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“What odds would you put on Giles holding on to his seat?” asked Bob.

“Clinging on by his fingernails seems the likely outcome,” said Gwyneth. “Bristol Docklands has always been a marginal seat, but the opinion polls suggest that this time it’s going to be too close to call. So a lot will depend on who the local Conservatives select as their candidate.”

“But Giles is a popular minister, much admired on both sides of the House. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“About a thousand votes in Griff Haskins’s opinion. But his constituency agent never stops reminding me that if the national swing is against you, there’s not a lot you can do about it.”

*   *   *

“I suppose you have to come up to the Commons fairly regularly,” said Jean Buchanan.

“Not that often actually,” said Griff. “We agents have a tendency to remain at the coal face, making sure the voters still love the member.” At that moment the dining room door opened, and all conversation stopped as he entered the room.

“No, no, please sit down, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” declared a broad Yorkshire accent that hadn’t been affected by several years as an Oxford don.

“How kind of you to join us, prime minister,” said Giles, leaping to his feet.

“Only too delighted,” said Harold Wilson. “It gave me an excuse to escape for a few minutes from a dinner with the executive of the National Union of Mineworkers. Mind you, Giles,” he added, looking around, “I wouldn’t be surprised if we were outnumbered by the Tories in this room. But not to worry, Griff will sort them out.” The prime minister leaned across the table and shook hands with Giles’s agent. “And who are these two delightful ladies?”

“My sisters, Emma and Grace,” said Giles.

“I bow before you both,” said the prime minister. “The first woman chairman of a public company, and the renowned English scholar.” Grace blushed. “And if I’m not mistaken,” he added, jabbing a finger across the table, “that’s Bob Bingham, the fish-paste king. My mother always had a jar of your paste on the table for what she called high tea.”

“And at Downing Street?” inquired Bob.

“We don’t do high tea at Downing Street,” said the prime minister, as he made his way slowly around the table, shaking hands and signing menus.

Giles was touched by how long the prime minister stayed, only leaving when a dutiful PPS reminded him that he was the guest of honor at the miners’ dinner where he was due to make a speech. Just before he left, he took Harry to one side and whispered, “Thank you for your help in Moscow, Mr. Clifton. Don’t think we’ve forgotten. And don’t give up on Babakov, because we haven’t.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Harry, and they all stood again as the prime minister left the room.

After they’d resumed their seats, Jean Buchanan said to Griff, “It must be such fun being an old friend of the PM.”

“I’ve only met him once before,” admitted Griff. “But like an elephant, he never forgets,” he added as Harry stood up, tapped the side of his wineglass with a spoon, and waited for silence.

“Fellow guests, I invite you to join me in a toast to my oldest and dearest friend. The man who introduced me to his sister, and is godfather to our son Sebastian. Will you rise and join me in a toast to the Right Honorable Sir Giles Barrington, Her Majesty’s first minister of state at the Foreign Office, and a man who still believes he should be the captain of the England cricket team.”

Harry waited for the laughter to die down before he added, “And we all hope Giles will retain his seat at the next election, and perhaps even fulfill his life’s ambition and become foreign secretary.”

Warm applause and cries of “Hear hear!” echoed around the room as Giles rose to respond.

“Thank you, Harry, and it’s wonderful to have not only my family, but my closest and dearest friends around me, who have come together for only one purpose, to remind me just how old I am. I’ve been blessed with a wonderful family and real friends, and surely any sensible man could wish for nothing more. However, many of you have been kind enough to ask me what I would like for my birthday.” Giles looked slowly around the table before saying, “To be prime minister, foreign secretary, and chancellor of the Exchequer all at the same time.” Laughter and applause broke out spontaneously before he added, “But for the moment, I’d be satisfied with holding on to Bristol Docklands at the next election.”

Applause, but no laughter this time.

“No, what I really want is for all of you here tonight, to prosper, and flourish—” Giles paused—“under a Labour government.”

The jeers drowned the cheers, proving the prime minister to be right about Giles being outnumbered by Tories at his own birthday party.

“So let me end by saying, if I don’t win, I shall sulk.” The laughter returned. “A wise man once told me that the secret of a great speech is timing…” Giles smiled and sat down, as everyone rose and gave him a standing ovation.

*   *   *