to government by order in council,' he said sharply. But it was a weak answer and he knew it. He caught sight of Brian Richardson's face suffused with anger – and with good reason, Howden thought. Not only had the focus of attention shifted from the important Washington mission to this trivial affair, but he himself had not come out of the question well.
He decided to recover as best he could, 'I am sorry to learn from the reference to Mr Deitz that the matter we are speaking of could become an issue, perhaps, between political parties. My own conviction is that it should not.' He paused for effect, then continued earnestly, 'As I indicated earlier, there are no grounds for admitting this man Duval to Canada under our present laws and, from what I am told, many other countries have taken a similar stand. Nor do I see any obligation upon Canada to take such action when other countries will riot. As to the facts, both known and alleged, let me assure you again that these have been examined thoroughly by the Department of Citizenship and Immigration before a decision was reached. And now, gentlemen, if you please, that is all.'
He had been tempted to add something about newspapers maintaining a sense of news proportion, but decided not; the Press, while every brother's keeper, could be savagely resentful when criticized itself. Instead, smiling outwardly but seething with inner fury at Harvey Warrender, the Prime Minister took Margaret's arm and walked towards the waiting aircraft. Applause and cheers from his supporters followed them.
Chapter 2
The VIP turbo-prop Vanguard, maintained by the Government for official flights, was partitioned into three compartments – a conventional section forward for non-ministerial staff who had been boarded before the Prime Minister's arrival; a more comfortable centre cabin, now occupied by the three ministers and several deputies; and, aft, a comfortably upholstered drawing-room, decorated in pastel shades of blue, with a cosily compact bedroom adjoining.
The rearmost suite, which had been designed originally for use by the Queen and her husband on state visits, was to be used now by the Prime Minister and Margaret. The steward, an RCAF flight sergeant, helped strap them into two of the deep soft seats, then discreetly disappeared. Outside, the deep, muted throb of the four Rolls-Royce motors increased in tempo as they began to taxi towards the airport perimeter.
When the steward had gone James Howden said sharply, 'Was it really necessary to encourage Warrender in that absurd conceit of his about Latin doggerel?'
Margaret answered calmly, 'Not really, I suppose. But if you must know, I thought you were being extremely rude and I wanted to make amends.'
'Goddammit Margaret!' His voice rose. 'I had good reason to be rude with Harvey Warrender.'
His wife removed her hat carefully and placed it on a small table beside her seat. The hat was a wispy affair of black velvet and net which she had bought in Montreal. She said levelly, 'Kindly don't snap at me, Jamie. You may have had reason, but I didn't, and I've said before I'm not a carbon copy of your moods.'
'That isn't the point at all,…'
'Yes, it is the point!' Now there was a flush of red in Margaret's cheeks. She was always slow to anger, which was the reason their quarrels were comparatively rare. 'Judging by the way you behaved with the reporters just now, I'd say that Harvey Warrender isn't the only one to be accused of vanity.'
He asked abruptly, 'What do you mean?'
'You were angry with that Mr Tomkins just because he wasn't silly enough to be taken in by all your pompous nonsense about fairness and humanity. If you want to know, I wasn't either.'
He expostulated, 'Surely, at least here, I'm entitled to some loyalty.'.
'Oh, don't be ridiculous,' Margaret flared. 'And for goodness' sake stop talking to me as if I were a political meeting. I'm your wife, remember? – I've seen you undressed. It's perfectly obvious what's happened. Harvey Warrender has put you in a difficult position…'
He interjected, 'It's an impossible position.'
'Very well, impossible. And for some reason you feel you must back him up, but because you don't like doing it you're taking your bad temper out on everyone else, including me.' Unusually, with the last words there was a catch in Margaret's voice.
There was a silence between them. Outside the engines' tempo increased for take-off; the runway slid by and they were airborne, climbing. He reached for Margaret's hand. 'You were quite right. I was being bad-tempered.'
This was the way most of their arguments ended, even the serious ones, and there had been a few in their married life. Invariably one of them saw the other's point of view and then conceded. James Howden wondered if there really were married couples who lived together without quarrelling. If so, he thought, they must be dull and spiritless people.
Margaret's head was averted but she returned the pressure of his hand.
After a while he said, 'It isn't important about Warrender – not to us, I mean. It's hampering in some ways, that's all. But things will work out.'
'I expect I was being a bit silly too. Perhaps because I haven't seen much of you lately.' Margaret had taken a tiny square of cambric from her bag and delicately touched the corners of both eyes. She went on slowly, 'Sometimes I get a terrible feeling of jealousy about politics, a sort of helplessness in a way. I think I'd prefer it if you had another woman hidden somewhere. At least I'd know how to compete.'
'You don't have to compete,' he said. 'You never did.' For an instant he had a pang of guilt, remembering Milly Freedeman.
Abruptly Margaret said, 'If Harvey Warrender is so difficult, why give him the Immigration Department? Couldn't you put him somewhere where he'd be harmless – like Fisheries?'
James Howden sighed. 'Unfortunately Harvey wants to be Immigration Minister and he still has influence enough to make his wishes count.' He wondered if Margaret really believed the second statement, but she gave no sign of questioning.
The Vanguard was turning south on to course, still climbing, but less steeply now. The mid-morning sun shone brightly through the port side windows and, to the right, visible from both seats, Ottawa lay spread like a miniature city three thousand feet below. The Ottawa River was a slash of silver between snow-clad banks. To the west, near the narrows of Chaudiere Falls, faint white streamers pointed like fingers to the Supreme Court and Parliament, dwarfed and puny from above.
The capital slid out of sight below, leaving flat open country ahead. In ten minutes or so they would cross the St Lawrence and be over New York State. A guided missile, Howden thought, would cover the same ground, not in minutes but seconds.
Turning from the window Margaret asked, 'Do you think that people outside have any idea of all the things that go on in government? The political deals, favours for favours, and all the rest.'
Momentarily James Howden was startled. Not for the first time he had the feeling that Margaret had dipped into his thoughts. Then he answered, 'Some do, of course – those close to the inside. But I imagine that most of the people don't really, or at least don't want to know. And there are others who wouldn't believe it if you produced document proof and swore out affidavits.'
Reflectively Margaret said, 'We're always so quick to criticize American politics.'
'I know,' he agreed. 'It's quite illogical, of course, because in proportion we have as much patronage and graft as the Americans, perhaps even more. It's just that most times we're a good deal more discreet and every now and then we offer up a public sacrifice of somebody who became too greedy.'
The seat-belt sign above their heads had gone out. James Howden unsnapped his own belt and reached across to help Margaret release hers. 'Of course, my dear,' he said, 'you must realize that one of our greatest national assets is our sense of self-righteousness. It's something we inherited from the British. You remember Shaw? – "There is nothing so bad or so good that you will not find an Englishman doing it; but you will never find an Englishman in the wrong." That kind of conviction helps the national conscience quite a lot.'
'Sometimes,' Margaret said, 'you sound positively gleeful about the things which are wrong.'
Her husband paused, considering. 'I don't mean it to seem that way. It's just that when we're alone I try to drop pretences.' He smiled faintly. 'There aren't many places left nowadays where I'm not on show.'
'I'm sorry.' There was concern in Margaret's voice. 'I shouldn't have said that.'
'No! I wouldn't want either of us to feel there was something we couldn't say to each other, no matter what it was.' Fleetingly he thought of Harvey Warrender and the deal between them. Why had he never told Margaret? Perhaps he would someday. Now he continued, 'A good deal of what I know about politics saddens me. It always has. But then I get to thinking of our mortality and human weakness, remembering there has never been power with purity – anywhere. If you want to be pure, you must stand alone. If you seek to do positive things, achieve something, leave the world a mite better than you found it, then you must choose power and throw some of your purity away. There's no other choice.' He went on thoughtfully, 'It's as if we're all together in a strong-flowing river; and though you'd like to, you can't change its course suddenly. You can only go along, and try to ease it slowly in one direction or the other.'
A white intercom telephone near the Prime Minister's seat pinged musically and he answered it. The aircraft captain's voice announced, 'This is Galbraith, sir.'
'Yes, Wing Commander?' Galbraith, a veteran pilot with a reputation for solidity, was usually in command on VIP missions out of Ottawa. He had flown the Howdens many times before.
'We're at cruising height, twenty thousand, and estimating Washington in one hour ten minutes. Weather there is sunny and clear, temperature sixty-five.'
'That's good news,' Howden said. 'It'll be a taste of summer.' He told Margaret about the Washington weather, then said into the phone, 'I understand there'll be a luncheon at the embassy tomorrow. Wing Commander. We shall expect to see you.'
'Thank you, sir.'
James Howden replaced the telephone. While he had been speaking the RCAF steward had reappeared, this time with coffee trays and sandwiches. There was also a single glass of grape juice. Margaret pointed to it. 'If you really like that so much, I'll order some at home.'
He waited until the steward had gone, then lowered his voice. 'I'm beginning to loathe the stuff. I once said I liked it and word seems to have passed around. Now I understand why Disraeli hated primroses.'
'But I always thought he loved primroses,' Margaret said. 'Weren't they his favourite flower?'
Her husband shook his head emphatically. 'Disraeli said so just on one occasion, out of politeness to Queen Victoria, who had sent him some. But afterwards, people showered primroses on him until the mere sight of one could drive him to distraction. So you see, political myths die hard.' Smiling, he took the grape juice, opened a door of the rear of the cabin and poured it down the toilet.