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.The final call was to Douglas Martening, Clerk of the Privy Council, and procedural Solon at all cabinet meetings.With Martening, Milly was more respectful than with the others.Ministers might come and go, but the Clerk of the Privy Council, while in office, was the senior civil servant in Ottawa.He also had a reputation for aloofness and most times when Milly spoke to him gave the impression of scarcely being aware of her.But today, unusually, he was gloomily chatty.“It will be a long meeting, I suppose.Probably go right on over into Christmas Day.”“It wouldn’t surprise me, sir,” Milly said.Then tentatively, “But if it does I could always send out for turkey sandwiches.”Martening grunted, then again surprisingly came back, “It isn’t sandwiches I need, Miss Freedeman.Just some other kind of work where a fellow gets a little home life now and then.”Afterwards Milly reflected: was disenchantment infectious? Could the great Mr.Martening be about to join the parade of senior civil servants who had left the ranks of government for higher-paying industrial jobs? The question made her wonder about herself.Was this a time for departure; a time for change before it became too late for change?She was still wondering four hours later as the members of the cabinet Defense Committee began to assemble in the Prime Minister’s office suite on Parliament Hill.Dressed in a smartly tailored gray suit with a white blouse, Milly ushered them in.General Nesbitson had been last to arrive, his balding, pudgy figure wrapped in a heavy overcoat and scarf.Helping him off with them, Milly had been shocked to see how unwell the old man appeared and now, as if to confirm the opinion, he suddenly began a coughing spell into his handkerchief.Milly poured some ice water from a carafe and held it out.The old warrior sipped it, nodding gratefully.After an interval and more coughing, he managed to gasp, “Excuse me—this blasted catarrh.Always get it when I have to stay the winter in Ottawa.Used to take a winter holiday down south.Can’t get away now, with so many important things going on.”Next year, maybe, Milly thought.“A Merry Christmas, Adrian.” Stuart Cawston had joined them, his amiably ugly features beaming, as usual, like an illuminated sign.Lucien Perrault spoke from behind him.“And such a one to be wishing it, whose taxes pierce our souls like daggers.” Jauntily handsome, with a shock of black curls, bristling mustache, and a humorous eye, Perrault was as fluent in English as in French.At times—though not now—his manner betrayed a touch of hauteur, reminder of his seigneurial ancestors.At thirty-eight, and the youngest member of Cabinet, his influence was actually much stronger than indicated by the comparatively minor office he held.But the Defense Production Ministry had been Perrault’s own choosing, and since it was one of the three patronage ministries (the others, Public Works and Transport), by ensuring that plum contracts went to the party’s financial supporters, his influence in the party heirarchy was considerable.“You shouldn’t have your soul so near your bank account, Lucien,” the Finance Minister rejoined.“In any case I’m Santa Claus to you fellows.You and Adrian here are the ones who buy the expensive toys.”“But they explode with such a remarkable bang,” Lucien Perrault said.“Moreover, my friend, in Defense Production we create much work and employment which bring you more taxes than ever.”“There’s an economic theory tied in there somewhere,” Cawston said.“Too bad I’ve never understood it.”The office intercom buzzed and Milly answered.Metallically James Howden’s voice announced, “The meeting will be in the Privy Council chamber.I’ll be there in a moment.”Milly saw the Finance Minister’s eyebrows rise with mild surprise.Most small policy meetings aside from the full Cabinet usually took place informally in the Prime Minister’s office.But obediently the group filed out into the corridor toward the Privy Council chamber a few yards away.As Milly closed her office door behind Perrault, the last to leave, the Bourdon Bell of the Peace Tower carillon was chiming eleven.Unusually, she found herself wondering what to do.There was plenty of accumulated work, but on Christmas Eve she felt disinclined to begin anything new
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