First Among Equals

Chapter one

THURSDAY 10 DECEMBER 1964

Mr. Speaker rose and surveyed the Commons. He tugged at his long black silk gown, then nervously tweaked the full-bottomed wig that covered his balding head. The House had almost got out of control during a particularly rowdy session of Prime Minister’s questions, and he was delighted to see the clock reach three-thirty. Time to pass on to the next business of the day.

He stood shifting from foot to foot waiting for the 500-odd members present to settle down before he intoned solemnly, “Members desiring to take the oath.” The packed assembly switched its gaze from the Speaker to the far end of the Chamber, like a crowd watching a tennis match. There, standing at the bar of the Commons, was the victor of the first by-election since the Labour party had taken office some two months before.

The new member, flanked by his proposer and seconder, took four paces forward. Like well-drilled guardsmen, they stopped and bowed. The stranger stood at six-foot-four. He looked like a man born with the Tory party in mind, his patrician head set on an aristocratic frame, a mane of fair hair combed meticulously into place. Dressed in a dark gray, double-breasted suit and wearing a Guards’ tie of maroon and blue, he advanced once again toward the long table that stood in front of the Speakers chair between the two front benches which faced each other a mere sword’s length apart.

Leaving his sponsors in his wake, he passed down the Government side, stepping over the legs of the Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary before being handed the oath by the Clerk of the House.

He held the little card in his right hand and pronounced the words as firmly as if they had been his marriage vows.

“I, Charles Seymour, do swear that I will be faithful, and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, her heirs and successors according to law, so help me God.”

“Hear, hear,” rose from his colleagues on the benches opposite as the new MP leaned over to subscribe the Test Roll, a parchment folded into book-shape. Charles was introduced to the Speaker by the Clerk. The new member then proceeded toward the chair where he stopped and bowed.

“Welcome to the House, Mr. Seymour,” said the Speaker, shaking his hand. “I hope you will serve this place for many years to come.”

“Thank you, Mr. Speaker,” said Charles, and bowed for a final time before continuing on behind the Speaker’s chair. He had carried out the little ceremony exactly as the Tory Chief Whip had rehearsed it with him in the long corridor outside his office.

Waiting for him behind the Speaker’s chair and out of sight of the other members was the leader of the Opposition, Sir Alec Douglas-Home, who also shook him warmly by the hand.

“Congratulations on your splendid victory, Charles. I know you have a great deal to offer to our party and indeed your country.”

“Thank you,” replied the new MP, who after waiting for Sir Alec to return to take his place on the Opposition front bench made his way up the steps of the side gangway to find a place in the back row of the long green benches.

For the next two hours Charles Seymour followed the proceedings of the House with a mixture of awe and excitement. For the first time in his life he had found something that wasn’t his by right or by effortless conquest. Glancing up at the Strangers’ Gallery he saw his wife Fiona, his father the fourteenth Earl of Bridgwater and his brother, the Viscount Seymour, peering down at him with pride. Charles settled back on the first rung of the ladder. He smiled to himself: only six weeks ago he had feared it would be many more years before he could hope to take a seat in the House of Commons.

At the general election a mere two months before, Charles had contested a South Wales mining seat with an impregnable Labour majority. “Good for the experience, not to mention the soul,” the vice-chairman in charge of candidates at Conservative Central Office had assured him. He had proved to be right on both counts, for Charles had relished the contest and brought the Labour majority down from 22,300 to 20,100. His wife had aptly described it as a “dent,” but it had turned out to be enough of a dent for the party to put Charles’s name forward for the Sussex Downs seat when Sir Eric Koops had died of a heart attack only a few days after Parliament had assembled. Six weeks later Charles Seymour sat in the Commons with a 20,000 majority of his own.

Charles listened to one more speech before leaving the Chamber. He stood alone in the Members’ Lobby not quite certain where to begin. Another young member strode purposefully toward him. “Allow me to introduce myself,” the stranger said, sounding to Charles every bit like a fellow Conservative. “My name is Andrew Fraser. I’m the Labour member for Edinburgh Carlton and I was hoping you hadn’t yet found yourself a pair.” Charles admitted that so far he hadn’t found much more than the Chamber. The Tory Chief Whip had already explained to him that most members paired with someone from the opposite party for voting purposes, and that it would be wise for him to select someone of his own age. When there was a debate on less crucial issues a two-line whip came into operation: pairing made it possible for members to miss the vote and return home to their wife and family before midnight. However, no member was allowed to miss the vote when there was a three-line whip.

“I’d be delighted to pair with you,” continued Charles. “Am I expected to do anything official?”

“No,” said Andrew, looking up at him. “I’ll just drop you a line confirming the arrangement. If you’d be kind enough to reply letting me have all the phone numbers where you can be contacted we’ll just take it from there. Any time you need to miss a vote just let me know.”

“Sounds a sensible arrangement to me,” said Charles as a rotund figure wearing a light gray three-piece suit, blue shirt, and a pink-spotted bow tie trundled over toward them.

“Welcome to the club, Charles,” said Alec Pimkin. “Care to join me for a drink in the smoking room and I’ll brief you on how this bloody place works.”

“Thank you,” said Charles, relieved to see someone he knew. Andrew smiled when he heard Pimkin add, “It’s just like being back at school, old chum,” as the two Tories retreated in the direction of the smoking room. Andrew suspected that it wouldn’t be long before Charles Seymour was showing his “old school chum” just how the bloody place really worked.

Andrew also left the Members’ Lobby but not in search of a drink. He had to attend a meeting of the Parliamentary Labour party at which the following week’s business was due to be discussed. He hurried away.

Andrew had been duly selected as the Labour candidate for Edinburgh Carlton and had gone on to capture the seat from the Conservatives by a majority of 3,419 votes. Sir Duncan, having completed his term as Lord Provost, continued to represent the same seat on the City Council. In six weeks Andrew — the baby of the House — had quickly made a name for himself and many of the older members found it hard to believe that it was his first Parliament.

When Andrew arrived at the party meeting on the second floor of the Commons he found an empty seat near the back of the large committee room and settled down to listen to the Government Chief Whip go over the business for the following week. Once again it seemed to consist of nothing but three-line whips. He glanced down at the piece of paper in front of him. The debates scheduled for Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday all had three thick lines drawn under them: only Monday and Friday had two-liners which at least after his agreement with Charles Seymour he could arrange to miss. The Labour party might have returned to power after thirteen years but, with a majority of only four and a full legislative program, it was proving almost impossible for members to get to bed much before midnight during the week.

As the Chief Whip sat down the first person to jump to his feet was Tom Carson, the new member for Liverpool Dockside. He launched into a tirade of abuse against the Government, complaining that they were looking more like Tories every day. The under-the-breath remarks and coughing that continued during his speech showed how little support there was for his views. Tom Carson had also made a name for himself in a very short time, for he had openly attacked his own party from the first day he had arrived.

“Enfant terrible,” muttered the man sitting on the right of Andrew.

“Those aren’t the words I’d use to describe him,” muttered Andrew. “Altogether too many letters.” The man with wavy red hair smiled as they listened to Carson ranting on.

If Raymond Gould had acquired any reputation during those first six weeks it was as one of the party’s intellectuals, and for that reason older members were immediately suspicious of him, although few doubted he would be among the first from the new intake to be promoted to the front bench. Not many of them had really gotten to know Raymond as the north-countryman appeared remarkably reserved for someone who had chosen a career in public life. But with a majority of over 10,000 in his Leeds constituency he looked destined for a long career.

Leeds North had chosen Raymond to be their candidate from a field of thirty-seven, when he showed himself to be so much better informed than a local trade-union official whom the press had tipped as favorite for the seat. Yorkshire folk like people who stay at home and Raymond had been quick to point out to the selection committee — in an exaggerated Yorkshire accent — that he had been educated at Roundhay School on the fringes of the constituency. But what really tipped the vote in his favor had been Raymond’s refusal of an open scholarship to Cambridge. He had preferred to continue his education at Leeds University, he explained.

Raymond took a first-class honors degree in Law at Leeds before moving to London to complete his studies for the bar at Lincoln’s Inn. At the end of his two-year course Raymond joined a fashionable London chambers to become a much sought-after junior counsel. From that moment he rarely mentioned his family background to his carefully cultivated circle of Home Counties friends, and those comrades who addressed him as Ray received a sharp “Raymond” for their familiarity.

When the last question had been asked, the party meeting broke up, and Raymond and Andrew made their way out of the committee room — Andrew for his tiny office on the second floor to finish off the day’s mail, Raymond to return to the Chamber as he hoped to deliver his maiden speech that day. He had waited patiently for the right moment to express his views to the House on the subject of widows’ pensions and the redemption of war bonds, and the debate in progress on the economy was an obvious opportunity. The Speaker had dropped Raymond a note earlier in the day saying he expected to call him some time that evening.

Raymond had spent many hours in the Chamber, carefully studying the techniques demanded by the House and noting how they differed from those of the law courts. F. E. Smith had been right in his assessment of his colleagues when he had described the Commons as nothing more than a noisy courtroom with over 600 jurors and absolutely no sign of a judge. Raymond was dreading the ordeal of his maiden speech; the dispassionate logic of his arguments had always proved more appealing to judges than to juries.

As he approached the Chamber an attendant handed him a note from his wife Joyce, She had just arrived at the Commons and had been found a seat in the Strangers’ Gallery so that she could be present for his speech. After only a cursory glance Raymond scrunched up the note, dropped it into the nearest wastepaper basket, and hurried on toward the Chamber.

The door was held open for him by a Conservative member who was on his way out.

“Thank you,” said Raymond. Simon Kerslake smiled back, trying in vain to recall the man’s name. Once Simon was in the Members’ Lobby he checked the message board to see if the light under his name was lit up. It wasn’t, so he continued on through the swing doors to the right of the lobby on his way down past the cloisters to the Members’ Car Park. Once he had found his car he headed off in the direction of St. Mary’s, Paddington, to pick up his wife. They had seen little of each other during Simon’s first six weeks in Parliament which made the thought of tonight even more enjoyable. Simon couldn’t see any easing of the pressure until there was another general election and one party had gained a sensible working majority. But what he feared most — having won his seat by the slimmest of margins-was that such a working majority would not include him and he might end up with one of the shortest political careers on record. After such a prolonged stretch of Tory rule the new Labour Government was looking fresh, idealistic, and certain to increase their numbers whenever the Prime Minister chose to go to the country.

Once Simon had reached Hyde Park Corner he headed on up toward Marble Arch thinking back over how he had become a member. On leaving Oxford he had completed two years’ national service with the Sussex Yeomanry, finishing his military days as a second lieutenant. After a short holiday he had joined the BBC as a general trainee. He spent five years moving from drama, to sport, to current affairs before being appointed a producer on “Panorama.” During those early days in London he had rented a small flat in Earl’s Court and continued his interest in politics by becoming a member of the Tory Bow Group. When he became the Group’s secretary he helped to organize meetings, and had then progressed to writing pamphlets and speaking at weekend conferences before being invited to work at Central Office as personal assistant to the chairman during the 1959 election campaign.

Two years later Simon met Elizabeth Drummond when “Panorama” carried out an investigation into the National Health Service and she had been invited to be a participant. Over drinks before the program Elizabeth made it perfectly clear to Simon that she distrusted media men and detested politicians. They were married a year later. Elizabeth had since given birth to two sons, and with only a small break on each occasion she had continued her career as a doctor.

Simon had left the BBC somewhat abruptly when, in the summer of 1964, he had been offered the chance to defend the marginal constituency of Coventry Central. He held on to the seat at the general election by a majority of 918.

Simon drove up to the gates of St. Mary’s and checked his watch. He was a few minutes early. He pushed back the mop of brown hair from his forehead and thought about the evening ahead. He was taking Elizabeth out to celebrate their fourth wedding anniversary, and had prepared one or two surprises for her. Dinner at Mario & Franco, followed by dancing at the Establishment Club, and then home together for the first time in weeks.

“Um,” he said, savoring the thought.

“Hi, stranger,” said the lady who jumped in beside him and gave him a kiss. Simon stared at the woman with a perfect smile and long fair hair that turned up at the shoulder. He had stared at her when she had first arrived at the “Panorama” studio that night nearly five years before and he had hardly stopped staring since.

He switched on the ignition. “Want to hear some good news?” he asked, and answered his own question before she could reply. “I’m paired for tonight. That means dinner at Mario & Franco, dancing at the Establishment, home and...”

“Do you want to hear the bad news?” asked Elizabeth, also not waiting for a reply. “There’s a shortage of staff because of the flu epidemic. I have to be back on duty by ten o’clock.”

Simon switched off the ignition. “Well, which would you prefer?” he asked. “Dinner, dancing, or straight home?”

Elizabeth laughed. “We’ve got three hours,” she said. “So we might even find time for dinner.”

Chapter two

Raymond Gould stared down at the invitation. He had never seen the inside of No. 10 Downing Street. During the last thirteen years few Socialists had. He passed the embossed card across the breakfast table to his wife.

“Should I accept or refuse, Ray?” she asked in her broad Yorkshire accent.

She was the only person who still called him Ray, and even her attempts at humor now annoyed him. The Greek tragedians had based their drama on “the fatal flaw,” and he had no doubt what his had been.

He had met Joyce at a dance given by the nurses of Leeds General Infirmary. He hadn’t wanted to go but a second-year undergraduate friend from Roundhay convinced him it would make an amusing break. At school he had shown little interest in girls as his mother kept reminding him that there would be occasion enough for that sort of thing once he had taken his degree. By the time he graduated he felt certain that he was the only virgin left at the university.

He had ended up sitting on his own in the corner of a room decorated with wilting balloons and Day-Glo orange crêpe paper. He sucked disconsolately at a shandy through a bent straw. Whenever his school friend turned round from the dance floor — each time with a different partner — Raymond would smile broadly back. With his National Health spectacles tucked away in an inside pocket, he couldn’t always be certain he was smiling at the right person. He began contemplating at what hour he could possibly leave without having to admit the evening had been a total disaster. He wouldn’t even have answered her question if it hadn’t been for that familiar accent.

“You at the university as well?”

“As well as what?” he asked, without looking directly at her.

“As well as your friend,” she said.

“Yes,” he replied, looking up at a girl he guessed was about his age.

“I’m from Bradford.”

“I’m from Leeds,” he admitted, aware he was going redder by the second.

“My name is Joyce,” she volunteered.

“Mine’s Ray — Raymond,” he said.

“Like to dance?”

He wanted to tell her that he had rarely been on a dance floor before in his life but he didn’t have the courage. Like a puppet he found himself standing up and being guided by her toward the jivers. So much for his assumption that he was one of nature’s leaders.

Once they were on the dance floor he looked at her properly for the first time. She wasn’t half bad, any normal Yorkshire boy might have admitted. She was about five-foot-seven, and her auburn hair was tied up in a ponytail, matching the dark brown eyes that had a little too much makeup round them. She wore pink lipstick, the same color as her short skirt from which emerged two very attractive legs. They looked even more attractive when she twirled to the music of the four-piece student band. Raymond discovered that if he twirled Joyce very fast he could see the tops of her stockings, and he remained on the dance floor for longer than he would ever have thought possible. After the quartet had put their instruments away Joyce kissed him goodnight. He walked slowly back to his small room above the butcher’s shop.

The following Sunday, in an attempt to gain the upper hand, he took Joyce rowing on the Aire, but his performance was no better than his dancing, and everything on the river overtook him, including a hardy swimmer. He watched out of the side of his eyes for a mocking laugh but Joyce only smiled and chatted about missing Bradford and wanting to return home to nurse. After only a few weeks at university Raymond knew he wanted to get away from Leeds, but he didn’t admit it to anyone. When he eventually returned the boat Joyce invited him back to her digs for tea. He went scarlet as they passed her landlady. Joyce hustled him up the worn stone staircase to her room.

Raymond sat on the end of the narrow bed while Joyce made two milkless mugs of tea. After they had both pretended to drink she sat beside him, her hands in her lap. He found himself listening intently to an ambulance siren as it faded away in the distance. She leaned over and kissed him, taking one of his hands and placing it on her knee.

She parted his lips and their tongues touched: he found it a peculiar sensation, an arousing one; his eyes remained closed as she gently led him through each new experience, until he was unable to stop himself committing what he felt sure his mother had once described as a mortal sin.

“It will be easier next time,” she said shyly, maneuvering herself from the narrow bed to sort out the crumpled clothes spread across the floor. She was right: he wanted her again in less than an hour, and this time his eyes remained wide open.

It was another six months before Joyce talked about their future and by then Raymond was bored with her and had his sights set on a bright little mathematician in her final year. The mathematician hailed from Surrey.

Just at the time Raymond was summoning up enough courage to let her know the affair was over Joyce told him she was pregnant. His father would have taken a meat ax to him had he suggested an illegal abortion. His mother was only relieved that she was a Yorkshire girl; like the county cricket selection committee, Mrs. Gould did not approve of outsiders.

Raymond and Joyce were married at St. Mary’s in Bradford during the long vacation. When the wedding photos were developed Raymond looked so distressed and Joyce so happy they resembled father and daughter rather than husband and wife. After a reception given at the church hall the newly married couple traveled down to Dover to catch the night ferry. Their first night as Mr. and Mrs. Could was a disaster. Raymond turned out to be a particularly bad sailor. Joyce only hoped that Paris would prove to be memorable — and it was. She had a miscarriage on the second night of their honeymoon.

“Probably caused by all the excitement,” his mother said on their return. “Still, you can always have another, can’t you? And this time folk won’t be able to call it a little...”

She checked herself.

Raymond showed no interest in having another. Ten years had passed since that memorable honeymoon; he had escaped to London and become a barrister, but had long since accepted that he was tethered to her for life. Although Joyce was only thirty-two she already needed to cover those once-slim legs that had first so attracted him. How could he be so punished for such a pathetic mistake? Raymond wanted to ask the gods. How mature he had thought he was: how immature he had turned out to be. Divorce made sense, but it would have meant the end of his political ambitions: Yorkshire folk would not have considered selecting a divorced man. To be fair, it hadn’t all been a disaster: he had to admit that the locals adored her, and his parents seemed every bit as proud of Joyce as they did of their son. She mixed with the trade unionists and their frightful wives far better than he ever managed. He also had to acknowledge that Joyce had been a major factor in his winning the seat by over 10,000 votes. He wondered how she could sound so sincere the whole time: it never occurred to him that it was natural.

“Why don’t you buy yourself a new dress for Downing Street?” Raymond said as they rose from the breakfast table. She smiled: he had not volunteered such a suggestion for as long as she could remember. Joyce had been left with no illusions about her husband and his feelings for her, but hoped that eventually he would realize she could help him achieve his unspoken ambition.

On the night of the reception at Downing Street Joyce made every effort to look her best. She had spent the morning at Harvey Nichols searching for an outfit appropriate for the occasion, finally returning to a suit she had liked the moment she had walked in to the store. It was not the perfect fit but the sales assistant assured Joyce that “Modom looked quite sensational in it.” She only hoped that Raymond’s remarks would be half as flattering. By the time she reached home she realized she had nothing to match the unusual color.

Raymond was late returning from the Commons and was pleased to find Joyce ready when he leaped out of the bath. He bit back a remark about the incongruity of her shoes and new suit. As they drove toward Westminster he rehearsed the names of every member of the Cabinet with her, making Joyce repeat them as if she were a child.

The air was cool and crisp that night so Raymond parked his Sunbeam in New Palace Yard and they strolled across Whitehall together to No. 10. A solitary policeman stood guard at the door. Seeing Raymond approach, the officer banged the brass knocker once and the door was opened for the young member and his wife.

Raymond and Joyce stood awkwardly in the hall as if they were waiting outside a headmaster’s study. Eventually they were directed to the first floor. They walked slowly up the staircase, which turned out to be less grand than Raymond had anticipated, passing photographs of former Prime Ministers. “Too many Tories,” muttered Raymond as he passed Chamberlain, Churchill, Eden, Macmillan, and Home, with Attlee the only framed compensation.

At the top of the stairs stood Harold Wilson, pipe in mouth, waiting to welcome his guests. Raymond was about to introduce his wife when the Prime Minister said, “How are you, Joyce? I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Make it? I’ve been looking forward to the occasion all week.” Her frankness made Raymond wince; he failed to notice that it made Wilson chuckle.

Raymond chatted to the Prime Minister’s wife about the difficulty of getting poetry published until she turned away to greet the next guest. He then moved off into the drawing room and was soon talking to Cabinet ministers, trade union leaders, and their wives, always keeping a wary eye on Joyce, who seemed engrossed in conversation with the General Secretary of the Trades Union Congress.

Raymond moved on to the American Ambassador, who was telling Andrew Fraser how much he had enjoyed the Edinburgh Festival that summer. Raymond envied Fraser his relaxed clubbable manner and had already worked out that the Scotsman would be a formidable rival among his contemporaries.

“Good evening, Raymond,” said Andrew. “Do you know David Bruce?” he asked, as if they were old friends.

“No,” Raymond replied, rubbing his palm on his trousers before shaking hands. “Good evening, Your Excellency,” he said, glad to see Andrew slipping away. “I was interested to read Johnson’s latest communiqué on Vietnam and I must confess the escalation...”

Andrew had spotted the Minister of State for Scotland arriving and went over to chat to him.

“How are you, Andrew?” Hugh McKenzie asked.

“Never better.”

“And your father?”

“In great form.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said the minister, grinning. “He’s giving me a lot of trouble over the Highlands and Islands Development Board.”

“He’s a sound chap basically,” said Andrew, “even if his views are a little misguided.” They both laughed as a slight, attractive woman with long brown hair came up to the minister’s side. She wore a white silk blouse and a McKenzie tartan skirt.

“Do you know my daughter Alison?”

“No,” Andrew said, holding out his hand. “I’ve not had that pleasure.”

“I know who you are,” she said, in a slight lowland accent, her eyes flashing. “Andrew Fraser, the man who makes Campbells look trustworthy. The Tories’ secret mole.”

“It can’t be much of a secret if the Scottish Office know about it,” said Andrew.

A waiter, wearing the smartest dinner-jacket in the room, approached them carrying a silver tray of thinly-cut sandwiches.

“Would you care for a smoked salmon sandwich?” Alison asked mockingly.

“No, thank you. I gave them up with my Tory background. But beware — if you eat too many you won’t appreciate your dinner tonight.”

“I wasn’t thinking of having dinner.”

“Oh, I thought you might enjoy a bite at Sigie’s,” teased Andrew.

Alison hesitated, then said, “It’ll be the first time anyone’s picked me up at No. 10.”

“I hate to break with tradition,” said Andrew. “But why don’t I book a table for eight?”

“Is Sigie’s one of your aristocratic haunts?”

“Good heavens no, it’s far too good for that lot. Why don’t we leave in about fifteen minutes? I must have a word with one or two people first.”

“I’ll bet.” She grinned as she watched Fraser comb the room. His years as a Tory party fellow-traveler had taught Andrew all he needed to know about how to make the best use of a cocktail party. His trade union colleagues would never understand that it was not in pursuit of endless smoked salmon sandwiches drowned by whisky. When he arrived back at Alison McKenzie’s side she was chatting to Raymond Could about Johnson’s landslide victory at the polls.

“Are you trying to pick up my date?” asked Andrew.

Raymond laughed nervously and pushed his spectacles back up his nose. A moment later Andrew was guiding Alison toward the door to say their farewells, and Raymond, watching them, wondered if he would ever learn to be that relaxed. He looked around for Joyce: it might be wise not to be the last to leave.

Andrew was ushered discreetly to a corner table at Sigie’s Club and it became quickly evident to Alison that he had been there several times before. The waiters ran around him as if he were a Tory Cabinet minister, and she had to admit to herself that she enjoyed the experience. After an excellent dinner of roast beef that wasn’t burnt and a crème brûlèe that was they strolled over to Annabel’s where they danced until the early morning. Andrew drove Alison back to her Chelsea flat a little after two a.m.

“Care for a nightcap?” she asked casually.

“Daren’t,” he replied. “I’m making my maiden speech tomorrow.”

“So this maiden is to be rejected,” she said to his retreating back.

The House of Commons was well attended at five o’clock the following afternoon when Andrew rose to address his fellow members. The Speaker had allowed him to follow the front-bench contributions, an honor Andrew would not be granted again for some considerable time. His father and mother looked down over the railings from the Strangers’ Gallery as he informed the commoners that the Lord Provost of Edinburgh had spent a lifetime teaching him all he knew about the constituency he was now proud to represent. The Labour party chuckled at the Opposition’s obvious discomfort, but they abided by tradition and made no interruption during a maiden speech.

Andrew had chosen as his subject the question of whether Scotland should remain part of the United Kingdom despite the recent oil discoveries. He delivered a well-argued case, assuring members that he saw no future for his country as a tiny independent state. His rhetoric, and his relaxed turn of phrase, had members laughing on both sides of the House. When he came to the end of his argument, never having once referred to a note, he sat down to loud cheers from his own benches and generous acknowledgment from the Tory side. In his moment of glory he glanced up toward the Strangers’ Gallery. His father was leaning forward, following every word. To his surprise sitting in front of his mother on the benches reserved for distinguished visitors was Alison McKenzie, her arms folded on the balcony. He smiled.

Andrew’s success was considerably enhanced when later that afternoon another member from the Labour benches rose to address the House for the first time. Tom Carson cared nothing for convention and even less for keeping to tradition and made no attempt to avoid controversy in his maiden speech. He began with an attack on what he described as “the Establishment conspiracy,” pointing an accusing finger as much at the ministers on his own front bench as at those opposite him, describing them all as “puppets of the capitalist system.”

Members present in the Chamber restrained themselves from interrupting the scowling Liverpudlian, but the Speaker stirred several times as the accusing finger appeared to cross his path as well. He was painfully aware that the member from Liverpool Dockside was going to cause all sorts of problems if this was the way he intended to conduct himself in the House.

When Andrew left the Chamber three speeches later he went to look for Alison, but she had already left; so he took the members’ lift up to the Public Gallery and invited his parents to join him for tea in the Harcourt Rooms.

“The last time I had tea here was with Ainslie Munro...” Sir Duncan began.

“Then it may be a very long time before you’re invited again,” Andrew interrupted.

“That may depend on whom we select as Tory candidate to oppose you at the next election,” retorted his father.

Several members from both sides of the House came up one by one to congratulate Andrew on his speech. He thanked them all individually but kept glancing hopefully over his father’s shoulder; but Alison McKenzie did not appear.

After his parents had finally left to catch the last flight back to Edinburgh Andrew returned to the Chamber to hear Alison’s father summing up the debate on behalf of the Government. The Minister of State described Andrew’s contribution as one of the finest maiden speeches the House had heard in years. “Maiden it may have been but virginal it was not,” concluded Hugh McKenzie.

Once the debate was over and the usual ten o’clock division had been declared by the tellers Andrew left the Chamber. One final vote on a prayer detained members for a further forty-five minutes and Andrew found the tea room — the traditional haunt of the Labour party — as crowded as it had been earlier in the afternoon.

Members jostled for the remains of unappetizing-looking lettuce leaves that any self-respecting rabbit would have rejected, accompanied by blobs of plastic-covered sweating cheese, described optimistically on the billboard as salad. Andrew contented himself with a cup of Nescafé.

Raymond Gould sat alone, slumped in an armchair in the far corner of the tea room, apparently engrossed in a week-old copy of the New Statesman. He stared impassively as several of his colleagues went over to Andrew to congratulate him. His own maiden speech the previous week had not been as well received and he knew it. He believed just as passionately about war widows’ pensions as Andrew did about the future of Scotland but reading from a prepared manuscript he had been unable to make members hang on his every word. He consoled himself with the thought that Andrew would have to choose the subject for his next speech very carefully as the Opposition would no longer treat him with kid gloves.

Andrew was not concerning himself with such thoughts as he slipped into one of the many internal telephone booths and after checking in his diary dialed a London number. Alison was at home, washing her hair.

“Will it be dry by the time I arrive?”

“It’s very long,” she reminded him.

“Then I’ll have to drive slowly.”

When Andrew appeared on the Chelsea doorstep he was greeted by Alison in a housecoat, her newly dry hair falling down well below shoulder level.

“The victor come to claim his spoils?”

“No, only last night’s coffee,” he said.

“But won’t that keep you awake?”

“I certainly hope so.”

By the time Andrew left Alison’s home at eight the next morning he had already decided he wanted to see a lot more of Hugh McKenzie’s daughter. He returned to his own flat in Cheyne Walk, showered, and changed before making breakfast for himself and going over his mail. There were several more messages of congratulations including one from the Secretary of State for Scotland, while The Times and the Guardian carried brief but favorable comments.

Before leaving for the Commons Andrew checked over an amendment he wanted to move in committee that morning. When he had reworded his efforts several times he picked up his papers and headed off toward Westminster.

Arriving a little early for the ten-thirty committee meeting, Andrew found time to collect his mail from the Members’ Post Office just off the Central Lobby. He set off, head down, along the corridor toward the library, flicking through the envelopes to see if he recognized any familiar hand or official-looking missive that demanded to be opened immediately.

As he turned the corner he was surprised to find the House ticker-tape machine surrounded by Conservative members, including the man who had agreed to be his “pair” for voting purposes.

Andrew stared up at the tall figure of Charles Seymour, who, although standing on the fringe of the crowd, still found it possible to read the tapped-out message on the telex machine.

“What’s causing so much interest?” he asked, prodding Seymour’s elbow.

“Sir Alec has just announced the timetable that’ll be followed when we select the new Tory leader.”

“We all await with baited breath,” said Andrew.

“As well you might,” said Charles, ignoring the sarcasm, “since the next announcement will undoubtedly be his resignation. Then the real politics will begin.”

“Be sure you back the winner,” said Andrew, grinning.

Charles Seymour smiled knowingly but made no comment.

Chapter three

Charles Seymour drove his Daimler from the Commons to his father’s bank in the City. He still thought of Seymour’s of Cheapside as his father’s bank although for two generations the family had been only minority shareholders, with Charles himself in possession of a mere two percent of the stock. Nevertheless as his brother Rupert showed no desire in representing the family interests the two percent guaranteed Charles a place on the board and an income sufficient to ensure that his paltry parliamentary salary of £1,750 a year was adequately supplemented.

From the day Charles had first taken his place on the board of Seymour’s he had no doubt that the new chairman, Derek Spencer, considered him a dangerous rival. Spencer had lobbied to have Rupert replace his father on retirement and only because of Charles’s insistence had Spencer failed to move the old earl to his way of thinking.

When Charles went on to take his seat in Parliament Spencer at once raised the problem of his burdensome responsibilities at the House preventing him from carrying out his day-to-day duties for the board. However, Charles was able to convince a majority of his fellow directors of the advantages of having someone on the board at Westminster, although he knew that would cease if he was ever invited to be a minister.

As Charles left the Daimler in Seymour’s courtyard it amused him to consider that his parking space was worth twenty times the value of the car. The area at the front of Seymour’s was a relic of his great-grandfather’s day. The twelfth Earl of Bridgwater had insisted on an entrance large enough to allow a complete sweep for his coach and four. That conveyance had long disappeared, to be replaced by twelve car spaces for Seymour directors. The bank’s new management-conscious chairman, despite all his grammar school virtues, had never suggested the land be used for any other purpose.

The young girl seated at the reception desk abruptly stopped polishing her nails in time to say “Good morning, Mr. Charles,” as he came through the revolving doors and disappeared into a waiting lift. A few moments later Charles was seated behind a desk in his small oak-paneled office, a clean white memo pad in front of him. He pressed a button on the intercom and told his secretary that he did not want to be disturbed during the next hour.

Sixty minutes later the white pad had twelve names penciled on it, but ten already had lines drawn through them. Only the names of Reginald Maudling and Edward Heath remained.

Charles tore off the piece of paper and the indented sheet underneath and put them both through the shredder by the side of his desk. He tried to summon up some interest in the agenda for the bank’s weekly board meeting; only one item, item seven, seemed to be of any importance. Just before eleven, he gathered up his papers and headed toward the boardroom. Most of his colleagues were already seated when Derek Spencer called item number one as the boardroom clock chimed the hour.

During the ensuing predictable discussion on bank rates, the movement in metal prices, Eurobonds, and client investment policy Charles’s mind kept wandering back to the forthcoming leadership election and the importance of backing the winner if he were to be quickly promoted from the back benches.

By the time they reached item seven on the agenda Charles had made up his mind. Derek Spencer opened a discussion on the proposed loans to Mexico and Poland, and most of the board members agreed with him that the bank should participate in one but not risk both.

Cherles’s thoughts, however, were not in Mexico City or Warsaw. They were far nearer home and when the chairman called for a vote, Charles didn’t register.

“Mexico or Poland, Charles. Which of the two do you favor?”

“Heath,” he replied.

“I beg your pardon,” said Derek Spencer.

Charles snapped back from Westminster to Cheapside to find everyone around the boardroom table staring at him. With the air of a man who had been giving the matter considerable thought Charles said firmly, “Mexico,” and added, “The great difference between the two countries can best be gauged by their attitudes to repayment. Mexico might not want to repay, but Poland won’t be able to, so why not limit our risks and back Mexico? If it comes to litigation I’d prefer to be against someone who won’t pay rather than someone who can’t.” The older members round the table nodded in agreement; the right son of Bridgwater was sitting on the board.

When the meeting was over Charles joined his colleagues for lunch in the directors’ dining room. On the walls hung two Hogarths, a Brueghel, a Goya, and a Rembrandt that could distract even the most indulgent gourmet: just another reminder of his great-grandfather’s ability to select winners. Charles did not wait to make a decision between the Cheddar and the Stilton as he wanted to be back in the Commons for question time.

On arrival at the House he immediately made his way to the smoking room, long regarded by the Tories as their preserve. There in the deep leather armchairs and cigar-laden atmosphere the talk was entirely of who would be Sir Alec’s successor.

Charles could not avoid overhearing Pimkin’s high-pitched voice. “As Edward Heath is Shadow Chancellor while we debate the Finance Bill on the floor of the House, it is he who is bound to be the center of attention.”

Later that afternoon Charles returned to the Commons Chamber. He wanted to observe Heath and his Shadow team deal with the Government’s amendments one by one.

He was about to leave the Chamber when Raymond Could rose to move an amendment. Charles listened with grudging admiration as Raymond’s intellectual grasp and force of argument easily compensated for his lack of oratorial skill. Although Gould was a cut above the rest of his intake on the Labour benches he didn’t frighten Charles. Twelve generations of shrewd business acumen had kept large parts of Leeds in the hands of the Bridgwater family without the likes of Raymond Gould even being aware of it.

Charles took supper in the Members’ Dining Room that night and sat at the large table in the center of the room frequented by Tory back-benchers. There was only one topic of conversation and as the same two names kept emerging it was obvious that it was going to be a very close run thing.

When Charles arrived back at his Eaton Square home after the ten o’clock division Fiona was already tucked up in bed reading Philip Larkin’s The Whitsum Weddings.

“They let you out early tonight.”

“Not too bad,” said Charles, and began regaling her with how he had spent his day, before disappearing into the bathroom.

If Charles imagined he was cunning, his wife, Lady Fiona, only daughter of the Duke of Falkirk, was in a different league. She and Charles had been selected for each other at an early age and neither had questioned or doubted the wisdom of the choice. Although Charles had squired numerous girlfriends before their marriage in between he had always assumed he would return to Fiona. Charles’s grandfather always maintained that the aristocracy was becoming far too lax and sentimental about marriage. “Women,” he declared, “are for bearing children and ensuring a continuation of the male line.” The old earl became even more staid in his convictions when he was made aware that Rupert showed little interest in the opposite sex, and was rarely to be found in the company of women. Fiona would never have dreamed of disagreeing with the old man to his face as she was determined that it would be a son of hers that would inherit the earldom. But despite enthusiastic and then contrived efforts Charles seemed unable to sire an heir. Fiona was later assured by a Harley Street physician that there was no reason she could not bear children. The specialist had suggested that perhaps her husband pay the clinic a visit. She shook her head, knowing Charles would dismiss such an idea out of hand, and never mentioned the subject to anyone again.

Fiona spent a considerable amount of her spare time in their Sussex Downs constituency furthering Charles’s political career. She had learned to live with the fact that theirs was not destined to be a romantic marriage and resigned herself to its other advantages. Although many men confessed covertly and overtly that they found the tall elegant lady desirable she either ignored their overtures or pretended not to notice them.

By the time Charles returned from the bathroom in his blue silk pajamas Fiona had formed a plan, but first she needed some questions answered.

“Whom do you favor?”

“I’d like Sir Alec to carry on: after all, the Homes have been friends of our two families for over 400 years.”

“But that’s a non-starter,” said Fiona. “Everyone knows Alec is on the way out.”

“I agree, and that’s exactly why I spent the entire afternoon observing the worthwhile candidates.”

“Did you come to any serious conclusions?” Fiona asked.

“Heath and Maudling are out on their own, though to be honest I’ve never had a conversation with either of them that lasted for more than five minutes.”

“In that case we must turn a disadvantage into an advantage.”

“What do you mean, old girl?” Charles asked as he climbed into bed beside his wife.

“Think back. When you were President of Pop at Eton, could you have put a name to any of the first-year boys?”

“Certainly not,” said Charles.

“Exactly. And I’d be willing to bet that neither Heath nor Maudling could put a name to twenty of the new intake on the Tory benches.”

“Where are you leading me, Lady Macbeth?”

“No bloody hands will be needed for this killing. Simply, having chosen your Duncan you volunteer to organize the new intake for him. If he becomes leader, he’s bound to feel it would be appropriate to select one or two new faces for his team.”

“You could be right.”

“Well, let’s sleep on it,” said Fiona, turning out the light on her side of the bed.

Charles didn’t sleep on it but lay restless most of the night turning over in his mind what she had said. When Fiona awoke the next morning she carried on the conversation as if there had been no break in between. “Do you have to be rushed into a decision?”

“No, but if I let it drift I could be accused of jumping on the bandwagon and then I would have lost my chance to be seen as a leader among the new intake.”

“Better still,” she continued, “before the man you choose announces he is a candidate, demand that he stand on behalf of the new members.”

“Clever,” said Charles.

“Whom have you decided on?”

“Heath,” Charles replied without hesitation.

“I’ll back your political judgment,” said Fiona. “Just trust me when it comes to tactics. First, we compose a letter.”

In dressing gowns, on the floor at the end of the bed, the two elegant figures drafted and redrafted a note to Edward Heath. At nine-thirty it was finally composed and sent round by hand to his rooms in Albany.

The next morning Charles was invited to the small, bachelor flat for coffee. They talked for over an hour and later, as the two men stood below a Piper landscape in the drawing room, the deal was struck.

Charles thought Sir Alec would announce his resignation in the late summer which would give him eight to ten weeks to carry out a campaign. Fiona typed out a list of all the new members and during the next eight weeks every one of them was invited to their Eaton Square flat for drinks. Fiona was subtle enough to see that members of the Lower House were outnumbered by other guests, often from the House of Lords. Heath managed to escape from his front-bench duties on the Finance Bill to spend at least an hour with the Seymours once a week. As the day of Sir Alec Douglas-Home’s resignation drew nearer Charles realized the leadership result could be almost as important to him as it would be to Heath, but he also remained confident that he had carried out his plan in a subtle and discreet way. He would have been willing to place a wager that no one other than Edward Heath had worked out how deeply he was involved.

One man who attended the second of Fiona’s soirees saw exactly what was going on. While many of the guests spent their time admiring the Seymour art collection Simon Kerslake kept a wary eye on his host and hostess. Kerslake was not convinced that Edward Heath would win the forthcoming election and felt confident that Reginald Maudling would turn out to be the party’s natural choice. Maudling was, after all, Shadow Foreign Secretary, a former Chancellor, and far senior to Heath. More important, he was a married man. Simon doubted the Tories would ever pick a bachelor to lead them.

As soon as Kerslake had left the Seymours he jumped into a taxi and returned immediately to the Commons. He found Reginald Maudling in the Members’ Dining Room seated at the table frequented only by the Shadow Cabinet. He waited until Maudling had finished his meal before asking if they could have a few moments alone. The tall shambling figure — not altogether certain of the name of the new member — leaned over and invited Simon to join him for a drink in his room.

Maudling listened intently to all the enthusiastic young man had to say and accepted the judgment of the well-informed member without question. It was agreed that Simon should try to counter the Seymour campaign and report back his results twice a week.

While Seymour could call on all the powers and influence of his Etonian background, Kerslake could rely on the knowledge and arm-twisting skills gained from his time as President of the Oxford Union. Simon weighed up the advantages and disadvantages he possessed. He did not own a palatial home in Eaton Square in which Turners, Constables, and Holbeins were not to be found in books but on the walls. He also lacked a glamorous society wife. Simon lived in a small house in Beaufort Street in Chelsea and Elizabeth was a gynecologist at St. Mary’s Hospital, Paddington. Although Elizabeth gave Simon’s political aspirations her full backing she still considered her own career every bit as important, an opinion with which Simon concurred. The local Coventry press had on several occasions recalled in their columns how Elizabeth had left her three-day-old child to help perform a Caesarian section on a mother in the adjoining ward and, two years later, had to be dragged off night duty just as she went into labor with their second child.

This independence of character was one of the reasons Simon had admired Elizabeth when they first met, but he realized she was no match for Lady Fiona Seymour as a hostess and he never wanted her to be. He despised pushy political wives.

Simon spent the following days trying to work out the certain Maudling and certain Heath supporters, although many members claimed they would favor both candidates, according to who asked them. These he listed as doubtfuls. When Enoch Powell threw his cap into the ring Simon could not find a single new member other than Alec Pimkin who openly supported him. That left forty members from the new intake who still had to be followed up. He estimated twelve certain Heath, eleven certain Maudling, and one Powell, leaving sixteen undecided. As the day of the election drew nearer it became obvious that few of the remaining sixteen actually knew either candidate well, and were still not sure for whom they should vote.

Simon realized that he could not invite them all round to Beaufort Street between Elizabeth’s ward duties, so he would have to go to them. During the last eight weeks he accompanied his chosen leader as he addressed the party faithfuls in twenty-three new members’ constituencies. Simon traveled from Bodmin to Glasgow, from Penrith to Great Yarmouth, briefing Maudling studiously before every meeting.

Gradually it became obvious to everyone that Charles Seymour and Simon Kerslake were the chosen lieutenants among the new intake. Some members resented the whispered confidences at the Eaton Square cocktail parties, or the discovery that Simon Kerslake had visited their constituencies under false pretenses, while others were simply envious of the reward that would inevitably be heaped on the victor.

“But why do you support Maudling?” Elizabeth had asked him one evening over dinner.

“Reggie has a great deal more experience of Government than Heath — and in any case he’s more caring about those around him.”

“But Heath appears to be so much more professional,” Elizabeth insisted, pouring her husband a glass of wine.

“That may well be the case, but the British have always preferred good amateurs to preside over their affairs.”

“If you believe all that stuff about amateurs why become so involved yourself?”

Simon considered her question for some time before answering. “Because I don’t come from the type of background that automatically commands the center of the Tory stage,” he admitted.

“Neither does Heath,” commented Elizabeth dryly.

Although everyone inside and outside of Parliament knew it could not be long before Sir Alec formally announced his resignation it did not become official until 22 July 1965, when he addressed the 1922 Committee of Tory back-benchers.

The date chosen for the leadership election was just five days later. During that time Simon Kerslake and Charles Seymour worked almost round the clock but, despite many national papers’ commissioned polls, columns of newsprint offering statistics and opinions, no one seemed certain of the outcome, other than to predict that Powell would come third.

Charles and Simon began avoiding each other and Fiona started referring to Kerslake, first in private then in public, as “that pushy self-made man.” She stopped using the expression when Alec Pimkin asked in all innocence whether she was referring to Edward Heath.

On the morning of the secret ballot Simon and Charles voted early and spent the rest of the day pacing the corridors of the Commons trying to assess the result. By lunchtime they were both outwardly exuberant, while inwardly despondent.

At two-fifteen they were seated in the large committee room to hear the chairman of the 1922 Committee make the historic announcement:

“The result of the first election for leader of the Conservative parliamentary party,” said Sir William Anstruther-Gray, “is as follows:

Edward Heath 150 votes

Reginald Maudling 133 votes

Enoch Powell 15 votes.”

An hour later Reginald Maudling, who had been lunching in the City, telephoned Heath to say he would be happy to serve under him as the new leader. Charles and Fiona opened a bottle of Krug while Simon took Elizabeth to the Old Vic to see The Royal Hunt of the Sun. He slept the entire way through Robert Stephens’s brilliant performance, before Elizabeth drove him home.

“How come you didn’t fall asleep? After all, you’ve been just as busy as I have the last few weeks,” Simon asked.

Elizabeth smiled. “It was my turn to want to be involved with what was happening on the center of the stage.”

Two weeks later, on 4 August, Edward Heath announced his Shadow team. Reggie Maudling was to be deputy leader. Sir Alec accepted the Foreign Office brief while Powell went to Defense. Charles Seymour received an invitation to join the Housing and Local Government team as its junior spokesman, thus becoming the first of the new intake to be given front-bench responsibilities.

Simon Kerslake received a handwritten letter from Reggie Maudling thanking him for his valiant efforts.