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May 2, 1949
Parliamentary Office of Sir John Crowder (MP for Finchley), Westminster, England
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The young man removed his fedora and smoothed his hair before lifting the brass knocker. It was not insecurity, but simple habit and respect for his master, as none had the privilege of entering the grand office unannounced. And Sir John Crowder would not tolerate his aide arriving in anything other than immaculate attire; never mind that the said aide once had half a country watching what he wore.
"Ah, Mr. Pevensie!" called a ponderous voice from inside. "Come right on in."
The young man entered to see Sir Crowder seated, as usual, in his magnificent leather chair. "I recognised your knock," the older man said, setting down his papers and leaning back. "You might as well strike the door with a gauntlet. Well, I believe you arrived early, as usual. Good for you."
"I regret, sir, that I am a minute late. My apologies."
Sir Crowder reached into his vest and pulled out his watch. His jaw moved ever so slightly as he carefully studied the clock-face. Peter was right, as always. Then he looked up and studied the young man. He did not seem arrogant at having had a better sense of time than his master, and he was definitely not sheepish either. Great Scott, he didn't even blink at the morning sunlight shining into his face…
"Ah, you have one of those confounded wrist-watches," Sir Crowder noticed critically. "You'll have to get a proper timepiece."
Peter smiled. This conversation was repeated every Monday. "I would, sir," he said, "but I believe providing for my family has been more important, especially since my father received his injury."
"You're a good chap, Mr. Pevensie. This evening, I'll buy you one."
"Thank you for your generosity, but that will not be necessary." This was not a request, but a statement. It stood as straight and immovable as the clock tower at the corner of this imposing complex of buildings, and Sir Crowder knew this quite well.
"Well, right to work, shall we?" he asked, sighing. But this was quite unneeded, as his aide was already working his way through the voluminous correspondence piled on his desk. Neat stacks began appearing, while a steady stream of rubbish made its way to the nearby bin. Being a parliamentary aide could be a dreary occupation...
"Mr. Strachey will be in Westminster the day after tomorrow for questioning," Sir Crowder added, pushing his chair back and walking to the window. The morning bustle in the street below was just beginning to ebb.
"The party will want to question him about the Tanganyika groundnut scheme," noted Peter, looking up.
"Exactly," declared the older man, with something approaching enthusiasm. "Party leadership thinks this scandal may bring down the present government. Bah! What an idea that was! Imagine, planting peanuts in Africa to supply oil!"
"Will you be questioning the honorable Food Minister on the matter?"
"I should," Sir Crowder growled, turning and going back to his chair, as he did when weightier matters called. "But I have nothing new to offer."
"Then it would be better to say nothing at all about the matter, if I may suggest so. This may be of more present interest," Peter advised, holding up a sheaf of letters. "Many of our constituents have been complaining about not being able to purchase any surplus eggs in the shops, while the restaurants always seem to have a supply."
"Rationing, of course," grumbled Sir Crowder, "and typical inefficiency on the part of the Ministry of Food. Mr. Strachey…"
"Our people have had insufficient egg rations for nine years now," Peter pointed out. "They're becoming restless; people will bear suffering gladly, but if they feel there's been unfairness… injustice, whether real or imagined, will anger any good man, even if it's only eggs. And we cannot afford that; there's been enough trouble with strikes recently. Not to mention the finer points of morality."
Sir Crowder pondered this for a moment. "An excellent point, Mr. Pevensie. I shall be sure to address the matter." And indeed he did, two days later.
There was a genial silence as one man sorted though notes from the last week's sessions and the other sat and thought. Sir Crowder finally broke the silence. "What would you say if I asked you... theoretically... to take my place in the Commons?"
There was no hesitation on the part of the young man. "I would point out that the rules of the House would not permit it, but if I was compelled to do so I believe I could handle it."
Sir Crowder almost smiled. "I may have told you this before, Mr. Pevensie, but I believe you have every qualification to be seated in that hall. And you wouldn't be an old fogey like me, sliding along on the benches of power for a decade or two and then returning to Cornwall for a maybe not-so-well deserved retirement."
"I have no intention of hastening that retirement," said Peter with the utmost tact.
"I'm not so ready for it either," Sir Crowder admitted. The familiar spires and courtyards he could see out the window were quite dear to him, indeed. "You should not and will not be limited by that, though. You are the type of person who will be a mover and shaker, who will be the leader that I never have been."
There was another genial silence, then Sir Crowder looked up again. "I assume that you're aware of the usual process of becoming a Member of Parliament?"
A slightly acidic smile came to Peter's face. "Yes, I'll be sent to stand for a hopeless seat and then, as a reward, run in a safer constituency in the next elections."
Sir Crowder nodded and, somewhat reluctantly, shifted his weight forwards onto the great oaken desk. "Well, I see no sense in wasting talent like yours," he said, somewhat brusquely but fondly. "Enfield Southgate will be an open seat in the next elections. And I happen to know most of the party leaders in that borough."
If Peter was shocked, he did not show it. "I would be honored, sir," he said with conviction. "I'm sure that your trust will not be wasted."
"Very well, then, I assume you are accepting the offer." Sir Crowder pulled out his pocketwatch and traced the engraving on it, as was his custom when he had to deal with something unusual. It was not arrogance, but Peter had poise far beyond what was natural for his years. But then again, that was why he was willing to risk his reputation in recommending him. "I am meeting with several of them this Saturday," he continued. "You're coming with me, of course. And do wear a dinner jacket."
Peter's face fell, though not at the mention of the attire. "I'm honored, but I must withdraw, sir. Important…er, family matters have come up and I shall be occupied over the weekend. I do apologize."
The older man looked sharply at his aide, trying to see if he was hesitating, if he was trying to back out. But if anything, he was standing straighter and with more conviction after saying these words. "Very well," he sighed. "It can wait. But destiny and Britain will not wait on you, Mr. Pevensie."
"Then I'm afraid Britain and destiny must learn to be patient."
Sir John Crowder allowed himself a smile as he watched his young aide moving efficiently through his work once again. Peter would go far indeed, he thought. Never mind that the pupil would quickly surpass the master; the boy had poise and talent and brilliance far exceeding his years. And Sir Crowder was content that when the time came for retirement, he would be able watch his protégé climb the ropes of power. Perhaps he would even sit in this very chair. But no, he had the potential for far more. Perhaps one day 10 Downing Street would call…
Peter had not been at all fazed by the burden of responsibility that was about to be placed on his shoulders. He had been a king, after all. One with far more power than any member of Parliament or even the Prime Minister. And if higher heights called, as Sir Crowder seemed certain, then he would put his all into making this land one that Aslan would be proud of.
Big Ben tolled out the hour, and Peter stopped for a moment to listen to the beloved sound. He was beginning to enjoy working in these halls of power…
But another mission called, one from Aslan himself. And of course that came first. After all, no matter how high he rose in this world, he would always be Aslan's faithful servant.
Peter Pevensie did not know that a Sir Beverly Baxter would ultimately serve as the MP for Enfield Southgate for fourteen years and die in office after an unremarkable career. And certainly he had no idea that Sir Crowder would represent Finchley for ten more years, and that his successor would be another rising politician named Margaret Thatcher.
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Many thanks to Loopyloo2610 for the beta'ing.
I do not own the Chronicles of Narnia or any of the historical figures and events in this story.
