The driver attempted to speak to him. They always do. He wondered how often the question, ‘Guess who I had in my cab today?’ was asked at dinner tables. He ignored the inevitable chatter ahead and reflected on the space in his archive where a cardboard box should be.

He had stared at the empty shelf for several minutes. It had become a routine. He would stand in the centre of the room and look around to ensure everything else was in its place. Archive boxes with subject matters, dates, and people involved, neatly written on the front of each. He would then refocus on the space. It needed filling. He knew it existed, but its whereabouts remained a mystery. He had tried tracing back to before 1812 — the period of origin. He had learned of the men and women involved and of their descendants. Their homes, buildings, anywhere records might be stored, kept, lost, hidden. He had spent over a decade checking everywhere he could think of.

As the car fought its way through the London traffic, he recalled the time he inherited the role from his mentor and first love. The start of a journey that led him here. A place where everything was in order, except this one small section. He had removed the extensive records from Lord Neville’s home and relocated them to the house he used for storage, his office, and his home. Everything had to be collated in date order and chronicled to his exacting standards. Patience was key. It was more than a labour of love. It was his life. And now, everything was finally in order, apart from the missing records.

The one place left was Parliament itself. He had walked every corridor looking for potential hiding places and tapped every wall for hollow sections. He was a constant source of irritation for the maintenance staff. It had taken some time, but the works to renovate the hidden bowels of the Palace of Westminster were well underway. It was a monumental job that would continue for many years. Papers, files, documents, old newspapers — all discovered, all discarded. He had always known there was only a slim chance the records would be among all the potentially promising discoveries. Especially as he presumed it would be a reasonably sized stack, at the very least. It did prevent disillusionment, though, even as each search avenue was exhausted. 

But finally, an untouched area.

He interrupted his melancholic reflections and clapped his hands with excitement. The taxi driver looked up, saw his fare was deep in thought and turned his attention back to the road.

Could they be there?

An intuitive ability to compartmentalise his thought process allowed him to switch instantly to his diaries. He kept two. The work diary, which staff took care of, and a private journal he kept himself. His assistants changed regularly, but they were consistently grateful that he always seemed to know when dates and times were available for work-related meetings and obligations.

His private diary reminded him of the Scotland trip the following week. The Americans were also due over, which would almost certainly mean a visit to Portsmouth for Alex. He would need to leave plenty of time free from parliamentary responsibilities. The time he spent in surgery was often remarked upon. Always the end of the week, even if it meant missing important matters of state. Few Members of his stature and standing spent so much time working so diligently for constituents. Or so, they thought.

He stared at his hand-written ‘To Do’ list.

Prison, Alex, Progress.

Edinburgh, Angus, President.

Portsmouth, Dawn, Progress and Detail. Possibly Alex.

France, Germany, Russia x 2, China x 4. Video calls.

He sat back as the taxi bumped along the A40 and glanced at a road sign for RAF Northolt. He was nearly home, but where would home be for his successor? The future could see so many Chinese projects it could lead to relocation. He smiled at the thought. That would never happen. Irrespective of The Club’s global reach, its home would always be England. He knew his time at the helm was almost up, though. He no longer had the energy that took him to the front benches within two years of being elected. A period in his personal history that seemed a lifetime ago. He momentarily drifted to that other lifetime. The one before the one everyone knew about.

He nodded his head. The Club would be in safe hands — if only Alex could keep his urges in check. There was a time and place. Strategy was the most vital lesson he had to pass on. He would ensure he provided a method, procedures, and a personal blueprint before he concluded his career with the inevitable.

He had never wanted to be Prime Minister, but who better to steer his country clear of the disarray once he arranged for Scotland’s independence? A unique legacy that none of his predecessors could match. No, he had no choice but to run the country. Despite the public profile and intrusion, he had accepted he was the best man for the job. It was the least he could do.

He studied the list again. Detail and explanation omitted, he knew the implication of each simple notation. Regular phone calls to Club members — rarely text messages — were prioritised. Immediate updates were critical. Predecessors would have written letters. It was a miracle they got anything done. The smooth running of projects and affairs was imperative if all were to reap the full benefit of their Club membership. This was the most important lesson he needed to pass on to his successor.

The crunch of gravel was etched in his consciousness. As soon as he heard it, he was home, whatever he was doing or concentrating upon. He estimated the driveway to his door was around a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty metres, but it was always long enough for a brief friendly chat with his driver of the day. Although he ignored them entirely during the hour-long drive, sometimes much longer in rush hour, this short period provided the opportunity for that dinner table conversation. He always hoped, no, he knew, a phrase along the lines of, ‘Lovely fella. He would make a good Prime Minister’, would follow. He had the gift, irrespective of the walk of life the recipient of his charm trod.

He opened the door, scanned his expenses card on the reader, and said, “Thanks, geezer.” 

The out of presumed-character simplicity always threw them. This one would definitely be a ‘lovely fella’.

He watched and waved — he always waved them off — as the taxi driver reversed to return the way he came. He then looked up at the imposing Gothic structure he called home, a ten-bedroom country house and former hunting lodge of a Victorian newspaper proprietor, who seemed to require more servants’ quarters than ‘upstairs’ rooms. These days, apart from a gardener, an occasional cook, and a daily cleaner, he only needed Stevens. He never took it for granted, although it was no more than he deserved, of course. He would have had more were it not for his father. He shifted his back and felt the marks of that other life scrape against his shirt.

Sir Richard Plume entered his home, handed his jacket to Stevens and turned left towards his office. It was where he did his best thinking. This evening, the first agenda item — did Dawn Thatcher make a mistake telling the tradesman to dispose of the ‘junk’?