This Was A Man (4 page)

The lieutenant smiled and ticked off a name on his clipboard. ‘Drive through the archway to your left and one of my colleagues will show you where to park.’

The driver followed his instructions and entered a large courtyard, where row upon row of cars were already parked.

‘Please park next to the blue Ford on the far side,’ said another officer, pointing across the yard, ‘then your party can make their way into the palace.’

When Harry stepped out of the car, Emma gave him one final check.

‘I know you’re not going to believe this,’ she whispered, ‘but your flies are undone.’

Harry turned bright red as he zipped himself up before they made their way up the steps and into the palace. Two liveried footmen in the gold and red uniform of the royal household stood rigidly
to attention at the bottom of a wide, red-carpeted staircase. Harry and Emma slowly climbed the steps, trying to take everything in. When they reached the top, they were greeted by two more
gentlemen of the royal household. Harry noticed that the rank rose every time they were stopped.

‘Harry Clifton,’ he said before he was asked.

‘Good morning, Mr Clifton,’ said the senior of the two officers. ‘Would you be kind enough to accompany me? My colleague will conduct your family to the Throne Room.’

‘Good luck,’ whispered Emma, as Harry was led away.

The family climbed another staircase, not quite as wide, which led into a long gallery. Emma paused as she entered the high-ceilinged room and stared at the rows of closely hung paintings that
she’d only seen before in art books. She turned to Samantha. ‘As we’re unlikely to be invited a second time, I suspect Jessica would like to learn more about the Royal
Collection.’

‘Me too,’ said Sebastian.

‘Many of the kings and queens of England,’ began Samantha, ‘were art connoisseurs and collectors, so this is only a tiny selection from the Royal Collection, which is not
actually owned by the monarch, but by the nation. You will notice that the focus of the picture gallery is on British artists from the early nineteenth century. A remarkable Turner of Venice hangs
opposite an exquisite painting of Lincoln Cathedral by his old rival, Constable. But the gallery, as you can see, is dominated by a vast portrait of Charles II on horseback, painted by Van Dyck,
who at the time was the court artist in residence.’

Jessica became so entranced she almost forgot why they were there. When they finally reached the Throne Room, Emma regretted not having set out earlier, as the first ten rows of chairs were
already occupied. She walked quickly down the centre aisle, grabbed a place on the end of the first available row and waited for the family to join her. Once they were seated, Jessica began to
study the room carefully.

Just over three hundred neat gold chairs were laid out in rows of sixteen, with a wide aisle separating them down the centre. At the front of the room was a red-carpeted step that swept up to a
large empty throne that awaited its rightful occupant. The buzz of nervous chatter ceased at six minutes to eleven when a tall, elegant man in morning dress entered the room, came to a halt at the
foot of the step and turned to face the assembled gathering.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, ‘and welcome to Buckingham Palace. Today’s investiture will begin in a few minutes’ time. Can I remind you not to
take photographs, and please do not leave before the ceremony is over.’ Without another word, he departed as discreetly as he had entered.

Jessica opened her bag and took out a small pad and a pencil. ‘He didn’t say anything about drawing, Grandma,’ she whispered.

As eleven o’clock struck, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II entered the throne room, and all the guests rose. She took her place on the step in front of the throne but did not speak. A nod
from a gentleman usher, and the first recipient of an honour entered from the other side of the room. For the next hour, men and women from around the United Kingdom and Commonwealth received
honours from their monarch, who held a short conversation with every one of them before the usher nodded once again and the next recipient took their place.

Jessica’s pencil was poised and ready when Grandpops entered the room. As he walked towards the Queen, the gentleman usher placed a small stool in front of Her Majesty and then handed her
a sword. Jessica’s pencil didn’t rest for even a moment, capturing the scene as Harry knelt down on one knee and bowed his head. The Queen touched the tip of the sword gently on his
right shoulder, lifted it, then placed it on his left shoulder, before saying, ‘Arise, Sir Harry.’

‘So what happened after you were marched off to the Tower?’ demanded Jessica as they drove out of the palace and back down the Mall, to take Harry to his favourite
restaurant a few hundred yards away for a celebration lunch.

‘To begin with, we were all taken into an anteroom where a gentleman usher guided us through the ceremony. He was very polite, and suggested that when we met the Queen we should bow from
the neck,’ said Harry, giving a demonstration, ‘and not from the waist like a page boy. He told us we shouldn’t shake hands with her, should address her as Your Majesty, and
should wait for her to begin the conversation. Under no circumstances were we to ask her any questions.’

‘How boring,’ said Jessica, ‘because there are lots of questions I’d like to ask her.’

‘And when replying to any question she might ask,’ said Harry, ignoring his granddaughter, ‘we should address her as ma’am, which rhymes with jam. Then once the audience
is over, we should bow again.’

‘From the neck,’ said Jessica.

‘And then take our leave.’

‘But what would happen if you didn’t leave,’ asked Jessica, ‘and began to ask her questions?’

‘The gentleman usher assured us very politely that should we outstay our welcome, he had instructions to chop off our heads.’ Everyone laughed except Jessica.

‘I would refuse to bow or call her Your Majesty,’ said Jessica firmly.

‘Her Majesty is very tolerant of rebels,’ said Sebastian, trying to guide the conversation back on to safer ground, ‘and accepts that the Americans have been out of control
since 1776.’

‘So what did she talk about?’ asked Emma.

‘She told me how much she enjoyed my novels, and asked if there would be another William Warwick this Christmas. Yes, ma’am, I replied, but you might not enjoy my next book, as
I’m thinking of killing William off.’

‘What did she think of that idea?’ asked Sebastian.

‘She reminded me what her great-great-grandmother Queen Victoria had said to Lewis Carroll after she’d read
Alice in Wonderland
. However, I assured her that my next book
will not be a mathematical thesis on Euclid.’

‘How did she respond?’ asked Samantha.

‘She smiled, to show the conversation had come to an end.’

‘So if you’re going to kill off William Warwick, what will be the theme of your next book?’ asked Sebastian, as the car pulled up outside the restaurant.

‘I once promised your grandmother, Seb,’ replied Harry, as he stepped out of the car, ‘that I would try to write a more substantial work that would, in her words, outlast any
bestseller list and stand the test of time. I’m not getting any younger, so once I’ve completed my present contract, I intend to try and find out if I’m capable of living up to
her expectations.’

‘Do you have an idea, a subject or even a title?’ pressed Seb as they entered Le Caprice.

‘Yes, yes, and yes,’ said Harry, ‘but that’s all I’m willing to tell you at the moment.’

‘But you’ll tell me, won’t you, Grandpops?’ said Jessica, as she produced a pencil drawing of Harry kneeling before the Queen, a sword touching his right shoulder.

Harry gasped as the rest of the family smiled and applauded. He was about to answer her question, when the maître d’ stepped forward and rescued him.

‘Your table is ready, Sir Harry.’

‘N
EVER, NEVER, NEVER
,’ said Emma. ‘Do I have to remind you that Sir Joshua founded Barrington’s Shipping in 1839, and in his
first year made a profit of—’

‘Thirty-three pounds, four shillings and tuppence, which you first told me when I was five years old,’ said Sebastian. ‘However, the truth is that although Barrington’s
managed a reasonable dividend for its shareholders last year, it’s becoming more and more difficult for us to go on challenging the big boys like Cunard and P and O.’

‘I wonder what your grandfather would have thought about Barrington’s being taken over by one of his fiercest rivals?’

‘After everything I’ve been told or read about the great man,’ said Seb, looking up at the portrait of Sir Walter that hung on the wall behind his mother, ‘he would have
considered his options, and what would be best for the shareholders and employees, before coming to a final decision.’

‘Without wishing to interrupt this family squabble,’ said Admiral Summers, ‘surely what we should be discussing is whether Cunard’s offer is worth the biscuit.’

‘It’s a fair offer,’ said Sebastian matter-of-factly, ‘but I’m confident I can get them to raise their bid by at least ten per cent, possibly fifteen, which frankly
is as much as we could hope for. So all we really have to decide is do we want to take their offer seriously, or reject it out of hand?’

‘Then perhaps it’s time to listen to the views of our fellow directors,’ said Emma, looking around the boardroom table.

‘Of course, we can all express an opinion, chairman,’ said Philip Webster, the company secretary, ‘on what is unquestionably the most important decision in the company’s
history. However, as your family remain the majority shareholders, only you can decide the outcome.’

The other directors nodded in agreement but it didn’t stop them offering their opinions for the next forty minutes, by which time Emma had discovered they were evenly divided.

‘Right,’ she said, after one or two directors began repeating themselves, ‘Clive, as head of our public relations division, I suggest you prepare two press statements for the
board’s consideration. The first will be short and to the point, leaving Cunard in no doubt that while we are flattered by their offer, Barrington’s Shipping is a family company, and is
not for sale.’

The admiral looked pleased, while Sebastian remained impassive.

‘And the second?’ asked Clive Bingham, after writing down the chairman’s words.

‘The board rejects Cunard’s offer as derisory and, as far as we’re concerned, it’s business as usual.’

‘That will lead them to believe that you might just be interested if the price was right,’ warned Seb.

‘And then what would happen?’ asked the admiral.

‘The curtain will go up, and the pantomime will begin,’ said Seb, ‘because the chairman of Cunard will be well aware that the leading lady is doing no more than dropping her
handkerchief on the floor in the expectation that the suitor will pick it up and begin an age-old courting process that just might end with a proposal she feels able to accept.’

‘How much time have we got?’ asked Emma.

‘The City will be aware we’re holding a board meeting to discuss the takeover bid, and will expect a response to Cunard’s offer by close of business tonight. The market can
handle almost anything, drought, famine, an unexpected election result, even a coup, but not indecision.’

Emma opened her handbag, removed a handkerchief and dropped it on the floor.

‘What did you think of the sermon?’ asked Harry.

‘Most interesting,’ said Emma. ‘But then, the Reverend Dodswell always preaches a good sermon,’ she added as they left the churchyard and made their way back to the Manor
House.

‘I’d discuss his views on Doubting Thomas, if I thought you’d listened to a word.’

‘I found his approach fascinating,’ protested Emma.

‘No, you didn’t. He never once mentioned Doubting Thomas, and I won’t embarrass you further by asking you what he did preach about. I only hope Our Lord will be understanding
about your preoccupation with the possible takeover.’

They walked a few more yards in silence before Emma said, ‘It’s not the takeover that’s worrying me.’