The Image in the Water Read Free Page A

them out to Simon Russell, who in his present situation somewhere above the altar would see it all clearly. Neither of them, in their hearts, would want Joan Freetown to lead the Party and become Prime Minister. But that was notquite the point. Without actually slipping to his knees he asked Simon Russell for advice.
Chorus angelorum te suscipiat
    Joan Freetown had no ear for music, and did not believe in God. She had mixed views about the Church of England. She found its priests and bishops tedious. In her experience few of them had even an elementary understanding of economics, though their ignorance did not deter them from frequent utterance on the subject. But she saw the point of churches, of establishment, and of pulpits if properly used.
    Today, however, she was not thinking about these things. She was thinking for the last time about Simon Russell. Her worry was that he had never worried. More than once she had tried to reach him with her concern about the economy, about Europe, about the growing depredations of the Scots. He had always been courteous, but she had felt she never reached him. He had managed the government well, but she could not understand someone for whom that was the main purpose of a political career. She had never detected in him any driving idea. At first she had thought he was simply disguising his hostility to her own ideas, but latterly she judged that at the level of ideas he was genuinely empty.
    Now she would be up against the same difficulty, only worse. She supposed, though he had not yet said so, that Roger Courtauld would be her opponent for the leadership. Here again was a man without ideas. At least Simon Russell had had an educated mind, and indeed a natural authority in taking decisions which she respected. Roger Courtauld hadnone of that. He was shrewd, but that was the only thing to be said for him.
    She did not relish the forthcoming contest. She knew that she lacked what Roger Courtauld possessed, the knack of slapping shoulders, exchanging jokes, attracting personal loyalty. She would need help. Not with the Budget: she would spend that afternoon working alone on her proposals, confident that Peter Makewell would let her present them. She must find someone to help her with the in-fighting and the public relations. Her eyes strayed eastward and, like Julia Russell, she fastened on David Alcester, in the pew to the right towards the high altar. Tactically quick, a good grasp of economics, young, ruthless, but not more than was needed, she thought. She allowed her eyes to rest for a moment on the long fair hair, the strong profile, the well-cut suit. Of course he was still a boy. He needed someone to recommend a good barber and would need careful guidance. The blue tie was a mistake. She persuaded herself that it was only his political gifts which attracted her.
    By her side her husband Guy was on his knees. He prayed for the soul of Simon Russell, but he did not seriously doubt its well-being. If anyone deserved the approval of his Maker as well as of his country it was the last Prime Minister. But principally he prayed for his own wife, whom he loved. He prayed that she might fail in her ambition to succeed Simon Russell. Partly he was selfish, because he was praying for the safety of his marriage. But he was also praying for his wife’s happiness, and for his country’s well-being.
Et cum Lazaro quondam paupere aeternam habeas requiem
    It was odd, so odd that she could tell it to no one, but that day in the Abbey Louise felt content. Indeed, with the exception of the day of his cremation, she had felt content through the weeks since she had found Simon calm and finally at rest in Joan Freetown’s spare bedroom. Contentment might not have been odd had she disliked her husband or wanted him to die. On the contrary she had deeply loved Simon Russell and passionately wanted him to live. But after his first heart-attack last summer she had prepared herself for the second,