Emma had been careful not to take sides, and asked the department to prepare a brief that she could consider overnight, before her meeting with Lord Samuels. However, back-to-back meetings, some of which overran, prevented her from reading the brief before she climbed into bed just after midnight. Harry was snoring, which she hoped would keep her awake. But she was so tired she found it hard to concentrate on the details, and soon fell into a deep sleep.
* * *
The following morning, Emma reopened the red box even before she’d made herself a cup of tea.
The “Tommy’s, Guy’s, King’s” brief still rested on top of a dozen other urgent files, including a confidential DNA report by two distinguished American academics. She already knew the results of their initial findings, and now at last she felt able to share the good news with Harry.
Emma jumped up, grabbed the phone on the sideboard, and dialed Harry at the Manor House.
“This better be good,” he said, “because Alexander is just about to decide whether to jump in the crate going to America or the one going to England.”
“It’s good, better than good,” said Emma. “The DNA report shows that Arthur Clifton was without doubt your father.”
There was a long silence before Harry shouted, “Alleluia, that is indeed good news. I’ll put a bottle of champagne on ice so we can celebrate when you get home this evening.”
“America,” said Emma, and put the phone down. After taking several phone calls during breakfast, she still hadn’t had a chance to consider the arguments for and against Lord Samuels’s proposal before her driver pulled up outside the front door at 7:25 a.m. It was going to be another back-to-back day.
Emma read the detailed submissions from both presidents during her journey across London, but hadn’t come down in favor of either side by the time her car pulled into Harley Street. She placed the file back in the red box and checked her watch: 7:57. She hoped the discussion wouldn’t go on for too long, as she needed to be back at the department for a meeting with the new chairman of the BMA, a firebrand, who she had been warned by her permanent secretary considered all Tories should be drowned at birth. What Pauline described as the King Herod solution.
Emma was about to press the bell of No. 47A when the door was opened by a young woman.
“Good morning, minister. Let me take you through to Lord Samuels.”
The president of the Royal College of Physicians rose as the minister entered the room. He waited until she was seated before offering her coffee.
“No, thank you,” said Emma, who didn’t want to waste any more time than necessary, while trying not to give the impression that she was in a hurry.
“As I explained yesterday, minister, the matter I wish to discuss with you is personal, which is why I didn’t want us to meet in your office.”
“I fully understand,” said Emma, waiting to hear his arguments in favor of Guy’s and St. Thomas’s being joined at the hip with King’s.
“During question time yesterday”—Ah, thought Emma, so I must have made some blunder after all, which he was kind enough not to raise in the chamber—“I noticed that when you paused to take a drink, you spilt some water over your papers. You then answered the question without referring to your notes so no one noticed, although it was not for the first time.”
Emma wondered where all this was leading, but didn’t interrupt.
“And when you left the chamber, you stumbled and dropped some papers.”
“Yes, I did,” said Emma, her mind now racing. “But neither incident struck me as important at the time.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Samuels. “But may I ask if you’ve recently found it difficult to grasp objects like cups, your briefcase, even your pen when you’re signing letters?”
Emma hesitated, before saying, “Yes, now that you mention it. But my mother always accused me of being clumsy.”
“I also noticed that you hesitated on a couple of occasions while you were addressing the House yesterday. Was that because you were considering your reply, or was your speech in some way restricted?”
“I put it down to nerves. My brother is always warning me never to relax when I’m at the dispatch box.”
“Do your legs sometimes feel weak, so you need to sit down?”
“Yes, but I am nearly seventy, Lord Samuels, and I’d be the first to admit I ought to take more exercise.”
“Possibly, but I wonder if you would allow me to conduct a short neurological examination, if only to dismiss my own concerns.”
“Of course,” said Emma, wanting to say no, so she could get back to her office.
The short examination took over an hour. Lord Samuels began by asking Emma to take him through her medical history. He then listened to her heart and checked her reflexes with a patella hammer. Had those tests proved satisfactory, he would have apologized for troubling her and sent her off to work. But he didn’t. Instead, he went on to assess the cranial nerves. Having done so, he moved on to a close study of her mouth, looking for fasciculation of the tongue. Satisfied that he was far from satisfied, Lord Samuels said, “The examination I’m about to conduct may be painful. In fact, I hope it is.”
Emma made no comment when he produced a needle and proceeded to stick it into her upper arm. She immediately reacted with a yelp, which clearly pleased Samuels, but when he repeated the exercise on her right hand, she did not respond.
“Ouch!” she said as he stuck the needle into her thigh, but when he proceeded to her lower calf, she might as well have been a pincushion, because she felt nothing. He moved on to her back, but Emma often couldn’t tell when he was sticking the pin in her.
While Emma put her blouse back on, Lord Samuels returned to his desk, opened a file, and waited for her to join him. When he looked up, she was sitting nervously in front of him.
“Emma,” he said gently, “I’m afraid that what I’m about to tell you is not good news.”
51
WHEN A MINISTER resigns because of some scandal, the press dip their pens in the blood and make the most of it. But if they have to surrender their seals of office because of illness, a very different attitude prevails, especially when the minister in question is both liked and respected.
The traditional letters between a prime minister and a colleague who has to resign unexpectedly were exchanged, but on this occasion no one could have missed the genuine regret felt on both sides.
It has been the most exciting job I’ve ever done in my life, and a privilege to serve in your administration.
The prime minister wrote in response, Your exceptional contribution to public life, and unstinting service to your country, will not be forgotten.
Neither the prime minister nor the departing minister of state mentioned the reason for Emma’s sudden departure.
The senior physician in the land had never known a patient to take such news with more dignity and composure. The only sign of human frailty Emma revealed expressed itself as he accompanied her to her car, when for a moment she leaned on his arm. She only made one request of him, to which he agreed without hesitation.
Lord Samuels remained on the pavement until the minister’s car was out of sight. He then returned to his office and, as she had requested, made three telephone calls to three people to whom he’d never spoken before: the lord chancellor, the prime minister, and Sir Harry Clifton.
One of them broke down and wept, and was quite unable to respond, while the other immediately cleared her diary, explaining to her staff that she wished to visit a friend. Both of them, Lord Samuels concluded, were cut from the same cloth as the great lady who had just left his consulting rooms. But the call he was most dreading was the one he had put off until last.
As gently as he could, Lord Samuels told Harry that his wife had motor neurone disease, and could only hope to live for another year, eighteen months at the most. The gentle man of letters could find no words to express his feelings. After a long silence, he eventually managed
, “Thank you, Lord Samuels, for letting me know,” before putting the phone down. It was some time before he recovered sufficiently to accept that one of them needed to remain strong.
Harry left Heads You Win in midsentence, and drove himself to the station. He was back in Smith Square long before Emma arrived.
When Emma left the department for the last time, she was driven home to find Harry waiting for her on the doorstep. Neither spoke as he took her in his arms. How little needs to be said when you’ve been together for more than fifty years.
By then, Harry had phoned every member of the family to let them know the devastating news before they read about it in the press. He had also written half a dozen letters, explaining that, for personal reasons, he was canceling all his existing engagements and would not be accepting any new ones, whether social or professional.
* * *
The following morning, Harry drove Emma down to their home in Somerset so they could begin their new life. He made up a bed in the drawing room so she wouldn’t have to climb the stairs, and cleared everything from his desk in the library, so she could set about answering the sackfuls of letters that were arriving by every post. Harry opened each one and placed them in separate piles: family, friends, colleagues, those who worked for the NHS, with a special pile for young women up and down the country, of whom until then Emma had not even been aware, who not only wanted to say thank you, but again and again mentioned the words “role model.”
There was another particularly large pile that lifted Emma’s spirits every time she read one of them. Those of her colleagues who did not share her political persuasion, but wanted to express their admiration and respect for the way in which she had never failed to listen to their views, and had on occasions even been willing to change her mind.
Although her postbag didn’t diminish for several weeks, Emma replied to each and every person who had taken the trouble to write to her, only stopping when she no longer had the strength to hold her pen. After that, she dictated her replies to Harry, who added “scribe” to his many other responsibilities. However, she still insisted on checking every letter before adding her signature. When, in the fullness of time, even that became impossible, Harry signed them on her behalf.
Dr. Richards dropped in twice a week, and kept Harry informed of what he should expect next, although the old GP admitted that he felt quite helpless because there was little he could do other than show sympathy and write out endless prescriptions for pills that he hoped would ease Emma’s pain.
For the first few weeks, Emma was able to enjoy a morning walk around the grounds with Harry, but it was not long before she had to lean on his arm, then rely on a walking stick, before finally succumbing to a wheelchair that Harry had bought without her knowing.
During those early months, Emma did most of the talking, never failing to express her strongly held views on what was happening in the world, although she now only picked it up secondhand from the morning papers and the evening news on television. She delighted in watching President Bush and Mrs. Thatcher signing a peace treaty with Chairman Gorbachev in Paris, finally bringing the Cold War to an end. But only a few days later she was horrified to learn that some of her old parliamentary colleagues back in London were plotting to remove the PM from office. Did she need to remind them that the Iron Lady had won three elections in a row?
Emma rallied enough to dictate a long letter to Margaret, making her views clear, and was astonished to receive an even longer reply by return of post. She wished she was still in Westminster, where she would have roamed the corridors letting her colleagues know exactly what she thought of them.
Although her brain remained sharp, her body continued to deteriorate, and her ability to speak became more restricted with each passing week. However, she never failed to express her joy whenever a member of the family appeared and took their turn to wheel her around the garden.
Little Lucy would chatter away, keeping her great-grandmother up to date on what she’d been doing. She was the one member of the family who didn’t fully understand what was happening, which made their relationship very special.
Jake was now in long trousers and pretending to be very grown-up, while her nephew Freddie, in his first year at Cambridge, was quiet and considerate, and discussed current affairs with Emma as if she was still in high office. She would have liked to live long enough to see him take a seat in the House of Commons, but knew that wouldn’t be possible.
Jessica told her grandmother as she pushed her wheelchair around the garden that her Tree of Life exhibition would be opening soon, and that she still hoped to be short-listed for the Turner Prize, but added, “Don’t hold your breath!”
Sebastian and Samantha drove down to Somerset every weekend, and Seb tried gallantly to remain cheerful whenever he was in his mother’s presence, but he confided to his uncle Giles that he was becoming as anxious about his father as he was his mother. Harry’s running himself into the ground were the words Giles wrote in a letter to his sister Grace that evening.
Giles and Karin spent as much time as they could at the Manor House, and regularly phoned Grace, who was torn between her responsibilities to her pupils and her sister’s well-being. The day school broke up for the summer holidays, she took the first train to Bristol. Giles picked her up at Temple Meads and warned her just how much their sister had deteriorated since she’d last seen her. Grace was well-prepared for Emma’s condition, but the shock came when she saw Harry, who had become an old man.
Grace began to nurse them both, but when Giles next visited, she warned him that she didn’t think Emma would see the autumn leaves fall.
* * *
The publication of Heads You Win came and went, making no impact on the Cliftons’ daily lives. Harry did not travel to America for his planned eleven-city tour, nor did he visit India to address the Bombay Literary Festival.
During this period, he only went up to London once, not to visit his publisher, or to speak at the Foyle’s Literary lunch, but to tell Roger Kirby that he wouldn’t be going ahead with his prostate cancer operation, as he wasn’t willing to be out of commission for any length of time.
The surgeon was sympathetic, but warned, “If the cancer escapes from your prostate and spreads to your bowel or liver, your life will be in danger. Tell me, Harry, have you had any sharp pain in your back recently?”
“No,” Harry lied. “Let’s discuss it again, when…”
Harry had one more task to carry out before he could return to the Manor House. He had promised Emma he would pick up a copy of her favorite novel from Hatchards, so he could read a chapter to her every evening. When he got out of the taxi in Piccadilly, he didn’t notice the window in which only one book was displayed, with a banner that proclaimed:
THE PUBLISHING SENSATION OF THE YEAR
He walked into the bookshop and once he’d found a hardback copy of The Mill on the Floss, he handed over a ten-pound note to the young woman behind the counter. She placed the book in a bag, and as he turned to leave she took a closer look at the customer, wondering for a moment if it was possible.
She crossed to the central display table, picked up a copy of Heads You Win, and turned to the author’s photograph on the back flap, before peering through the window at the man who was climbing into a taxi. She had thought for a moment it might be Harry Clifton, but looking at the photograph more closely, she realized the unshaven man with disheveled gray hair she had just served was far too old. After all, the photograph had been taken less than a year ago.
She returned the book to the top of the table of bestsellers, where it had been for the past eleven weeks.
* * *
When Emma was finally confined to her bed, Dr. Richards warned Harry that it could now only be a matter of weeks.
Although Harry rarely left her alone for more than a few minutes, he found it hard to bear the pain she had to endure. His wife was now barely able to swallow anything but liquids, and even the power of speech
had deserted her, so she had begun to communicate by blinking. Once for yes, twice for no. Three times please, four times thank you. Harry pointed out to her that three and four were somewhat redundant, but he could hear her saying good manners are never redundant.
Whenever darkness crept into the room, Harry would switch on the bedside light and read her another chapter, hoping she would quickly fall asleep.
* * *
After one of his morning visits, Dr. Richards took Harry to one side.
“It won’t be long now.”
For some time, Harry’s only concern had been how much longer Emma would have to suffer. He replied, “Let’s hope you’re right.”
That evening, he sat on the edge of the bed and continued reading. “This is a puzzling world, and Old Harry’s got a finger on it.”
Emma smiled.
When he came to the end of the chapter, he closed the book and looked down at the woman who had shared his life, but who clearly no longer wanted to live. He bent down and whispered, “I love you, my darling.” Four blinks of the eyelids.
“Is the pain unbearable?” One blink.
“It won’t be much longer now.” Three blinks, followed by a pleading look.
He kissed her gently on the lips. “I have only ever loved one woman in my life,” he whispered. Four blinks. “And I pray it will not be long before we see each other again.” One blink, followed by three, followed by four.
He held her hand, closed his eyes, and asked a God of whose existence he was no longer sure to forgive him. He then picked up a pillow before he could change his mind, and looked at her one more time.
One blink, followed by three.
He hesitated.
One blink, repeated every few seconds.