After his father died, there was an hour or two when Humphrey felt that his shadow was shortening, that his life was enclosed and that for the first time the end of it was in sight. He was aware of his self-pity, and he was also aware that self-pity was nothing new for him. This was the first time, though, that he had focussed on death rather than misfortune. or minutes on end, in the musty drawing room of Leven House, he stood before the portrait of a man he had always disappointed, often wilfully. It was an oil of questionable quality, which caught his father's essential humourlessness, but missed the perpetual sneer.
Eventually, because it was his need and because it was his nature, Humphrey crossed the line between grief, such as it was, and administration. It was for him to organise the funeral, and it was for him to deal with the press. His wife was a candle, no stiffness to her, flickering in the breeze of fate, and his daughter was rebellious and unaccountably forlorn. As was often the case, there was something to be gained from loss. This evening, there was a vote on the Financial Services Bill. It was for Humphrey to rally the troops. The votes of at least ten backbenchers - Humphrey's limited power base - waited for his call, his word, his nod. In the absence of his intervention, there was a possibility at least that the vote might be lost. If it was, the chances of a leadership challenge increased exponentially, and Humphrey could throw his hat into the ring. Yesterday, the only option had been to offer support, because the party would never welcome a leader who created the crisis that offered the opportunity. Today, he had options.
Would he be attending the House this evening?
"I understand the importance of the vote. And I think that my father, a pillar of the Conservative party for thirty years, would have wanted me to set aside this unbearable loss and support the Bill. But my presence will not decide the vote, and I have duties here. I choose, this once, on this desperately sad day, to put family before politics."
Would he say how he would have voted had he been present?
"I think my loyalties are clear enough, and I trust my friends and colleagues to do the right thing. They know their duty, and today is not in any event a day on which I feel able to remind them of it."
Yes. He was ready. The key was to play a straight bat. As he'd learned to do forty years before.
He'd carried the bat then - come in at number three, played a safe solid innings whilst his teammates one by one flashed out in the vain hope of an unreachable target, one by one threw away their wickets. It was the varsity cricket match. John Cairns came in at eight, sixty still to get, only five overs to get them, and hammered an impossible forty two off eighteen balls before skying one. Thomas Bailey came in at nine and hit two fours before losing his off stump. With the few runs Humphrey had added, nine were needed off the last over. Humphrey was on strike and Basil Hunter, a vicious spin bowler but an appalling batsman, took up station at the other end.
The decision had been hard, and it had defined his life. He could alter his style, and go for a few shots, but if he failed, either by coming up short or by losing his wicket, he would be forever remembered as the man who ultimately lost the most exciting varsity game of modern times, who stumbled when his peers had shown such skill and courage. The alternative was to be seen as the bulldog, the one who held firm, the one who could have won it.
A nick. A quick single. Basil at the business end. A quick word to him about having to give the single back, as soon as he could. Basil, facing the next ball, rabbit in headlights. Another nick, this one high, straight to the slips. Game over. Humphrey the strong, Basil the fool. Humphrey the hero.
Except to his father.
Except to the man who held Humphrey in unceasing contempt, and knew exactly what he had done.
After his statement at the gate to the press, which went exactly as Humphrey had intended, his wife found him in the garden and fluttered a pale hand towards him. At first he thought that, uncharacteristically, she was offering comfort, then he saw that she was holding his mobile phone.
"It's the Prime Minister," she said.
He took the phone and she moved away, disappearing into the sun as she turned into side profile. He placed the phone to his ear.
"Humphrey." The voice was sepulchral yet simultaneously dull, the voice of the undertaker this man had proven himself to be.
"Yes. Speaking."
"It must be a terrible day."
"It is."
"Sudden."
"Yes. It was quite sudden."
"My sympathies."
"Thank you."
"He was a good man."
"Yes."
"Served the party well."
"Yes."
"Deserved a higher position."
"Perhaps." The straight bat. Always the straight bat, ready for even an unusual delivery, which surely was coming.
A pause preceded it. Then, "I need a favour, Lionel."
"I can't come in. Not today."
"I know. I understand. I lost my mother last year. I understand. But we're going to lose the vote."
"I doubt it."
"The numbers look reliable. We need another nine."
Nine. A familiar number. "I wish I could help."
"There'll be a leadership contest. Weir will call it."
"Stalking horse."
"Yes."
"What do you want from me?"
"I need you to back me. I need you to promise me you won't stand."
"My father...."
"I know. But it has to be now. I'm sorry. I need to put your promise in the machine. If people know you won't stand, there might not even be a contest."
Humphrey held the phone to his chest. The strategy had collapsed, that was clear. So where to now?
If he gave his word and went back on it, he could not win a general election even if he won the leadership. His character would be stained. He would be forever known as the man who ultimately lost the party power after eight years, who fumbled when his peers had shown such determination and courage. The alternative was to be seen as the party man, another of the best leaders the country never had.
He lifted the phone again. "I'll want a reshuffle before November," he said.
"Placing you where?"
"Foreign secretary."
"Done."
Humphrey took a deep breath. It was better to achieve something rather than nothing. Ambition was the art of the possible. "I'll always have your back, Basil", he said. "I've been in your corner for forty years. I'm not going to walk away now."
He dropped the phone into his pocket. Above the garden, the sun was high. Across it, his shadow was short and blunt.
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