The Falling Thread by Adam O’Riordan

Author:Adam O’Riordan [O’Riordan, Adam]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Published: 2021-10-21T00:00:00+00:00

1913

July

‘And that is why –’ he let the ascending voices fade, looking out at the smoke from the banqueting tables, as if he were viewing the city and its outlying districts from a hot-air balloon – ‘we say: no. On this we shall not budge. The government may bury their heads if they wish –’ he caught himself speeding up, becoming hectoring – ‘but we shall not. Tariff reform, gentlemen, is the order of the day and by God it is the only order.’

Applause. Men’s features warped by candlelight. At some unseen signal, a dozen waiters were gliding between the tables with platters of veined cheese and dark grapes. From where Charles stood it seemed balletic, dancers funnelling onto a stage. He had the audience now, he could feel it. The magnetism of their collective attention. It had been piecemeal at first, conversations burbling on as he began his speech, but now he had them, each and every one.

‘Pairs, gentlemen; I am told good things come in them.’ He leaned forward on the lectern. ‘A lion and a lamb. A sword and a stone. A tariff and a freeze.’ He straightened himself to his full height. ‘A moderate tariff on foreign manufactured goods and a long overdue freeze on duties.’

Someone banged their table, others followed. Charles took his chance to improvise.

‘This government has lurched from calamity to calamity, have they not?

Voices rose in agreement.

‘We have seen them, we have seen them for what they are; Mr Lloyd George pilloried by one of our own last week, outed as a mere controversialist. Well, here is an uncontroversial statement for you, gentlemen: what our country needs now is not more Lloyd George but more George Lloyd.’

He gestured with a stern stabbing motion to the Right Honourable Member for Staffordshire West seated at the central table, his dark moustache trimmed above the lip, the small lithe man who had once coxed the Cambridge crew. There was raucous laughter and cries of ‘Hear, hear!’ He had more to say, on Ulster, on Land Taxes, but there were more speeches to come, better to be remembered for wit and brevity than for taking up too much time after supper. Glazebrook had only invited him to speak when a more senior representative of the textile industry had fallen from his horse and broken his back out riding to hounds.

‘Thank you.’ He slid his notes into his dinner jacket, and made his way down from the stage. Aitken was there, looking as if he had overindulged, and Lancelot Sanderson; both men nodded at Charles. Then Sanderson rose, with a brandy glass and a long cigar in one hand, slapping Charles on the shoulder as one might strike the flank of a winning horse entering a paddock.

‘Fine fellow,’ Charles heard Sanderson say to Aitken who murmured something non-committal.

After the speeches had finished the guests began to drift from the banqueting hall. A lone voice embarked on a verse of ‘Rule Britannia’ but it failed to take and petered out.

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