The Madness of July by James Naughtie Page A

secretary of state was junior to him when they were both in Moscow. I got this from Marilyn in the embassy, who was there, poor girl. I’m afraid he did his Jacques Brel impression. Twice.’
    ‘Oh, God,’ said Flemyng.
    ‘Catastrophic. You know Brieve can’t stand him. Wanted another. So he scampered back to Number Ten and pressed the panic button. Dennis was a hopeless soak and insecure. Roped in Yves from the French embassy to put in a bad word. He’s a mate – they’re cooking up some deal with the state visit. All rubbish. Dennis is just prone to the odd good night. Sharper than our Tom any day and trustworthy, as we both have cause to know. But I lost that one, I’m afraid, and so did your boss.’
    He went on, ‘I don’t know if you’ve picked this up…’ He was looking closely at Flemyng, who neither nodded his head nor gave it a shake. Paul hesitated.
    ‘… but it’s felt…’ He was adjusting his grammar to cover the source of the idea ‘… that maybe we shouldn’t just be looking at career people for a replacement. Maybe we should cast our net a bit more widely.’
    ‘You know what we think about outsiders,’ Flemyng said. ‘There’s a great fuss, fireworks on the Thames, then a bloody explosion. Ugly, and it never works.’
    Paul said, ‘I know. I bear the scars. But this is different. Keep it to yourself – entirely – would you?’ Flemyng raised his hands in a gesture of assent.
    ‘There’s a thought,’ once again authorship was concealed, ‘that we might think of a minister.’
    Flemyng flinched. Paul said, ‘I know – by-elections are dangerous, reshuffling cabinet a pain. All that. But there’s a reason.’ And then, as if it had struck him for the first time, he looked Flemyng straight in the eye and put a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry – if that’s the appropriate word in this context – the fickle finger of fate isn’t pointing at you. Probably.’
    And added, ‘Would that be disappointing?’
    Flemyng was serious. ‘No. But why change course? There’s no good reason I can see.’
    Paul turned his eyes towards the Americans. ‘It’s not done yet. But we think it will work. And I think you’ll be pleased.’ He looked Flemyng in the eye again. ‘It’s necessary, believe me.’
    As he spoke, Flemyng saw Francesca and Ruskin in a close exchange. He could hear nothing, but saw that she was startled, maybe annoyed. Her eyes had widened a little in the way they did when she was thrown; she was touching her forehead as if she felt a headache coming on. Ruskin was smiling as he spoke and laughed when he leaned back. Flemyng moved towards them, and took his wife’s arm.
    She was surprised at his quiet whisper as they went into the box together, because it seemed too melodramatic for him. ‘Another complication. I don’t know when it’s all going to stop. And what was going on with him?’
    ‘Afterwards,’ she said. ‘Please.’
    It was half-past ten when the curtain came down. Flowers sprouted from the singers’ arms as they came forward for their second curtain calls, the director got some boos from high up in the amphitheatre, and the throng began to pour out into Bow Street. The party in the box gathered for post-match coffee and drinks in the dining room and Flemyng found himself with Ruskin. Summer troubles again.
    ‘What’s up in your patch?’ Flemyng asked.
    ‘Bloody Treasury mostly. And timetable nerves in the House. Talk of postponing the rising.’ Ruskin raised his eyes to the ceiling.
    The party broke up in the course of a few minutes, Flemyng and Wherry promising to lunch after the summer sojourns, Sorley giving Francesca a hug that she would have been happier not to receive, Ruskin seeming a touch distracted but giving everyone a benediction with one long arm before he slipped down the stairs and disappeared. Francesca and Flemyng would soon be alone. First, Paul. He asked Francesca to give them a few minutes, and she headed