First Among Equals

Chapter sixteen

“His diary looks rather full at the moment, Mr. Charles.”

“Well, as soon as it’s convenient,” Charles replied over the phone. He held on as he heard the pages being turned.

“12 March at ten-thirty, Mr. Charles?”

“But that’s nearly a fortnight away,” he said, irritated.

“Mr. Spencer has only just returned from the States and—”

“How about a lunch, then — at my club?” Charles interrupted.

“That couldn’t be until after 19 March.”

“Very well, then,” said Charles. “12 March, at ten-thirty.”

During the fourteen-day wait Charles had ample time to become frustrated by his seemingly aimless role in Opposition. No car came to pick him up and whisk him away to an office where real work had to be done. Worse, no one sought his opinion any longer on matters that affected the nation. He was going through a sharp bout of what is known as “ex-ministers’ blues.”

He was relieved when the day for the appointment with Derek Spencer at last came round. But although he arrived on time he was kept waiting for ten minutes before the chairman’s secretary took him through.

“Good to see you after so long,” said Spencer, coming round his desk to greet him. “It must be nearly six years since you’ve visited the bank.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Charles. “But looking around the old place it feels like yesterday. You’ve been fully occupied, no doubt?”

“Like a Cabinet minister, but I hope with better results.”

They both laughed.

“Of course I’ve kept in touch with what’s been happening at the bank.”

“Have you?” said Spencer.

“Yes, I’ve read all the reports you’ve sent out over the past years, not to mention the Financial Times’s coverage.”

“I hope you feel we’ve progressed satisfactorily in your absence.”

“Oh. Yes,” said Charles, still standing. “Very impressive.”

“Well, now what can I do for you?” asked the chairman, returning to his seat.

“Simple enough,” said Charles, finally taking an unoffered chair. “I wish to be reinstated on the board.”

There was a long silence.

“Well, it’s not quite that easy, Charles. I’ve just recently appointed two new directors and...”

“Of course it’s that easy,” said Charles, his tone changing. “You have only to propose my name at the next meeting and it will go through, especially as you haven’t a member of the family on the board at the present time.”

“We have, as a matter of fact. Your brother the Earl of Bridgwater has become a non-executive director.”

“What? Rupert never told me,” said Charles. “Neither did you.”

“True, but things have changed since—”

“Nothing has changed except my estimation of the value of your word,” said Charles, suddenly realizing that Spencer had never intended he should return to the board. “You gave me your assurance—”

“I won’t be spoken to like this in my own office.”

“If you’re not careful, the next place I shall do it will be in your boardroom. Now, will you honor your undertaking or not?”

“I don’t have to listen to threats from you, Seymour. Get out of my office before I have you removed. I can assure you that you will never sit on the board again as long as I’m chairman.”

Charles turned and marched out, slamming the door as he left. He wasn’t sure with whom to discuss the problem and returned immediately to Eaton Square to consider a plan of campaign.

“What brings you home in the middle of the afternoon?” asked Fiona.

Charles hesitated, considered the question, and then joined his wife in the kitchen and told her everything that had happened at the bank. Fiona continued to grate some cheese as she listened to her husband.

“Well, one thing is certain,” she said, not having spoken for several minutes but delighted that Charles had confided in her. “After that fracas, you can’t both be on the board.”

“So what do you think I ought to do, old girl?”

Fiona smiled; it was the first time he had called her that for nearly two years. “Every man has his secrets,” she said. “I wonder what Mr. Spencer’s are?”

“He’s such a dull middle-class fellow I doubt if—”

“I’ve just had a letter from Seymour’s Bank,” interrupted Fiona.

“What about?”

“Only a shareholder’s circular. It seems Margaret Trubshaw is retiring after twelve years as the board secretary. Rumor has it she wanted to do five more years, but the chairman has someone else in mind. I think I might have lunch with her.”

Charles returned his wife’s smile.

Andrew’s appointment as Minister of State at the Home Office came as no surprise to anyone except his three-year-old son, who quickly discovered how to empty any red boxes that were left unlocked, refilling them with marbles or sweets, and even managing to fit a football into one. As Robert didn’t fully understand “For Your Eyes Only,” it didn’t seem to make a lot of difference that Cabinet committee papers were sometimes found glued together with old bubble gum.

“Can you remove that latest stain in the red box?”

“Good heavens, what caused it?” asked Louise, staring down at a jelly-like blob.

“Frog spawn,” said Andrew, grinning.

“He’s a brainwashed Russian spy,” warned Louise, “with a mental age about the same as most of your colleagues in the House. Yes, I’ll remove the stain if you sit down and write that letter.”

Andrew nodded his agreement.

Among the many letters of commiseration Simon received when he did not return to the House was one from Andrew Fraser. Simon could imagine him sitting in his old office and implementing the decisions he had been involved in making just a few weeks before.

There was also a letter from Ronnie Nethercote inviting him to return to the board of Nethercote and Company at £5,000 a year, which even Elizabeth acknowledged as a generous gesture.

It was not long before Ronnie Nethercote had made Simon an executive director of the company. Simon enjoyed negotiating with the trade unions at a level he had not experienced before. Ronnie made it clear how he would have dealt with the “Commie bastards” given half a chance. “Lock them all up until they learn to do a day’s work.”

“You would have lasted about a week in the House of Commons,” Simon told him.

“After a week with those windbags I’d have been only too happy to return to the real world.”

Simon smiled. Ronnie, he felt, was like so many others — imagining all Members of Parliament were unemployable except the one they knew.

Raymond waited until the last Government appointment was announced before he finally gave up any hope of a job. Several leading political journalists pointed out that he had been left on the back benches while lesser men had been given Government posts but it was scant comfort. Reluctantly he returned to Lincoln’s Inn to continue his practice at the bar.

Harold Wilson, starting his third administration, made it clear that he would govern as long as possible before calling an election. But as he did not have an overall majority in the House few members believed that he could hold out for more than a matter of months.

Fiona returned home after her lunch with Miss Trubshaw with a large Cheshire Cat grin on her face. It remained firmly in place during the hours she had to wait for Charles to get back from the Commons after the last division.

“You look pleased with yourself,” said Charles, shaking out his umbrella before closing the front door. His wife stood in the hallway, her arms crossed.

“How has your day been?” she asked.

“So-so,” said Charles, wanting to hear the news. “But what about you?”

“Oh, pleasant enough. I had coffee with your mother this morning. She seems very well. A little cold in the head, otherwise—”

‘To hell with my mother. How did your lunch with Miss Trubshaw go?”

“I wondered how long it would take you to get round to that.”

She continued to wait just as long as it took for them to walk into the drawing room and sit down. “After seventeen years as secretary to your father and twelve years as secretary to the board there isn’t much Miss Trubshaw doesn’t know about Seymour’s or its present chairman,” Fiona began.

“So what did you discover?”

“Which do you want to hear about first, the name of his mistress or the number of his Swiss bank account?”

Fiona revealed everything she had learned over her two-hour lunch, explaining that Miss Trubshaw usually only drank fortified wine but on this occasion she had downed most of a vintage bottle of Pommard. Charles’s smile grew wider and wider as each fact came pouring out. To Fiona he looked like a boy who has been given a box of chocolates and keeps discovering another layer underneath.

“Well done, old girl,” he said when she had come to the end of her tale. “But how do I get all the proof I need?”

“I’ve made a deal with our Miss Trubshaw.”

“You’ve what?”

“A deal. With Miss Trubshaw. You get the proof if she remains as secretary to the board for a further five years, and no loss of benefit to her pension.”

“Is that all she wants?” said Charles, guardedly.

“And the price of another lunch at the Savoy Grill when you’re invited back on the board.”

Unlike many of his Labour colleagues Raymond now enjoyed dressing up in white tie and tails and mixing with London society. An invitation to the annual bankers’ banquet at the Guildhall was no exception. The Prime Minister was the guest of honor and Raymond wondered if he would drop a hint as to how long he expected the parliamentary session to last before he felt he had to call an election.

At the pre-dinner drinks Raymond had a quick word with the Lord Mayor before becoming involved in a conversation with a circuit court judge on the problems of the parity of sentencing.

When dinner was announced Raymond found his seat on one of the long fingers stretching away from the top table. He checked his place card. Raymond Gould QC, MP. On his right was the chairman of Chloride, Michael Edwardes, and on his left an American banker who had just taken up an appointment in the City.

Raymond found Michael Edwardes’s views on how the Prime Minister should tackle the nationalized industries fascinating, but he devoted far more of his attention to the Euro Bond manager from Chase Manhattan. She must have been thirty, Raymond decided, if only because of her elevated position at the bank and her claim to have been an undergraduate at Wellesley at the time of Kennedy’s death. He would have put Kate Garthwaite at far younger and was not surprised to learn she played tennis in the summer and swam every day during the winter — to keep her weight down, she confided. She had a warm, oval face, and her dark hair was cut in what Raymond thought was a Mary Quant style. Her nose turned up slightly at the end and would have cost a lot of money for a plastic surgeon to reproduce. There was no chance of seeing her legs as they were covered by a long dress, but what he could see left Raymond more than interested.

“I see there’s an ‘MP’ behind your name, Mr. Gould. May I ask which party you represent?” she asked, in an accent heard more often in Boston.

“I’m a Socialist, Mrs. Garthwaite. Where do your sympathies lie on this occasion?”

“I would have voted Labour at the last election if I had been qualified,” she declared.

“Should I be surprised?” he teased.

“You certainly should. My ex-husband is a Republican congressman.”

He was about to ask his next question when the toastmaster called for silence. For the first time Raymond turned his eyes to the top table and the Prime Minister. Harold Wilson’s speech stuck firmly to economic problems and the role of a Labour Government in the City and gave no clue as to the timing of the next election. Nevertheless, Raymond considered it a worthwhile evening. He had made a useful contact with the chairman of a large public company. And he had acquired Kate’s telephone number.

The chairman of Seymour, reluctantly agreed to see him a second time, but it was obvious from the moment Charles walked in when no hand was proffered that Derek Spencer intended it to be a short interview.

“I thought I ought to see you personally,” said Charles as he settled back in the comfortable leather chair and slowly lit a cigarette, “rather than raise my query at the AGM next month.”

The first sign of apprehension began to show on the chairman’s face, but he said nothing.

“I’m rather keen to discover why the bank should pay out a monthly check of £400 to an employee called Miss Janet Darrow, whom I have never come across, although it appears she has been on the payroll for over five years. The checks, it seems, have been going to a branch of Lloyds in Kensington.”

Derek Spencer’s face became flushed.

“What I am at a loss to discover,” continued Charles after he had inhaled deeply, “is what services Miss Darrow has been supplying to the bank. They must be quite impressive to have earned her £25,000 over the last five years. I appreciate that this is a small amount when you consider the bank’s turnover of 123 million last year, but my grandfather instilled in me at an early age the belief that if one took care of the pennies the pounds would take care of themselves.”

Still Derek Spencer said nothing, although beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead. Suddenly Charles’s tone changed. “If I find I am not a member of the board by the time of the Annual General Meeting I feel it will be my duty to point out this slight discrepancy in the bank’s accounts to the other shareholders present.”

“You’re a bastard, Seymour,” the chairman said quietly.

“Now that is not accurate. I am the second son of the former chairman of this bank and I bear a striking resemblance to my father, although everyone says I have my mother’s eyes.”

“What’s the deal?”

“No deal. You will merely keep to your original agreement and see that I am reinstated on the board before the AGM. You will also cease any further payments to Miss Janet Darrow immediately.”

“If I agree, will you swear never to mention this matter to anyone again?”

“I will. And, unlike you, I am in the habit of keeping my word.”

Charles rose from his chair, leaned over the desk, and stubbed out his cigarette in the chairman’s ashtray.

Andrew Fraser was surprised when he heard that Jock McPherson wanted to see him. The two men had never been on good terms since McPherson had failed to be elected to the Scottish Labour Party Executive Committee and had then left the party to stand against him at Edinburgh Carton Since McPherson had switched his allegiance they had barely been on speaking terms. However, Andrew realized it would be foolish not to see him after the SNP’s sweeping successes in the election.

Andrew was even more surprised when McPherson asked if all seven SNP Members of Parliament could also attend the meeting, not in Andrew’s office but somewhere private. He agreed, even more mystified.

McPherson and his band of renegade Scots arrived together at Cheyne Walk, looking as though they had already held a meeting between themselves. Andrew offered them a variety of seats, including the dining room chairs, a pouffe, and even the kitchen stool, apologizing that his London flat had never been intended to accommodate nine men in the drawing room.

While the men settled themselves Andrew remained standing by the mantelpiece, facing Jock McPherson who had obviously been chosen to act as their spokesman.

“I’ll get straight to the point,” McPherson began. “We want you to fight under the SNP banner at the next election.”

Andrew tried not to show his disbelief, and began, “I don’t feel...”

“Hear me out,” said McPherson, raising his massive palms. “We want you to contest the Edinburgh Carlton seat not just as a Scottish Nationalist candidate but as leader of the party.”

Andrew still couldn’t believe what he was hearing but remained silent.

“We’re convinced you’ll) lose your seat in any case if you stand as a Socialist,” McPherson continued, “but we realize that there are many people in Scotland who, whatever their political views, admire what you have achieved in the nine years you have been in the House. After all, man, you were brought up and educated in Edinburgh. With you as leader, we believe we could capture forty to fifty of the seventy-one seats in Scotland. And I may add that your own party is moving inexorably to the left, a state of affairs that I can’t believe you are altogether happy about.”

Andrew still made no comment. He listened as each one of the MPs put his own view, which became predictable long before the last one had spoken. Every Scottish tone from a Highland lilt to a Glasgow growl was represented in the voices. It became clear that they had given the matter considerable thought and were obviously sincere. “I am very flattered, gentlemen,” he began when the last one had said his piece. “And I assure you I will give your offer my serious consideration.”

“Thank you,” said McPherson. They all stood up like clan leaders in the presence of a new chief.

“We’ll wait to hear from you then,” said McPherson. One by one they shook hands with their host before filing out.

As soon as they had left Andrew went straight into the kitchen where Robert was still waiting impatiently to play football before going to bed.

“In a moment, in a moment,” he said in response to his son’s noisy demands. “I’ll join you in the garden.”

“And what did that lot want?” inquired Louise, as she continued to peel the potatoes.

Andrew went over the details of their proposition.

“And how did you respond?”

“I didn’t. I shall wait a week and then decline as gracefully as possible.”

“What made you decide against the offer so quickly?”

“I don’t like being told by Jock McPherson, or anyone else for that matter, that I will lose my seat at the next election if I don’t fall in with their plans.” He headed toward the kitchen door. “I’ll be back to the red box as soon as I’ve scored a couple of goals against MacPele.” A moment later he had joined Robert in the garden.

“Now listen, clever boots, I’m going to teach you how to feint a pass so that your opponent goes one way while you go the other.”

“Sounds just like politics to me,” muttered Louise, watching them out of the kitchen window.

Fiona checked the wording and nodded. Short and to the point. “Shall I post it?”

“Yes, pleas,” said Charles as the phone rang.

He picked it up. “730-9712. Charles Seymour speaking.”

“Oh, hello, Charles. It’s Simon Kerslake.”

“Hello, Simon,” said Charles, trying to sound pleased to hear from his former colleague. “What’s it like out there in the real world?”

“Not much fun, which is exactly why I’m phoning. I’ve been short-listed for Pucklebridge, Sir Michael Harbour-Baker’s seat. He’s nearly seventy and has decided not to stand again at the next election. As his constituency touches the south border of yours, I thought you might be able to put in a word for me again.”

“Delighted,” said Charles. “I’ll speak to the chairman tonight. You can rely on me, and good luck. It would be nice to have you back in the House.”

Simon gave him his home number which Charles repeated slowly, as if he were writing it down.

“I’ll be in touch,” said Charles.

“I really appreciate your help.”

Simon put down the phone.

Elizabeth looked up from her copy of The Lancet.

“I don’t trust that man,” she said.

“A woman’s intuition again?” said Simon, smiling. “You were wrong about Ronnie Nethercote.”

“That’s yet to be proved.”

It was several days before Kate Garthwaite agreed to see Raymond again. And when she eventually joined him for dinner at the House she was not overwhelmed or flattered and she certainly didn’t hang on his every word.

She was lively, fun, intelligent, and well informed and they began to see each other regularly. As the months passed Raymond found himself missing her at weekends when he was in Leeds with Joyce. Kate enjoyed her independence and made none of the demands on him that Stephanie had, never once suggesting he spend more time with her or that she might leave clothes behind in the flat.

Raymond sipped his coffee. “That was a memorable meal,” he said, falling back into the sofa.

“Only by the standards of the House of Commons,” replied Kate.

Raymond put an arm round her shoulder before kissing her gently on the lips.

“What! Rampant sex as well as cheap Beaujolais?” she exclaimed, stretching over and pouring herself some more coffee.

“I wish you wouldn’t always make a joke of our relationship,” said Raymond, stroking the back of her hair.

“I have to,” said Kate quietly.

“Why?” Raymond turned to face her.

“Because I’m frightened of what might happen if I take it seriously”

Raymond leaned over and kissed her again. “Don’t be frightened. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in my whole life.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” said Kate, turning away.

Charles sat through the Annual General Meeting in silence. The chairman made his report for the year ending March 1974 before welcoming two new directors to the board and the return of Charles Seymour.

There were several questions from the floor which Derek Spencer had no trouble in handling. As Charles had promised, there was not even a hint of Miss Janet Darrow. Miss Trubshaw had let Fiona know that the payment had been stopped and also mentioned that she was still worried that her contract was coming to an end on I July.

When the chairman brought the AGM to a close Charles asked courteously if he could spare him a moment.

“Of course,” said Spencer, looking relieved that the meeting had gone through without a hitch. “What can I do for you?”

“I think it might be wiser to talk in the privacy of your office.”

The chairman glanced at him sharply but led him back to his room.

Charles settled himself comfortably in the leather chair once more and removed some papers from his inside pocket. Peering down at them he asked, “What does BX41207122, Bank Rombert, Zurich, mean to you?”

“You said you would never mention—”

“Miss Darrow,” said Charles. “And I shall keep my word. But now, as a director of the bank, I am trying to find out what BX41207122 means to you?”

“You know damn well what it means,” said the chairman, banging his clenched fist on the desk.

“I know it’s your private” — Charles emphasized the last word — “account in Zurich.”

“You could never prove anything,” said Derek Spencer defiantly.

“I agree with you, but what I am able to prove,” said Charles, shuffling through the papers that were resting on his lap, “is that you have been using Seymour’s money to do private deals, leaving the profit in your Zurich account without informing the board.”

“I’ve done nothing that will harm the bank, and you know it.”

“I know the money has been returned with interest, and I could never prove the bank had suffered any loss. Nevertheless, the board might take a dim view of your activities remembering they pay you £40,000 a year to make profits for the bank, not for yourself.”

“When they saw all the figures they would at worst rap me over the knuckles.”

“I doubt if the Director of Public Prosecutions would take the same lenient attitude if he saw these documents,” said Charles, holding up the papers that had been resting on his lap.

“You’d ruin the bank’s name.”

“And you would probably spend the next ten years in jail. If, however, you did get away with it you would be finished in the City, and by the time your legal fees had been paid there wouldn’t be much left of that nest-egg in Zurich.”

“So what do you want this time?” demanded Spencer, sounding exasperated.

“Your job,” said Charles.

“My job?” said Spencer in disbelief. “Do you imagine because you’ve been a junior minister you’re capable of running a successful merchant bank?” he added scornfully.

“I didn’t say I would run it. I can buy a competent chief executive to do that.”

“Then what will you be doing?”

“I shall be the chairman of Seymour’s which will convince City institutions that we wish to continue in the traditions of generations of my family.”

“You’re bluffing,” stammered Spencer.

“If you are still in this building in twenty-four hours’ time,” said Charles, “I shall send these to the DPP.”

There was a long silence.

“If I agreed,” said Spencer at last, “I would expect two years’ salary as compensation.”

“One year,” said Charles. Spencer hesitated, then nodded slowly. Charles rose to his feet and put the papers resting on his lap back into his inside pocket.

They consisted of nothing more than the morning mail from Sussex Downs.

Simon felt the interview had gone well but Elizabeth was not so sure. They sat huddled in a room with five other candidates and their wives, patiently waiting.

He thought back to his answers, and to the eight men and four women on the committee.

“You must admit it’s the most ideal seat I’ve been considered for,” said Simon.

“Yes, but the chairman kept eyeing you suspiciously.”

“But Millburn mentioned that he had been at Eton with Charles Seymour.”

“That’s what worries me,” whispered Elizabeth.

“A 15,000 majority at the last election and only forty minutes from London. We could even buy a little cottage...”

“If they invite you to represent them.”

“At least this time you were able to tell them you would be willing to live in the constituency.”

“So would anyone in their right mind,” said Elizabeth.

The chairman came out and asked if Mr. and Mrs. Kerslake would be kind enough to return once more to see the committee.

Oh, God, thought Simon. What else can they want to know?

“It’s too near London to be my fault this time,” chuckled Elizabeth.

The committee sat and stared at them with long faces.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the chairman. “After our lengthy deliberations, I formally propose that Mr. Simon Kerslake be invited to contest Pucklebridge at the next election. Those in favor...?”

All twelve hands went up.

“Those against...?”

“Carried unanimously,” said the chairman. He then turned to Simon. “Do you wish to address your committee?”

The prospective Conservative Member of Parliament for Pucklebridge rose. They all waited expectantly.

“I don’t know what to say, except that I’m very happy and honored and I can’t wait for a general election.”

They all laughed and came forward and surrounded them. Elizabeth dried her eyes before anyone reached her.

About an hour later the chairman accompanied Simon and Elizabeth back to their car and bade them good night. Simon wound down his window.

“I knew you were the right man,” Millburn said, “as soon as Charles Seymour phoned” — Simon smiled — “and warned me to avoid you like the plague.”

“Could you tell Miss Trubshaw to come in?” Charles asked his secretary.

Margaret Trubshaw arrived a few moments later and remained standing in front of his desk. She couldn’t help but notice the change of furniture in the room. The modern Conran suite had been replaced by a leather clublike sofa. Only the picture of the eleventh Earl of Bridgwater remained in place.

“Miss Trubshaw,” began Charles, “since Mr. Spencer has felt it necessary to resign so suddenly I think it important for the bank to keep some continuity now that I’m taking over as chairman.”

Miss Trubshaw stood like a Greek statue, her hands hidden in the sleeves of her dress.

“With that in mind, the board has decided to extend your contract with the bank for a further five years. Naturally, there will be no loss in your pension rights.”

“Thank you, Mr. Charles.”

“Thank you, Miss Trubshaw.”

Miss Trubshaw almost bowed as she left the room.

“And Miss Trubshaw?”

“Yes, Mr. Charles,” she said, holding on to the door knob.

“I believe my wife is expecting a call from you. Something about inviting you to lunch at the Savoy Grill.”

Chapter seventeen

“A blue shirt,” said Raymond, looking at the Turnbull and Asser label with suspicion. “A blue shirt,” he repeated.

“A fortieth-birthday present,” shouted Kate from the kitchen.

I shall never wear it, he thought, and smiled to himself.

“And what’s more, you’ll wear it,” she said, her Boston accent carrying a slight edge.

“You even know what I’m thinking,” he complained as she came in from the kitchen. He always thought how elegant she looked in her tailored office suit.

“It’s because you’re so predictable, Carrot Top.”

“Anyway, how did you know it was my birthday?”

“A massive piece of detective work,” said Kate, “with the help of an outside agent and a small payment.”

“An outside agent. Who?”

“The local paper shop, my darling. In the Sunday Times they tell you the name of every distinguished person celebrating a birthday in the following seven days. In a week during which only the mediocre were born, you made it.”

Raymond had to laugh.

“Now listen, Carrot Top.”

Raymond pretended to hate his new nickname. “Do you have to call me by that revolting name?”

“Yes. I can’t stand Raymond.”

He scowled. “In any case, carrot tops are green.”

“No comment. Try on your shirt.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

He took off his black coat and waistcoat, removed his white shirt, and eased the stud on his stiff collar, leaving a small circle above his Adam’s apple. Curly red hairs stuck up all over his chest. He quickly put on the new gift. The fabric had a pleasant soft feel about it. He started to do up the buttons, but Kate walked over and undid the top two.

“You know what? You’ve brought a whole new meaning to the word ‘uptight.’”

Raymond scowled again.

“But in the right clothes you could even pass for good looking. Now. Where shall we go to celebrate your birthday?”

“The House of Commons?” suggested Raymond.

“Good God,” said Kate. “I said celebrate, not hold a wake. What about Annabel’s?”

“I can’t afford to be seen in Annabel’s.”

“With me, you mean?”

“No, no, you silly woman, because I’m a Socialist.”

“If members of the Labour party are not allowed to indulge in a good meal then perhaps it’s time for you to change parties. In my country one only sees the Democrats in the best restaurants.”

“Oh, do be serious, Kate.”

“I intend to be. Now what have you been up to in the House lately?”

“Not a lot,” said Raymond sheepishly. “I’ve been snowed under in court and...”

“Precisely. It’s time you did something positive before your colleagues in Parliament forget you exist.”

“Have you anything particular in mind?” asked Raymond, folding his arms across his chest.

“As a matter of fact, I have,” said Kate. “I read in the same Sunday paper as the one in which I discovered your best-kept secret that it is proving difficult for the Labour party to repeal the Tories’ trade union legislation. It appears there are long-term legal implications which the front bench are still trying to find a way round. Why don’t you set that so-called ‘first class’ mind of yours to working out the legal niceties?”

“Not such a stupid idea.” Raymond had become used to Kate’s political sense, and when he had remarked on it she had only said, “Just another bad habit I picked up from my ex-husband.”

“Now, where do we celebrate?” she asked.

“Compromise,” said Raymond.

“I’m all ears.”

“The Dorchester.”

“If you insist,” said Kate, not sounding over-enthusiastic.

Raymond started to change his shirt.

“No, no, no, Carrot Top, people have been known to wear blue shirts at the Dorchester.”

“But I haven’t got a tie to match,” said Raymond triumphantly.

Kate thrust her hand into the Turnbull and Asser bag and drew out a dark blue silk tie.

“But it’s got a pattern on it,” said Raymond in disgust. “What will you expect next?”

“Contact lenses,” said Kate.

Raymond stared at her, and blinked.

On the way out of the door Raymond’s gaze fell upon the brightly wrapped package that Joyce had posted from Leeds earlier in the week. He had completely forgotten to open it.

“Damn,” said Charles, putting down The Times and draining his coffee.

“What’s the problem?” asked Fiona as she poured out another cup.

“Kerslake’s been selected for Pucklebridge, which means he’s back in the House for life. Obviously my chat to Archie Millburn had no effect.”

“Why have you got it in for Kerslake?” asked Fiona.

Charles folded the paper and considered the question. “It’s quite simple really, old girl. I think he’s the only one of my contemporaries who could stop me leading the party.”

“Why him in particular?”

“I first came across him when he was President of the Union at Oxford. He was damn good then, and now he’s better. He had rivals, but he brushed them aside like flies. No, despite his background, Kerslake’s the one man left who frightens me.”

“It’s a long race yet, my darling, and he could still stumble.”

“So could I, but what he doesn’t realize is that I shall be putting out some of his hurdles.”

Andrew worded the letter very carefully. He assured Jock McPherson and his colleagues that he had been flattered by their approach, but explained that he had decided his loyalties were still firmly based in the Labour party.

He accepted the point Jock had made about the left trying to gain control, but felt that every democratic party was bound to have a maverick element within its ranks, which was not necessarily unhealthy. He added that he considered the offer to have been confidential on both sides.

“Why add that postscript?” asked Louise when she had read the letter through.

“It’s only fair to Jock,” said Andrew. “If it gets around I turned him down it will have the opposite effect to the one they were trying to create.”

“I’m not so sure they will act in the same magnanimous way when the next election comes round.”

“Ah, Jock will make a lot of noise, but he’s all right underneath...”

“That isn’t what your father says about him,” said Louise. “He’s sure they’ll want revenge.”

“Father always sees grubs under even the greenest leaf.”

“So if we’re not about to celebrate your leadership of the Scottish Nationalists we’ll have to be satisfied with celebrating your fortieth birthday.”

“But that’s not for at least—”

“—another month, a week before Robert’s fourth birthday.”

“How would you like to commemorate the occasion, darling?”

“I thought we might have a week in the Algarve on our own.”

“Why don’t we have two weeks? Then we can celebrate your fortieth birthday as well?”

“Andrew Fraser, you just lost yourself one vote in Edinburgh Carlton.”

Simon listened intently to Ronnie’s report at the monthly board meeting. Two tenants had not paid their quarterly rent, and another quarter date was fast approaching. Ronnie’s solicitors had sent firm reminders, followed a month later by writs, but this action had also failed to elicit any money.

“It only proves what I feared most,” said Ronnie.

“What’s that?” asked Simon.

“They just haven’t got the cash.”

“So we will have to replace them with new tenants.”

“Simon, when you next travel from Beaufort Street to Whitechapel start counting the To Let’ signs on office blocks along the way. When you’ve passed a hundred you’ll find you still haven’t reached the City.”

“So what do you think we should do about it?”

“Try and sell one of our larger properties to secure cash flow. We can at least be thankful that even at these prices they are still worth a lot more than our borrowings. It’s the companies who are the other way around that have to call in the receiver.”

Simon thought about his overdraft, now approaching £100,000, and was beginning to wish he had accepted Ronnie’s generous offer to buy back his shares. He accepted reluctantly that the opportunity had now passed.

When the board meeting was over he drove to St. Mary’s to pick up Elizabeth. It was to be one of their three-times-a-week journeys to Pucklebridge as Simon tried to get round all the villages before Wilson called an election.

Archie Millburn was turning out to be a conscientious chairman who had accompanied them on nearly every trip.

“He’s been very kind to us,” said Elizabeth, on their way down.

“He certainly has,” said Simon. “Remember he also has to run Millburn Electronics. But, as he reminds us so often, once he’s introduced us to every village chairman we’ll be on our own.”

“Have you ever discovered why he and Charles Seymour didn’t see eye to eye?”

“No, he hasn’t mentioned his name since that night. All I know for certain is that they were at school together.”

“So what do you intend to do about Seymour?”

“Not a lot I can do,” said Simon. “Except keep my eyes very wide open.”

“The man who has deserted Edinburgh once too often” — Andrew read the Scottish Nationalist leaflet that had been sent to him that morning by his father. It was full of half-truths and innuendos.

“Andrew Fraser, the man who has forgotten Edinburgh, should no longer be allowed to represent a Scottish seat.” It went on to declare: “He now lives far away from the problems of his constituents in a smart apartment building in fashionable Chelsea among his Tory friends. He visits the City of Edinburgh only a few times a year to make well-publicized appearances... Has being a minister gone to his head?”

“How dare they?” cried Louise in a rage. Andrew had never seen his wife so angry. “How dare they come to my home, offer you the leadership of their dreadful little party, and then write such a pack of lies? And did you read this?” she added, pointing to the last paragraph, “‘His wife Louise, née Forsyth’,” she read out aloud, “‘comes from one of the wealthiest families in Scotland. She is a close relation of the owners of Forsyth’s in Princes Street.’ I’m a second cousin once removed, and they don’t even give me a discount in the main store.”

Andrew started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

He took her in his arms. “I always suffered under the illusion that you would inherit the Forsyth empire and I would never have to work again,” he mocked. “Now we shall have to live off Robert’s earnings as a star football player.”

“Don’t joke, Andrew. It won’t seem funny when the election comes round.”

“I’m far more concerned about the extreme left trying to infiltrate my General Management Committee,” he said, his voice changing, “than I am by Jock McPherson’s band of mad little islanders. But at this moment of time my red box is too full to worry about either of them.”

Raymond made such a penetrating speech during the second reading of the new Trade Union Bill that the Whips put him on the standing committee, the perfect medium for him to display his skills as the committee debated each clause, point by point. He was able to show his colleagues where the legal pitfalls were and how to find a way round them. The rest of the committee soon learned from Raymond the meaning of “mastering a brief,” and it was not long before trade union leaders were calling him at the House and even at his flat to learn his views on how their members should react to a host of different legal problems. Raymond showed patience with each of them and, more important, gave them excellent professional advice for the price of a phone call. He found it ironic how quickly they chose to forget that he was the author of Full Employement at Any Cost? Snippets began to appear in the national press, ranging from laudatory comments from those involved with the bill to a pointed suggestion in the Guardian that, whatever had happened in the past, it would be insupportable if Raymond Gould were not made a member of the Government in the near future.

“If they were to offer you a job, would it make any difference to our relationship?” Kate asked.

“Certainly,” said Raymond. “I shall have found the perfect excuse not to wear your blue shirts.”

Harold Wilson held the crumbling edifice together for a further six months before finally having to call a general election. He chose 10 October 1974.

Raymond immediately returned to his constituency to fight his fifth campaign. When he met Joyce at Leeds City station he couldn’t help remembering that his dumpy wife was only four years older than Kate. He kissed her on the cheek as one might a distant relative, then she drove him back to their Chapel Allerton home.

Joyce chatted away on the journey home and it became clear that the constituency was under control and that this time Fred Padgett was well prepared for a general election. “He hasn’t really stopped since the last one,” she said. As for Joyce, she was undoubtedly better organized than the agent and the secretary put together. What was more, Raymond thought, she enjoyed it. He glanced over at her and couldn’t help thinking she even looked prettier at election time.

Unlike his colleagues in rural seats, Raymond did not have to make speech after speech in little village halls. His votes were to be found in the high street where he addressed the midday shoppers through a megaphone, and walked around supermarkets, pubs, and clubs, grasping hands before repeating the whole process a few streets away.

Joyce set her husband a schedule that allowed few people in the Leeds community to escape him. Some saw him a dozen times during the three-week campaign — most of them at the football match on the Saturday afternoon before the election.

Once the game was over Raymond was back trooping round the working men’s clubs, drinking pint after pint of John Smith’s bitter. He accepted it was inevitable that he would put on half a stone during any election campaign. He dreaded what Kate’s comments would be when she saw him. Somehow he always found a few minutes in each day to steal away and phone her. She seemed so busy and full of news it only made Raymond feel downcast; she couldn’t possibly be missing him.

The local trade unionists backed Raymond to the hilt. They may have found him stuck up and distant in the past, but they knew “where his heart was,” as they confided to anyone who would listen. They banged on doors, delivered leaflets, drove cars to polling booths. They rose before he did in the morning and could still be found preaching to the converted after the pubs had thrown them out at night.

Raymond and Joyce cast their votes in the local secondary school on the Thursday of election day, looking forward to a large Labour victory. The Labour party duly gained a working majority in the House of forty-three over the Conservatives, but only three over all the parties combined. Nevertheless Harold Wilson looked set for another five years when the Queen invited him to form his fourth administration. The count in Leeds that night gave Raymond his biggest majority ever: 12,207 votes.

He spent the whole of Friday and Saturday thanking his constituents, then set out for London on the Sunday evening.

“He must invite you to join the Government this time,” said Joyce, as she walked down the platform of Leeds City station with her husband.

“I wonder,” said Raymond, kissing his wife on the other cheek. He waved at her as the train pulled out of the station. She waved back enthusiastically.

“I do like your new blue shirt, it really suits you,” were the last words he heard her say.

During the election campaign Charles had had to spend a lot of time at the bank because of a run on the pound. Fiona seemed to be everywhere in the constituency at once, assuring voters that her husband was just a few yards behind.

After the little slips were counted the swing against Charles to the Labour candidate didn’t amount to more than one percent in his 22,000 majority. When he heard the overall result he returned to London resigned to a long spell in Opposition. As he began to catch up with his colleagues in the House, he found many of them already saying openly that Heath had to go after two election defeats in a row.

Charles knew then that he would have to make up his mind once again on where he stood over the election of a new party leader, and that once again he must pick the right man.

Andrew Fraser returned to London after a grueling and unhappy campaign. The Scottish Nationalists had concentrated their attack on him, Jock McPherson sailing close to libel and slander. Sir Duncan advised his son against any legal action. “Only plays into their hands,” he warned. “Small parties always benefit from the publicity.”

Louise wanted him to inform the press that he had been offered the leadership of the SNP but Andrew felt it would serve no purpose, and might even rebound against him: and he also reminded her that he had given his word. In the last week of the campaign he spent most of his time trying — and failing — to stop Frank Boyle, a Communist, who had recently moved from Glasgow, from being elected to his General Management Committee. On polling day he scraped home by 1,656, Jock McPherson taking second place. At least he looked secure for another five years; but it didn’t help that the Scottish Nationalists had increased their overall seats in the House to eleven.

Andrew, Louise, and Robert took the plane to London on the Sunday night to find the red box awaiting them and a message that the Prime Minister wanted Andrew to continue as Minister of State at the Home Office.

Simon had a glorious campaign. He and Elizabeth had started moving into their new cottage the day the election was announced, thankful that, now she had to commute, her salary at the hospital had made it possible for them to employ a nanny. A double bed and a couple of chairs sufficed as Elizabeth cooked on an old Aga from provisions still packed in tea chests. They seemed to use the same two forks for everything. During the campaign Simon covered the 200-square-mile constituency for a second time and assured his wife that she need only take the final week off from from her duties at St. Mary’s.

The voters of Pucklebridge sent Simon Kerslake back to Parliament with a majority of 18,419, the largest in the constituency’s history. The local people had quickly come to the conclusion that they now had a member who was destined to have a Cabinet career.

Kate kept her remarks very gentle as it became obvious by the Monday night that the Prime Minister was not going to offer Raymond a job in the new administration. She cooked his favorite meal of roast beef — overdone — and Yorkshire pudding in the flat that night, but he didn’t comment on it and hardly spoke.

Chapter eighteen

After Simon had been back at the Commons for a week he felt a sense of déjà vu, a feeling that most members returning to the House for a second or even third time often experience. The sense was heightened by finding everything unchanged, even the policeman who greeted him at the Members’ Entrance. When Edward Heath announced his Shadow team Simon was not surprised that he wasn’t included, as he never had been a known supporter of the Tory leader. He was, however, mystified but not displeased to discover Charles Seymour was not-among the names to be found in the Shadow Cabinet.

“Do you regret turning him down now the full team has been published?” asked Fiona, looking up from her copy of the Daily Mail.

“It wasn’t an easy decision but I think it’ll prove right in the long run,” replied Charles, buttering another piece of toast.

“What did he offer in the end?”

“Shadow Minister of Industry.”

“That sounds rather interesting,” said Fiona.

“Everything about it was interesting except the salary, which would have been nothing. Don’t forget the bank pays me £40,000 a year while I’m chairman.”

Fiona folded her paper. “But you’ve just appointed a full-time chief executive, so your responsibilities at the bank should be only part-time compared with when you took the chair over. So what’s your real reason?”

Charles accepted that he could rarely fool Fiona. “The truth is that I’m far from certain Ted will be leading the party at the next election.”

“Then who will if he doesn’t?” asked Fiona.

“Whoever’s got the guts to oppose him.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” said Fiona, beginning to clear away the plates.

“Everyone accepts that he has to allow his name to go forward for reelection now that he’s lost twice in a row.”

“That’s fair enough,” agreed Fiona.

“But as he has appointed all possible contenders to the Cabinet or Shadow Cabinet over the last ten years, someone he has selected in the past will have to oppose him. No one of lesser stature would stand a chance.”

“Is there a member of the Shadow Cabinet willing to stand?” asked Fiona, returning to her seat at the end of the table.

“One or two are considering it, but the problem is that if they lose it could easily end their political career,” said Charles, folding his napkin.

“But if they win?”

“They will undoubtedly be the next Prime Minister.”

“Interesting dilemma. And what are you going to do about it?”

“I’m not supporting anyone at the moment, but I’ve got my eyes wide open,” said Charles, folding his copy of The Times and rising from the table.

“Is there a front runner?” asked Fiona, looking up at her husband.

“No, not really. Although Kerslake is trying to rally support for Margaret Thatcher, but that idea is doomed from the start.”

“A woman leading the Tory party? Your lot haven’t got the imagination to risk it,” said Elizabeth, tasting the sauce. “The day that happens I shall eat my one and only Tory hat in full view of all the delegates at the party conference.”

“Don’t be so cynical, Elizabeth. She’s the best bet we’ve got at the moment.”

“But what are the chances of Ted Heath standing down? I always thought the leader of the party stayed on until he was hit by the mythical bus. I don’t know Heath very well, but I can never imagine him resigning.”

“I agree,” said Simon. “So the 1922 Committee will have to change the rules.”

“You mean the back-benchers will put pressure on him to go?”

“No, but a lot of the committee in their present mood would be willing to volunteer as driver for that bus.”

“If that’s true, he must realize that his chances of holding on are slim?”

“I wonder if any leader ever knows that,” said Simon.

“You ought to be in Blackpool next week,” said Kate, resting her elbow on the pillow.

“Why Blackpool?” Raymond asked, staring up at the ceiling.

“Because, Carrot Top, that’s where they are holding this year’s Labour party conference.”

“What do you imagine I could hope to accomplish there?”

“You’d be seen to be alive. At present you’re just a rumor in trade union circles.”

“But if you’re not a minister or a trade union leader all you do at a party conference is spend four days eating foul food, sleeping in seedy guest houses, and applauding second-rate speeches.”

“I’ve no interest in where you put your weary head at night but I do want you to revive your contacts with the unions during the day.”

“Why?” said Raymond. “That lot can’t influence my career.”

“Not at the moment,” said Kate. “But I predict that, like my fellow Americans at their conventions, the Labour party will one day select their leader at the party conference.”

“Never,” said Raymond. “That is and will always remain the prerogative of elected members of the House of Commons.”

“That’s the sort of crass, short-sighted, pompous statement I would expect a Republican to make,” she said, before plonking a pillow over his head. Raymond feigned death, so she lifted up a corner and whispered in his ear, “Have you read any of the resolutions to be debated at this year’s conference?”

“A few,” came back Raymond’s muffled reply.

“Then it might serve you well to note Mr. Anthony Wedgwood Benn’s contribution,” she said, removing the pillow.

“What’s he up to this year?”

“He’s calling on ‘conference,’ as he insists on describing your gathering of the brothers, to demand that the next leader be chosen by a full vote of the delegates, making up an electoral college from all the constituencies, the trade union movement, and Parliament — I suspect in that order.”

“Madness. But what do you expect? He’s married to an American.”

“Today’s extremist is tomorrow’s moderate,” said Kate blithely.

“A typical American generalization.”

“Benjamin Disraeli, actually.”

Raymond placed the pillow back over his head.

Andrew always attended the party conference, although he would never have voted for Tony Benn’s resolution on the method of selecting a leader. He feared that if the trade unions were given that sort of power a leader who was totally unacceptable to his colleagues in the House of Commons could be selected. He was relieved when the motion was defeated but he noted that the majority against was far from overwhelming.

Despite being a minister Andrew could only get a small room at Blackpool in a guest house masquerading as a hotel, and that some two miles from the conference center. Such were the problems created by 4,000 self-important people converging on a seaside resort for a week that many had to forgo the Presidential Suite.

Andrew still had to carry on his job as Minister of State, with red boxes being delivered and taken every morning and afternoon, while making his presence felt at the conference. He spent half his time on a phone in the hotel lobby putting through transfer-charge calls to the Home Office. No one in the Soviet Union would have believed it, especially if they had realized that the Minister of State for Defense, who had the room next to Andrew’s, was pacing up and down the corridor waiting for the phone to be free.

Andrew had never addressed the 3,000 delegates at a party conference. Even Cabinet ministers are only allowed a maximum of ten minutes at the rostrum unless they are members of the National Executive. Over half the Labour Cabinet had failed to be elected to this body, which consisted mainly of the leaders of the larger trade unions.

As he left the morning session Andrew was surprised to find Raymond Gould roaming around looking lost. They fell on each other like sane men locked in an asylum and decided to lunch together at the River House, Andrew’s favorite restaurant a few miles outside of Blackpool.

Although they had both been in the House for nearly ten years it was the first time they discovered how much they had in common. Andrew had never considered himself a close friend of Raymond’s but he had always admired his stand on devaluation.

“You must have been disappointed when the PM didn’t ask you to rejoin the Government,” Andrew began.

Raymond stared down at the menu. “Very,” he finally admitted, as a girl joined them in the bar to take their order.

“Nevertheless, you were wise to come to Blackpool. This is where your strength lies.”

“Come on. Everybody knows you’re the trade unions’ pinup boy, and they still have a lot of influence as to who sits in the Cabinet.”

“I haven’t noticed,” said Raymond mournfully.

“You will when they eventually choose the leader.”

“That’s funny, that’s exactly what... Joyce said last week.”

“Sensible girl, Joyce, I fear it will happen in our time as members.”

Bill Scott, the proprietor, told them their table was ready and they went through to the small dining room.

“Why fear?” asked Raymond, as he took his seat.

“Middle-of-the-road democrats like myself will end up as so many leaves on a bonfire.”

“But I’m middle-of-the-road myself, practically right wing on some issues.”

“Perhaps. But every party needs a man like you, and at this moment union leaders wouldn’t mind if you were a card-carrying Fascist; they’d still back you.”

“Then what makes you attend the conference?”

“thank God it still gives one a chance to keep in touch with the grass roots, and I live in hope that the extreme left will never be much more than an unruly child that the grown-ups have to learn to live with.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” said Raymond, “because they’re never going to grow up.” Andrew laughed as Raymond continued in a different mood. “I still envy you your job at the Home Office. I didn’t go into politics to spend my life on the back benches.”

“There may well come a day when I sit and envy you from those same back benches,” said Andrew.

As he spoke, the chairman of the Boilermakers’ Union shouted across as he passed their table, “Good to see you, Ray.” He showed no recognition of Andrew. Raymond turned and smiled at the man and waved back as Caesar might have done to Cassius.

When they had both rejected the choice of date and walnut pudding or Pavlova, Andrew suggested a brandy.

Raymond hesitated.

“You’ll see more double brandies drunk here than you will at the Conservative party conference next week. Ask any waitress.”

“Have you decided how you’re going to vote in the leadership battle?” asked Fiona over breakfast.

“Yes,” said Charles, “and at this point in my career I can’t afford to make the wrong choice.”

“So who have you decided on?” asked Fiona.

“While there isn’t a serious contender to oppose Ted Heath it remains in my best interest to continue backing him.”

“Isn’t there one Shadow Cabinet minister who has the guts to stand against him?”

“The rumor grows that Margaret Thatcher will act as whipping girl. If she gets close enough to force a second ballot the serious contenders will then join in.”

“What if she won the first round?”

“Don’t be silly, Fiona,” said Charles, taking more interest in his scrambled egg. “The Tory party would never elect a woman to lead them. We’re far too traditional. That’s the sort of immature mistake the Labour party would make to prove how much they believe in equality.”

Simon was still pushing Margaret Thatcher to throw her hat in the ring.

“She certainly has enough of them,” said Elizabeth.

It amused Andrew and Raymond to watch the Tory party leadership struggle while they got on with their respective jobs. Raymond would have dismissed Thatcher’s chances if Kate hadn’t reminded him that the Tories had been the first party to choose a Jewish leader, and also the first to select a bachelor.

“So why shouldn’t they be the first to elect a woman?” she demanded. He would have continued to argue with her but the damn woman had proved to be right so often in the past. “Let’s wait and see,” was all he said.

The 1922 Committee announced that the election for leader would take place on 4 February 1975.

At a press conference in early January at the House of Commons Margaret Thatcher announced she would allow her name to go forward to contest the leadership. Simon immediately spent his time exhorting his colleagues to support “The Lady” and joined a small committee under Airey Neave that was formed for the purpose. Charles Seymour warned his friends that the party could never hope to win a general election with a woman leading them. As the days passed, nothing became clearer than the uncertainty of the outcome.

At four o’clock on a particularly wet and windy day the chairman of the 1922 Committee announced the figures:

According to the 1922 Committee rules, the winner needed a fifteen percent majority and so a second round was necessary. “It will be held in seven days’ time,” the Chief Whip announced. Three former Cabinet ministers immediately declared they were candidates, while Ted Heath, having been warned that he would get fewer votes a second time round, withdrew from the ballot.

They were the longest days in Simon’s life. He did everything in his power to hold Thatcher’s supporters together. Charles meanwhile decided to play the second round very low-key. When the time came to vote he put his cross on the ballot paper next to the former Secretary of State he had served under at Trade and Industry. “A man we can all trust,” he told Fiona.

When the votes had been counted and confirmed the chairman of the 1922 Committee announced that Margaret Thatcher was the outright winner with a vote of 146 to 79 from her nearest challenger.

Simon was delighted while Elizabeth hoped he had forgotten about the promise to eat her hat. Charles was dumbfounded. They both wrote to their new leader immediately.

Margaret Thatcher answered all her colleagues’ letters within the week. Simon received a handwritten letter inviting him to join the new Shadow team as number two in the Education Department. Charles received a typed note thanking him for his letter of support.

Chapter nineteen

Seymour’s bank had weathered the Great War, the thirties’ crash, and then the Second World War. Charles had no intention of being the chairman who presided over its demise in the seventies. Soon after taking over from Derek Spencer — at the board’s unanimous insistence — he had discovered that being chairman wasn’t quite the relaxed job he expected, and while he remained confident that the bank could ride the storm he still wasn’t taking any risks. The business sections of the newspapers were full of stories of the Bank of England acting as a “lifeboat” and having to step in to assist ailing financial institutions, along with daily reports of the collapse of yet another property company. The time when property values and rents automatically increased each year had become a thing of the past.

When he had accepted the board’s offer, Charles insisted that a chief executive be appointed to carry out the day-to-day business while he remained the man with whom other City chairmen dealt. He interviewed several people for the position but he did not find anyone suitable. Head-hunting seemed to be the next move, the expense of which was saved when he overheard a conversation at the next table at White’s that the newly appointed chief executive of the 1st Bank of America was sick of having to report to the board in Chicago every time he wanted to use a first-class stamp.

Charles immediately invited the chief executive to lunch at the House of Commons. Clive Reynolds had come from a similar background to Derek Spencer: London School of Economics, followed by the Harvard Business School and a series of successful appointments which had culminated in his becoming chief executive of the 1st Bank of America. This similarity did not worry Charles, as he made it clear to Mr. Reynolds that the appointee would be the chairman’s man.

When Reynolds was offered the appointment he drove a hard bargain and Charles looked forward to his doing the same on behalf of Seymour’s. Reynolds ended up with £50,000 a year and enough of a profit incentive to ensure that he didn’t deal for himself or encourage any other headhunters to invite him to join their particular jungle.

“He’s not the sort of fellow we could invite to dinner,” Charles told Fiona, “but his appointment will enable me to sleep at night knowing the bank is in safe hands.”

Charles’s choice was rubber-stamped by the board at their next meeting, and as the months passed it became obvious that the 1st Bank of America had lost one of its prime assets well below the market value.

Clive Reynolds was a conservative by nature, but when he did take what Charles described as a risk — and Reynolds called a “hunch” — over fifty percent of them paid off. While Seymour’s kept its reputation for caution and good husbandry, they managed a few quite spectacular coups thanks to their new chief executive.

Reynolds had enough sense to treat his new chairman with respect without ever showing deference while their relationship remained at all times strictly professional.

One of Reynolds’s first innovations had been to suggest they check on every customer account over £250,000 and Charles had approved.

“When you’ve handled the account of a company for many years,” Reynolds pointed out, “it sometimes is not apparent when one of your traditional customers is heading for trouble as it would be to a newcomer. If there are any ‘lame ducks’ let’s discover them before they hit the ground” — a simile that Charles repeated at several weekend parties.

Charles enjoyed his morning meetings with Clive Reynolds as he picked up a great deal about a profession to which he had previously only brought gut feeling and common sense. In a very short time he learned enough from his new tutor to make him sound like David Rockefeller when he rose to speak in a finance debate on the floor of the House, an unexpected bonus.

Charles knew little of Reynolds’s private life except what was on file. He was forty-one, unmarried, and lived in Esher, wherever that was. All Charles cared about was that Reynolds arrived each morning at least an hour before him, and left after him every night, even when the House was in recess.

Charles had studied fourteen of the confidential reports on customers with loans over £250,000. Clive Reynolds had already picked out two companies with whom he felt the bank should revise their current position.

Charles still had three more reports to consider before he presented a full assessment to the board.

The quiet knock on the door, however, meant that it was ten o’clock and Reynolds had arrived to make his daily report. Rumors were circulating in the City that the bank rate would go up on Thursday, so Reynolds wanted to go short on dollars and long on gold. Charles nodded. As soon as the announcement had been made about the bank rate, Reynolds continued: “it will be wiser to return to dollars as the new round of pay negotiations with the unions is about to take place. This in turn will undoubtedly start a fresh run on the pound.” Charles nodded again.

“I think the dollar is far too weak at two-ten,” Reynolds added. “With the unions settling at around twelve percent the dollar must strengthen, say, to nearer one-ninety.” He added that he was not happy about the bank’s large holding in Slater Walker and wanted to liquidate half the stock over the next month. He proposed to do so in small amounts over irregular periods. “We also have three other major accounts to consider before we make known our findings to the board. I’m concerned about the spending policy of one of the companies, but the other two appear stable. I think we should go over them together when you have time to consider my reports. Perhaps tomorrow morning, if you could manage that. The companies concerned are Speyward Laboratories, Blackies Limited, and Nethercote and Company. It’s Speyward I’m worried about.”

“I’ll take the files home tonight,” said Charles, “and give you an opinion in the morning.”

“Thank you, Chairman.”

Charles had never suggested that Reynolds should call him by his first name.

Archie Millburn held a small dinner party to celebrate Simon’s first anniversary as the member for Pucklebridge. Although these occasions had originally been to introduce the party hierarchy to their new member, Simon now knew more about the constituency and its flock than he did, as Archie was the first to admit.

Elizabeth, Peter, and Michael had settled comfortably into their small cottage, while Simon, as a member of the Shadow Education team, had visited schools — nursery, primary, public, and secondary; universities — red brick, plate glass, and Oxbridge; technical colleges, art institutes, and even borstals. He had read Butler, Robbins, and Plowden and listened to children and to professors of psychology alike. He felt that after a year he was beginning to understand the subject, and only longed for a general election so that he could once again turn rehearsal into performance.

“Opposition must be frustrating,” observed Archie when the ladies had retired after dinner.

“Yes, but it’s an excellent way to prepare yourself for Government and do some basic thinking about the subject. I never found time for such luxury as a minister.”

“But it must be very different from holding office?” said Archie, clipping a cigar.

“True. In Government,” said Simon, “you’re surrounded by civil servants who don’t allow you to lift a finger or give you a moment to ponder, while in Opposition you can think policy through even if you do often end up having to type your own letters.”

Archie pushed the port down to Simon’s end of the table. “I’m glad the girls are out,” said Archie conspiratorially, “because I wanted you to know I’ve decided to give up being chairman at the end of the year.”

“why?” said Simon, taken aback.

“I’ve seen you elected and settled in. It’s time for a younger man to have a go.”

“But you’re only my age.”

“I can’t deny that, but the truth is that I’m not giving enough time to my electronics company, and the board are continually reminding me of it. No one has to tell you that these are not easy times.”

“It’s sad,” said Simon. “Just as you get to know someone in politics you or they always seem to move on.”

“Fear not,” said Archie. “I don’t intend to leave the area, and I feel confident that you will be my member for at least another twenty years, by which time I will be happy to accept an invitation to dine with you in Downing Street.”

“You may find that it’s Charles Seymour who is residing at No. 10,” said Simon, striking a match to light his cigar.

“Then I won’t be getting an invitation,” said Archie with a smile.

Charles couldn’t sleep that night after his discovery, and his tossing and turning kept Fiona awake. He had opened the Nethercote file when he was waiting for dinner to be served. His first act with any company was to glance down the names of the directors to see if he knew anyone on the board. He recognized no one until his eye stopped at “S. J. Kerslake, MP.” The cook felt sure that Mr. Seymour had not enjoyed his dinner, because he hardly touched the main course.

On his arrival at Seymour’s, only moments after Clive Reynolds, he called for his chief executive. He appeared a few minutes later without his usual armful of files, surprised to see the chairman so early. Once Reynolds was seated Charles opened the file in front of him. “What do you know about Nethercote and Company?”

“Private company. Net asset value approaching £10,000,-000, running a current overdraft of £7,000,000 of which we service half. Efficiently managed with a good board of directors, will ride out the current problems in my view, and should be well oversubscribed when they eventually go public.”

“How much of the company do we own?”

“Seven and a half percent. As you know, the bank never take eight percent of any company because then we would have to declare an interest under section twenty-three of the Finance Act. It has always been a policy of this bank to invest in a major client without becoming too involved with the running of the company.”

“Who are their principal bankers?”

“The Midland.”

“What would happen if we put our seven and a half percent up for sale and did not renew the overdraft facility at the end of the quarter, but called it in instead?”

“They would have to seek finance elsewhere.”

“And if they couldn’t?”

“They would have to start selling their assets, which under that sort of forced-sale position would be very damaging for any company, if not impossible, in the present climate.”

“And then?”

“I would have to check my file and...”

Charles passed over the file and Reynolds studied it carefully, frowning. “They already have a cash-flow problem because of bad debts. With a sudden increased demand they might go under. I would strongly advise against such a move, Chairman. Nethercote have proved a reliable risk over the years, and I think we stand to make a handsome profit when they are quoted on the Stock Exchange.”

“For reasons I cannot disclose to you,” said Charles, looking up from his chair, “I fear that remaining involved with this company may turn out to be a financial embarrassment for Seymour’s.” Reynolds looked at him, puzzled. “You will inform the Midland Bank that we will not be renewing this loan at the next quarter.”

“Then they would have to look for support from another bank. The Midland would never agree to shoulder the entire amount on their own.”

“And try to dispose of our seven and a half percent immediately.”

“But that could lead to a crisis of confidence in the company.”

“So be it,” said Charles, as he closed the file.

“But I do feel—”

“That will be all, Mr. Reynolds.”

“Yes, Chairman,” said the mystified chief executive, who had never thought of his boss as an irrational man. He turned to leave. Had he looked back he would have been even more mystified by the smile that was spread across Charles Seymour’s face.

“They’ve pulled the rug out from under our feet,” said Ronnie Nethercote angrily.

“Who?” said Simon, who had just come into the room.

“The Midland Bank.”

“Why would they do that?”

“An outside shareholder put all his stock on the market without warning, and the Midland got worried about their position. They wouldn’t be prepared to continue such a large overdraft position on their own.”

“Have you been to see the manager?” asked Simon, unable to disguise his anxiety.

“Yes, but he can’t do anything. His hands are tied by a main board directive,” said Ronnie, slumping deeper into his seat.

“How bad is it?”

“They’ve given me a month to find another bank. Otherwise I’ll have to start selling some of our assets.”

“What will happen if we don’t manage to come up with another bank?” asked Simon desperately.

“The company could be bankrupt within weeks. Do you know any bankers who are looking for a good investment?”

“Only one, and I can assure you he wouldn’t help.”

Charles put the phone down satisfied. He wondered if there was anything that could still be regarded as secret. It had taken him less than an hour to find out the size of Kerslake’s overdraft. “Banker to banker confidentiality,” he had assured them. He was still smiling when Reynolds knocked on the door.

“The Midland weren’t pleased,” he immediately briefed Charles.

“They’ll get over it,” his chairman replied. “What’s the latest on Nethercote?”

“Only a rumor, but everyone now knows they’re in trouble and the chairman is searching around for a new backer,” said Reynolds impassively. “His biggest problem is that no one is touching property companies at the moment.”

“Once they’ve collapsed, what’s to stop us picking up the pieces and making a killing?”

“A clause that was slipped through in the Finance Act which your Government passed three years ago. The penalties range from a heavy fine to having your banking license taken away.”

“Oh, yes, I remember,” said Charles. “Pity. So how long do you expect them to last?”

“Once the month is up,” said Reynolds stroking a clean-shaven chin, “if they fail to find a backer the creditors will swarm in like locusts.”

“Aren’t the shares worth anything?” asked Charles innocently.

“Not the paper they are written on at the moment,” said Reynolds, watching his chairman carefully.

This time the chief executive couldn’t miss the chairman’s smile as Charles thought of Simon Kerslake and his overdraft of £108,000 now backed by worthless shares. Pucklebridge would soon be looking for a new member.

At the end of a month during which no bank came to his rescue Ronnie Nethercote caved in and agreed to call in the receiver and file a bankruptcy notice. He still hoped that he could pay off all his creditors even if the shares he and his fellow directors held remained worthless. He felt as worried for Simon and his career as he did for himself, but he knew there was nothing the receiver would allow him to do to help one individual.

When Simon told Elizabeth she didn’t complain. She had always feared this could be the eventual outcome of her husband joining the board of Nethercote.

“Can’t Ronnie help?” she asked. “After all, you’ve supported him enough in the past.”

“No, he can’t,” replied Simon, avoiding telling her where the real responsibility for his downfall lay.

“But do bankrupts automatically have to leave Parliament?” was Elizabeth’s next question.

“No, but I shall because I could never be considered for further promotion — I’d always be rightly tainted with ‘lack of judgment.’”

“It seems so unfair when you weren’t personally to blame.”

“There are different rules for those who wish to live in the spotlight,” Simon said simply.

“But in time, surely—” began Elizabeth.

“I’m not willing to remain on the back benches for another twenty years only to hear whispered in the corner of the smoking room — Would have made the Cabinet if it hadn’t been for...”

“Does that mean the children will have to be taken away from school?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Simon, his hands shaking. “As a bankrupt I can hardly expect the receiver to view the fees for my sons’ education as a dire necessity even if I could find the money.”

“So we’ll have to get rid of the nanny, too?”

“Not necessarily, but we may both have to make sacrifices in order that she can be part-time.”

“But my work at the hospital...” began Elizabeth but didn’t complete the sentence. “What happens next?”

“I’ll have to tell Archie Millburn tonight. I’ve already written my letter of resignation to hand to him. I shall make an appointment to see the Chief Whip on Monday to explain why I am going to apply for the Chiltern Hundreds.”

“What does that mean?”

“lt’s one of the only ways of leaving the House in mid-session — other than dying. Officially it’s a nominal office under the Crown which therefore debars you from membership of the House.”

“It all sounds rather formal to me.”

“I’m afraid it will cause an embarrassing by-election in Pucklebridge,” Simon admitted.

“Can nobody help?”

“There aren’t a lot of people around who have a spare £108,000 for a worthless bunch of shares.”

“Would you like me to come with you when you go to see Archie?” Elizabeth asked, rising from her seat.

“No, darling. It’s kind of you to ask, but I’m the one who made such a fool of myself.”

Elizabeth leaned over and pushed back the hair that had fallen over his forehead. She couldn’t help noticing some gray strands that must have appeared in the last few weeks. “We’ll just have to live off my salary while you look for a job.”

Simon drove slowly down to Pucklebridge to keep his impromptu appointment with the chairman. Archie Millburn, standing hands on hips in his garden, listened to the tale with a sad face. “It’s been happening to a lot of good people in the City lately, but what I can’t understand is: if the company owns such prime properties, why has no one made a takeover bid? Sounds as if it’s an asset-stripper’s dream.”

“It appears to be a matter of confidence,” said Simon.

“A sacred word in the City,” agreed Archie, while he continued to prune his Roosevelts and Red Mistresses.

Simon handed him the prepared letter of resignation, which Millburn read over and reluctantly accepted.

“I won’t mention this to anyone until you’ve seen the Chief Whip on Monday. I’ll call a special meeting of the full committee on Tuesday evening and inform them of your decision then. You had better be prepared for an unfriendly barrage from the press on Tuesday night.”

The two men shook hands. “Your misfortune is our misfortune,” said Archie. “In a very short time you’ve gained the respect and the affection of the local people. You’ll be missed.”

Simon drove back to London and, although the car radio was on low, he did not take in the news flash that they kept repeating every thirty minutes.

Chapter twenty

Raymond was among the first to hear the announcement, and was stunned by it. Harold Wilson was going to resign less than halfway through the five-year Parliament, and for no apparent reason other than that he had just passed his sixtieth birthday. He proposed to remain Prime Minister only so long as the Labour party took to select its new leader. Raymond and Kate sat glued to the television, picking up every scrap of information they could. They discussed the implications far into the night.

“Well, Carrot Top, could this mean rehabilitation for our forgotten hero?”

“Who can say?”

“Well, if you can’t, who can?”

“The next leader,” said Raymond.

The fight for the leadership was a straight battle between the left and right wings of the party, James Callaghan on the right and Michael Foot on the left. Andrew and Raymond both wanted the same man and it was with some relief that they saw Callaghan, despite losing the first ballot, come through to be elected leader. The Queen duly called for Callaghan and asked him to form a new administration.

As tradition demands Andrew sent his resignation to Downing Street, as did every other member of the Government, to allow the new Prime Minister to select his own team.

Raymond was in court listening to the judge’s summing up when his junior passed him a note: “Please call 10 Downing Street as soon as possible.” The judge took a further thirty minutes, meticulously explaining to the jury the legal definition of manslaughter, before Raymond could escape. He ran down the corridor and stopped at one of the clerks’ private boxes to make the call. The plastic dial rotating back into place after each number seemed to take forever.

After he had been passed through three people a voice said, “Good afternoon, Ray” — the unmistakable gravelly tones of the new Prime Minister. “I think it’s time you rejoined the Government” — Raymond held his breath — “as Minister of State at the Department of Trade.” Minister of State: only one place away from the Cabinet.

“You still there, Ray?”

“Yes, Prime Minister, and I’d be delighted to accept.”

He put the phone down, immediately picked it up again, and dialed the City office of the Chase Manhattan Bank. They put him through to the Euro Bond manager.

Andrew had left his desk at the Home Office and returned to Cheyne Walk. He stayed away from the House of Commons where the lobby correspondents were hanging about like hyenas, scampering off to phone their papers with even the rumor of a rumor. The new Cabinet had been selected, and now it was the turn of the Ministers of State. All Andrew knew for certain was that his old job at the Home Office had been given to someone else.

“Why don’t you go and play football with Robert?” Louise suggested. “And stop moping around under my feet?”

“Yes, Dad, yes, Dad, yes, Dad,” demanded his son, running upstairs to reappear a few minutes later dressed in the Liverpool kit that he had bought himself from eleven weeks’ hard-saved pocket money.

“Go on, Andrew. I can always call you if the phone goes.”

Andrew smiled, took off his jacket, and put on the pair of old gym shoes Robert was holding out for him. He followed his five-year-old son into the garden to find him already dribbling up and down the thin strip between the flower beds. The little goal he had bought for Robert — or was it for himsetf? — at Christmas was already set up at the far end of the grass and they took turns defending it. Andrew always had to start in goal. He rubbed his hands together to keep warm as Robert dribbled toward him. He came out of the goal ready to stifle a shot, but Robert kicked the ball to the right and ran to the left, leaving his father spread-eagled on the ground before he pushed the ball gently into the goal. “That’s called a feint,” he shouted triumphantly, as he ran back past his prostrate father.

Andrew picked himself up. “l know what it’s called,” he said, laughing. “You seem to have forgotten who taught you the feint in the first place. Let’s see if you can do it twice running,” he added, returning to defend the goal.

Robert dribbled away from his father until he reached the end of the garden, then turned to face him again. He had begun advancing toward the goal for a second time when there was the sound of the phone ringing. Andrew looked toward the house just as Robert kicked the ball, which rising sharply, struck him in the face. He and the ball fell back into the goal mouth.

Louise opened the kitchen window and shouted, “It’s only my mother.”

“Wake up, Dad,” demanded Robert simultaneously.

Andrew’s face was still stinging from the blow. “I’m going to get you for that,” he said. “Your turn to defend the goal.”

Robert rushed forward to take his place between the posts, jumping up and down trying to touch the crossbar with the tips of his fingers. Andrew took his time as he moved toward his son. When he was about a yard in front of Robert he feinted to the right and ran to the left but Robert had seen the move coming and leaped on the ball shouting, “No goal.”

Once again Andrew returned to the end of the garden, thinking over what move he could try next. He suddenly ran straight at Robert and kicked the ball firmly toward the right-hand corner of the goal mouth. But again Robert anticipated the move and caught the ball above his head before pulling it to his chest and shouting, “No goal, Dad, no goal!” He tossed the ball confidently back along the ground to his father’s feet.

“Right, the fooling around is over,” said Andrew, not quite convinced. He kicked the ball from one foot to the other, trying to look skillful.

“Come on, Dad,” Robert complained.

This time Andrew advanced with a look of determination on his face. He tried a change of pace to make his son leave the goal mouth too early. Robert duly came out of the goal; Andrew kicked the ball a little harder and higher than his previous attempt. As he did so he heard the phone ring again and turned his head toward the house. He didn’t see his shot cannon against the left-hand corner of the goal post and bounce away.

“It’s the Prime Minister,” shouted Louise from the window. Andrew turned to walk quickly back toward the house. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the ball bounce on to the path, on its way toward the gate and into the road.

Robert was already running toward the open gate. “I’ll save it, Dad, I’ll save it.”

“No,” screamed Andrew at the top of his voice and turned back to run as fast as he could after his son.

Louise froze as she stared out of the window, still holding on to the phone with her rubber gloves. She watched as Andrew turned his back and tore toward the pavement until he was only a yard behind his son. The ball bounced on into the road and Robert dived for it a split second before his father threw himself on his son.

Louise was the only one who saw the driver of the massive Shell tanker slam on its brakes and swerve — too late — to avoid them. Andrew and Robert collided with the corner of the wide metal mudguard and were thrown back together before rolling over and over several times, ending up in the gutter.

“Are you there, Andrew?” asked the Prime Minister.

Louise dropped the phone and ran out of the kitchen toward the open gate. Her husband lay motionless beside the curb with their son in his arms, the ball still clutched against his chest. She tried to hold on to both of them as Andrew’s blood poured down over Robert’s red shirt and on to her rubber gloves.

She fell on to her knees by the curbside. “Let them live, let them live,” was all she said.

Robert was crying softly as he held firmly on to the ball and stared at his unconscious father. She had to lean over to hear him repeating, “No goal, Dad, no goal.”

When the complete list of ministers was published in The Times two days later the only unfilled post left was that of Minister of State for Defense. The Times’s political editor, David Wood, surmised that the position was being held open for Mr. Andrew Fraser, who was expected to be out of hospital by the end of the week. Wood’s final paragraph read:

“My God,” exclaimed Elizabeth, “how dreadful.”

“What’s dreadful?” asked Simon, as he took his seat at the breakfast table. She passed the paper to her husband and pointed to the picture of Robert.

“Poor kid,” said Simon before he had finished the article.

“Certainly puts our own problems into perspective. If Peter or Michael were killed we really would have something to worry about.”

Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Then Elizabeth asked, “Are you dreading it?”

“Yes, (I am,” said Simon. “I feel like a condemned man eating his last breakfast, and the worst part of it is that I have to drive myself to the gallows.”

“I wonder if we will ever laugh about today?”

“No doubt — when I collect my parliamentary pension.”

“Can we live off that?”

“Hardly. I don’t get the first payment until I’m sixty-five, so we have a twenty-five-year wait to find out.” He got up. “Can I give you a lift to the hospital?”

“No thanks. I intend to savor the joys of being a two-car family for at least another week. Just let’s hope the new Marina holds its price as well as Sir Michael Edwardes claimed it would.”

Simon laughed, kissed his wife, and left for his appointment with the Chief Whip at the House of Commons. As he started the car Elizabeth rushed out. “I forgot to tell you, Ronnie phoned while you were in the bath.”

“I’ll call him as soon as I reach the House.”

Simon made his way to the Commons. He felt sick as he passed Cheyne Walk and thought of Andrew Fraser and all he must be going through. He made a mental note to write to him immediately. At the Commons the policeman on the gate saluted as he drove in. “Good morning, sir,” he said.

“Good morning,” said Simon. He parked his car on the second level of the new underground car park and took the escalator up to the Members’ Entrance. He couldn’t help reflecting that ten years ago he would have taken the stairs. He continued through the Members’ Cloakroom, up the marble staircase to the Members’ Lobby. Habit made him turn left into the little post office to check whether he had any mail.

“Mr. Kerslake,” the man behind the counter called into an intercom, and a few seconds later a parcel and a packet of letters held together by a thick elastic band thudded into an office basket. Simon left the parcel marked “London School of Economics” and the letters on the desk in his room and checked his watch: over forty minutes before his appointment with the Chief Whip. He went to the nearest phone and dialed Nethercote and Company. Ronnie answered the phone himself.

“Sacked the telephone operator last Friday,” he explained. “Only me and my secretary left.”

“You called, Ronnie,” a millimeter of hope in Simon’s voice.

“Yes, I wanted to express how I felt. I tried to write you a letter over the weekend but I’m not very good with words.” He paused. “Nor it seems with figures. I just wanted to say how desperately sorry I am. Elizabeth told me you were going to see the Chief Whip this morning. I’ll be thinking of you.”

“That’s kind, Ronnie, but I went into it with my eyes wide open. As an advocate of free enterprise, I can hardly complain when I turn out to be one of its victims.”

“A very philosophical attitude for this time of the morning.”

“How are things your end?”

“The receiver’s checking the books. I still believe we can get out with all our creditors fully paid. At least that way I’ll avoid the stigma of bankruptcy.” There was a longer pause. “Oh Christ, that was tactless.”

“Don’t worry about it, Ronnie, the overdraft was my decision.”

Simon already wished he had been as frank with his wife.

“Let’s have lunch one day next week.”

“It will have to be somewhere that takes luncheon vouchers,” said Simon wryly.

“Good luck, mate,” said Ronnie.

Simon decided to fill up the remaining thirty minutes at the House by going to the library and glancing over the rest of the morning press. He settled himself in a corner of the “B” Room, next to the fireplace over which hung a notice reminding members not to have overloud or prolonged conversations. He leafed through the papers, which all carried photographs of Andrew Fraser and his wife and son. The same portrait of five-year-old Robert appeared on almost every front page. Elizabeth was right: in so many respects they were lucky.

The story of the probable break-up of Nethercote and Company was detailed on the financial pages. They quoted approvingly Ronnie’s view that all creditors ought to be paid in full. Not one of the articles mentioned Simon’s name, but he could already anticipate the headlines in tomorrow’s paper with another picture of a young MP and his happy family. The Rise and Fall of Simon Kerslake.” Over ten years’ work quickly forgotten: he would be old news within a week.

The library clock inched toward the hour that he could no longer put off. Simon heaved himself out of the deep leather chair like an old man and walked slowly toward the Chief Whip’s office.

Miss Norse, the Chiefs ancient secretary, smiled benignly as he came in.

“Good morning, Mr. Kerslake,” she said brightly. “I’m afraid the Chief is still with Mrs. Thatcher but I did remind him of your appointment so I don’t expect him to be long. Would you care to have a seat?”

“Thank you,” he said.

Alec Pimkin always claimed that Miss Norse had a set patter for every occasion. His imitation of her saying, “I hope I find you in rude health, Mr. Pimkin,” had brought chuckles to the Members’ Dining Room on many occasions. He must have exaggerated, thought Simon.

“I hope I find you in rude health, Mr. Kerslake,” said Miss Norse, not looking up from her typing. Simon choked back a laugh.

“Very rude, thank you,” he said, wondering how many tragic stories or tales of lost opportunities Miss Norse had had to listen to over the years. She stopped suddenly and looked at her note pad.

“I should have mentioned it to you before, Mr, Kerslake, a Mr. Nethercote rang.”

“Thank you, I’ve spoken to him already.”

Simon was leafing through an out-of-date copy of Punch when the Chief Whip strode in.

“I can spare you one minute, Simon, one and a half if you are going to resign,” he said, laughing, and marched off toward his office. As Simon followed him down the corridor the phone by Miss Norse’s side rang. “It’s for you, Mr. Kerslake,” she shouted to their retreating backs.

Simon turned and said, “Can you take the number?”

“He says it’s urgent.”

Simon stopped, hesitating. “With you in a moment,” he said to the Chief Whip, who disappeared into his office. Simon walked back and took the phone from Miss Norse’s outstretched hand.

“Simon Kerslake here. Who is it?”

“It’s Ronnie.”

“Ronnie,” said Simon flatly.

“I’ve just had a call from Morgan Grenfell. One of their clients has made an offer of one pound twenty-five a share for the company and they’re willing to take over the current liabilities.”

Simon was trying to do the sums in his head.

“Don’t bother working it out,” Ronnie said. “At one pound twenty-five your shares would be worth £75,000.”

“It won’t be enough,” said Simon, as he recalled his overdraft of £108,712, a figure etched in his memory.

“Don’t panic. I’ve told them I won’t settle for anything less than one pound fifty a share and it has to be within seven days, which will give them ample time to check the books. That would bring you in £90,000 but you would still be £18,000 down the Swanee, which you’ll have to team to live with. If you sell the wife as well as the second car you should just about survive.”

Simon could tell by the way his friend was speaking that Ronnie already had a cigar between his lips.

“You’re a genius.”

“Not me — Morgan Grenfell. And I bet they’ll make a handsome profit in the long run for their unnamed client who seemed to have all the inside information. If you’re still on for lunch next Tuesday, don’t bring your luncheon vouchers. It’s on me.”

Simon put the phone down and kissed Miss Norse on the forehead. She was completely taken aback by a situation for which she had no set reply. She remained silent as the Chief Whip put his head round the door. “An orgy in the Chief Whip’s office? You’ll be on page three of the Sun next, Miss Norse.” Simon laughed. “I’ve got a crisis on over tonight’s vote. The Government are reneging on our agreement for pairing, and I have to get a delegation back from Brussels in time for the ten o’clock division. Whatever it is, can it wait, Simon?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Can you come to my office, Miss Norse — if I can drag you away from James Double-O-Seven Kerslake?”

Simon left and almost bounced to the nearest phone. First he called Elizabeth and then Archie Millburn at his office. Archie didn’t sound all that surprised.

“Don’t you think it might be wise for us to stop seeing each other?”

“Why?” said Raymond. “Palmerston had a mistress when he was seventy, and he still beat Disraeli come the election.”

“Yes, but that was before the days of a dozen national newspapers and investigative journalism. Frankly it wouldn’t take a Woodward or Bernstein more than a few hours to discover our little secret.”

“We’ll be all right. I’ve destroyed all the tapes.”

“Do be serious.”

“You’re always telling me I’m far too serious.”

“Well, I want you to be now. Very.”

Raymond turned to face Kate. “I love you, Kate, and I know I always will. Why don’t we stop this charade and get married?”

She sighed. “We’ve been over this a hundred times. I’ll want to return to America eventually, and in any case I wouldn’t make a very good Prime Minister’s wife.”

“Three American women have in the past,” said Raymond sulkily.

“To hell with your historical precedents — and what’s more, I hate Leeds.”

“You’ve never been there.”

“I don’t need to if it’s colder than London.”

“Then you’ll have to be satisfied with being my mistress.” Raymond took Kate in his arms. “You know, I used to think being Prime Minister was worth every sacrifice, but now I’m not so sure.”

“It’s still worth the sacrifice,” said Kate, “as you’ll discover when you live at No. 10. Come on, or my dinner will be burned to a cinder.”

“You haven’t noticed these,” said Raymond smugly, pointing down at his feet.

Kate stared at the fashionable new slip-ons.

“I never thought the day would come,” she said. “Pity you’re starting to go bald.”

When Simon returned home his first words were “We’ll survive.”

“Thank God for that,” Elizabeth said. “But what have you done about your resignation letter?”

“Archie said he would return it the day I became Prime Minister.”

“If that’s ever to be true I want you to promise me just one thing.”

“Anything,” said Simon.

“You’ll never speak to Ronnie Nethercote again.”

For a moment Simon hesitated before saying, “That’s not completely fair, Elizabeth, because I haven’t been totally straight with you from the beginning.” He then sat his wife down on the sofa and told her the whole truth.

It was Elizabeth’s turn to remain silent.

“Oh, hell,” she said, looking up at Simon. “I do hope Ronnie can forgive me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I phoned him back soon after you had left for the Commons and I spent at least ten minutes telling him why he was the biggest two-faced bastard I’d ever come across, and I didn’t want to hear from him again in my life.”

It was Simon’s turn to collapse on to the sofa. “How did he respond?” he asked anxiously. Elizabeth faced her husband. “That’s the strange thing, he didn’t even protest. He just apologized.”

“Do you think she will ever speak again?”

“God knows, I hope so,” said his father, staring at the picture of his grandchild on the mantelpiece. “She’s still young enough to have another child.”

Andrew shook his head. “No, that’s out of the question. The doctor warned me a long time ago that could be dangerous.”

He had returned home from hospital ten days after the accident. The first thing he and Louise did was to attend Robert’s funeral. With Andrew on crutches, Sir Duncan had to support Louise during the short service. As soon as the burial was over Andrew took his wife back to Cheyne Walk and put her to bed, before returning downstairs to join his parents.

Andrew mother bowed her head. “Whatever happens, you must move from this place as soon as possible. Every time Louise looks out of that kitchen window she’ll relive the tragedy.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Andrew. “I’ll start looking for a new house immediately.”

“And what do you plan to do about the Prime Minister’s offer?” inquired Sir Duncan.

“I haven’t finally made up my mind,” he said sharply. “He’s given me until Monday to come to a decision.”

“You must take it, Andrew. If you don’t your political career will be finished. You can’t sit at home and mourn Robert’s death for the rest of your life.”

Andrew looked up at his father. “No goal, Dad, no goal,” he murmured and left them to go and sit with Louise in the bedroom. Her eyes were open but there was no expression on her face. Little white hairs had appeared at either side of her head that he had not noticed the week before. “Feeling any better, my darling?” he asked.

There was still no reply.

He undressed and climbed into bed beside her, holding her close, but she did not respond. She felt detached and distant. He watched his tears fall on her shoulder and run down on to the pillow. He fell asleep and woke again at three in the morning. No one had closed the curtains and the moon shone in through the windows, lighting the room. He looked at his wife. She had not moved.

Charles paced up and down the room angrily.

“Give me the figures again.”

“Nethercote has accepted a bid of £7,500,000, which works out at one pound fifty a share,” said Clive Reynolds.

Charles stopped at his desk and scribbled the figures down on a piece of paper. £90,000, leaving a shortfall of only £18,000. It wouldn’t be enough. “Damn,” he said.

“I agree,” said Reynolds, “I always thought we were premature to lose our position in the company in the first place.”

“An opinion you will not voice outside this room,” said Charles.

Clive Reynolds did not reply.

“What’s happened to Nethercote himself?” asked Charles, searching for any scrap of information he could find about Simon Kerslake.

“I’m told he’s starting up again in a smaller way. Morgan Grenfell were delighted by the deal and the manner in which he handled the company during the takeover. I must say we let it fall into their laps.”

“Can we get any stock in the new company?” asked Charles, ignoring his comment.

“I doubt it. It’s only capitalized at one million although Morgan Grenfell are giving Nethercote a large overdraft facility as part of the deal.”

“Then all that remains necessary is to see the matter is never referred to again.”

Andrew spent the weekend reading over the letters of condolence sent to him and Louise. There were over a thousand, many from people he didn’t even know. He selected a few to take into the bedroom and read to Louise; not that he was sure she could even hear him. The doctor had told him not to disturb her unless it was really necessary. After such a severe shock she was now suffering from acute depression and must be nursed slowly back to health. Louise had walked a few paces the previous day but needed to rest today, the doctor explained to him.

He sat by the side of their bed, and quietly read the letters from the Prime Minister, from a contrite Jock McPherson, from Simon Kerslake, from Raymond Gould, and from Mrs. Bloxham. There was no sign that Louise had taken in anything he had said.

“What shall I do about the PM’s offer?” he asked. “Shall I accept it?”

She made no response of any kind.

“He’s asked me to be the Minister of State for Defense, but I need to know how you would feel.” After sitting with her for a few more minutes and eliciting no response he left her to rest.

Each night he slept with her and tried to infuse her with his love, but he only felt more alone.

On the Monday morning he called his father and told him he had decided to turn down the Prime Minister’s offer. He couldn’t leave Louise alone for long periods while she was still in this state.

Andrew returned to the bedroom and sat by her side.

He said in a whisper, as if to himself, “Should I have taken the job?”

Louise gave such a slight nod that Andrew nearly missed it but her fingers were moving. He placed his hand between her fingers and palm and she squeezed gently and repeated the nod, then fell asleep.

Andrew phoned the Prime Minister.

Raymond dug deeper into the red box.

“You enjoying yourself, Carrot Top?”

“It’s fascinating,” said Raymond. “Do you know—”

“No, I don’t. You haven’t spoken to me in the last three hours, and when you do it’s to tell me how you spend the day with your new mistress.”

“My new mistress?”

“The Secretary of State for Trade.”

“Oh, him.”

“Yes, him.”

“What sort of day did you have at the bank?” asked Raymond, not looking up from his papers.

“I had a most fascinating day,” replied Kate.

“Why, what happened?”

“One of our customers required a loan,” said Kate.

“A loan,” repeated Raymond, still concentrating on the file in front of him. “How much?”

“‘How much do you want?’ I said. ‘How much have you got?’ they asked. ‘Four hundred and seventeen billion at the last count,’ I told them. That will do fine to start with,’ they said. ‘Sign here,’ I said. But I couldn’t close the deal because the lady concerned was only in possession of a £50 banking card.”

Raymond burst out laughing and slammed down the lid of the red box. “Do you know why I love you?”

“My taste in men’s clothes?” suggested Kate.

“No, no. Just your taste in men.”

“I always thought that mistresses were supposed to get fur coats, trips to the Bahamas, the odd solitaire diamond, yet all I ever get is to share you with your red box.”

Raymond opened the box once more, took out a small package, and handed it to Kate.

“What’s this?”

“Why don’t you open it and find out?”

Kate slipped off the purple Asprey paper and found inside an exquisitely made miniature, a solid gold replica of a red box on a gold chain. The neat lettering on the side of the lid read, “For Your Eyes Only.”

“Although they don’t announce the birthdays of ministers’ mistresses in the Sunday Times, I can still remember the day we met.”

Andrew made a bid for the house in Pelham Crescent the day he was shown over it, and Louise’s mother came down to London immediately to organize the move.

“Let’s hope this does the trick,” she said.

Andrew prayed for nothing more. The move from Cheyne Walk took about a fortnight, and Louise could still walk only a few paces before she had to sit down. Louise’s mother rarely left the house and Andrew began to feel guilty about how much he was enjoying his new job at the Ministry of Defense. Each night and then again in the morning he would try a few words to Louise. She nodded occasionally, touched him once in a while and even began writing notes to him, but never spoke and never cried. The doctor became even more pessimistic. “The crucial time has passed,” he explained.

Andrew would sit with her for hours while he worked through the red boxes. Harrier jump jets for the RAF, Polaris missiles for the Royal Navy, Chieftain tanks for the Army, what should Labour’s attitude be to Trident when Polaris was phased out? Should we allow Cruise to be based on British soil? There was so much to learn before he could face the civil servants on their own ground or the members from the dispatch box. As the months passed Andrew was always asking questions; a year had gone by and he was beginning to know some of the answers.

He looked up at his wife once again. She was gazing at the portrait of Robert on the mantelpiece.

On the anniversary of his son’s sixth birthday Andrew stayed at Pelham Crescent all day with Louise. For the first time a tear lodged in her eye. As he held her, he kept remembering the lorry. He could see it so clearly now as if in slow motion. If only the phone hadn’t gone, if only the gate had been closed, if only he had turned earlier, if only he had run a little faster. “No goal, Dad, no goal.”

If only he had scored that goal.

Chapter twenty-one

Raymond entered a Washington ablaze with red, white, and blue as the Americans prepared for their bicentennial. He was among the three ministers chosen to represent the United Kingdom when they presented a copy of Magna Carta to the United States Congress. He was making his first trip to America on Concorde only a few weeks after its inaugural flight. Tom Carson had complained to the House about the expense of the trip but his words had fallen upon a silent Chamber.

As the plane taxied to a halt at Dulles airport three limousines drew up. The three ministers were given a car each and motorcycle outriders rushed them to the grounds of the British Embassy on Massachusetts Avenue in less than thirty minutes.

Raymond had an immediate love affair with America, perhaps because it reminded him so much of Kate with its bubbling enthusiasm, its spirit, and sense of perpetual innovation. During the ten-day visit he managed to forge several useful contacts in the Senate and House, and over the weekend became an unrepentant sightseer of the beautiful Virginia countryside. He concentrated on getting to know those contemporaries whom he felt would be on the American political stage for the next twenty years, while his more senior colleagues dealt with President Ford and his immediate entourage.

Raymond enjoyed starting each day with the Washington Post and the New York Times. He quickly learned how to reject those sections that seemed full of endless advertisements for non-essentials he couldn’t believe anyone really bought. Once he had finished reading both papers he found he had to wash his hands as they were always black with newsprint. The one occasion he kept the Outlook section of the Washington Post was when it did profiles on the three ministers from London. He tucked the paper away as he wanted to show Kate the paragraph that read: “The two Secretaries of State are interesting men at the end of their careers, but it is Raymond Gould we should keep our eyes on because he has the look of a future Prime Minister.”

As Raymond flew out of Washington on his way back to London he presumed, like any lover, that the affair with America could be continued whenever he chose to return.

Simon was in Manchester as a guest of the Business School when he received Elizabeth’s message to call her. It was most unusual for Elizabeth to phone in the middle of the day and Simon assumed the worst: something must have happened to the children. The Principal of the Business School accompanied him to his private office, then left him alone.

Dr. Kerslake was not at the hospital, he was told, which made him even more anxious. He dialed the Beaufort Street number.

Elizabeth picked up the receiver so quickly that she must have been sitting by the phone waiting for him to call.

“I’ve been sacked,” she said.

“What?” said Simon, unable to comprehend.

“I’ve been made redundant — isn’t that the modern term meant to lessen the blow? The hospital governors have been instructed by the Department of Health and Social Security to make cutbacks and three of us in gynecology have lost our jobs. I go at the end of the month.”

“Darling, I’m sorry,” he said, knowing how inadequate his words must have sounded.

“I didn’t mean to bother you, but I just wanted someone to talk to,” she said. “Everyone else is allowed to complain to their MP, so I thought it was my turn.”

“Normally what I do in these circumstances is to put the blame on the Labour party.” Simon was relieved to hear Elizabeth laugh.

“Thanks for ringing me back so quickly, darling. See you tomorrow,” she said and put the phone down.

Simon returned to his group and explained that he had to leave for London immediately. He took a taxi to the airport and caught the next shuttle to Heathrow. He was back at Beaufort Street within three hours.

“I didn’t mean you to come home,” Elizabeth said contritely when she saw him on the doorstep.

“I’ve come back to celebrate,” Simon said. “Let’s open the bottle of champagne that Ronnie gave us when he closed the deal with Morgan Grenfell.”

“Why?”

“Because Ronnie taught me one thing. You should always celebrate disasters, not successes.”

Simon hung up his coat and went off in search of the champagne. When he returned with the bottle and two glasses Elizabeth asked, “What’s your overdraft looking like nowadays?”

“Down to £16,000, give or take a pound.”

“Well, that’s another problem then, I won’t be giving any pounds in the future, only taking.”

“Don’t be silly. Someone will snap you up,” he said, embracing her.

“It won’t be quite that easy,” said Elizabeth.

“Why not?” asked Simon, trying to sound cheerful.

“Because I had already been warned about whether I wanted to be a politician’s wife or a doctor.”

Simon was stunned. “I had no idea,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was my choice, darling, but I will have to make one or two decisions if I want to remain in medicine, especially if you’re going to become a minister.”

Simon remained silent: he had always wanted Elizabeth to make this decision herself and he was determined not to try to influence her.

“If only we weren’t so short of money.”

“Don’t worry about the money,” said Simon.

“I do worry, but it may just be an excuse because I worry more about becoming bored when the children have grown up. I just wasn’t cut out to be a politician’s wife,” she added. “You should have married someone like Fiona Seymour and you’d be Prime Minister by now.”

“If that’s the only way I can be sure of getting the job I’ll stick with you,” said Simon, taking Elizabeth in his arms. Simon couldn’t help thinking of all the support his wife had given him during their marriage and even more so since his financial crisis. He knew exactly what his wife must do.

“You mustn’t be allowed to give up being a doctor,” he said. “It’s every bit as important as wanting to be a minister. Shall I have a word with Gerry Vaughan? As Shadow spokesman for Health he might—”

“Certainly not, Simon. If I am to get another job, it’ll be without anyone doing you or me a favor.”

Louise was now coping on her own, and had almost returned to a normal life except she still couldn’t speak. She seemed to be self-sufficient within her own world and the doctor agreed that she no longer needed a full-time nurse.

The day the nurse left Andrew decided to take Louise off for a week’s holiday abroad. He wanted to return to the South of France and the Colombe d’Or, but the specialist had advised against it, explaining that any past association might trigger off a memory that in itself could cause a further relapse.

“Witch doctors’ mumbo jumbo,” Andrew complained but nevertheless took her to Venice, not Colombe d’Or. Once there, he was delighted by the interest Louise showed in the beautiful and ancient city. Her eyes lit up at the sight of Torcello and she appeared to revel in the trip on a gondola down the twisting waterways past irreplaceable Italian architecture. Again and again she squeezed his hand. As they sat on a piazza for an evening drink, she inclined her head and listened to a quintet playing on St. Mark’s Square. Andrew was confident that she could now hear everything he told her. The night before they flew back to England he woke to find her reading James Morris’s Venice which he had left by his side of the bed. It was the first time she had opened a book since the accident. When he smiled at her she grinned back. He laughed, wanting to hear her laugh.

Andrew returned to the Ministry of Defense on Monday. On his desk there was a general directive from the Chancellor of the Exchequer, requiring the budget estimates for all the big-spending Departments of State. Andrew fought hard to keep the Polaris missile after being convinced by the Joint Chiefs of its strategic importance to the nation’s defense. He was, however, continually reminded by his colleagues in the House that it was party policy to rid themselves of “the warmongers’ toy.”

When the Secretary of State returned from Cabinet he told Andrew, “We’ve had our way: the Cabinet were impressed by the case. But I can promise you one thing — you won’t be the golden boy at this year’s party conference.”

“It will make a change for them even to notice me,” replied Andrew.

He breathed a sigh of relief while the Joint Chiefs were delighted, but a week later he lost — by default — the same argument with his own General Purposes Committee in Edinburgh. In his absence, they passed a resolution deploring the retention of the Polaris missile and demanded that all the ministers involved should reconsider their decision. They stopped short of naming Andrew, but everyone knew whose scalp they were after. His case was not helped by Tom Carson making yet another inflammatory speech in the House, claiming that Andrew had been browbeaten by the Joint Chiefs and was nothing more than a Polaris puppet.

Andrew’s trips to Edinburgh had become less frequent over the past year because of his commitments to Louise and the Defense Department. During the year three members of his General Management Committee had been replaced with a new group calling themselves “Militant Tendency” led by Frank Boyle. It wasn’t just Edinburgh Carlton that was facing the problem of a left-wing insurgence — as Andrew learned from colleague after colleague who was beginning to work out why the left were pushing a resolution at the party conference proposing that members should be re-selected for each election. Some of his more right-wing colleagues had already been replaced, and it didn’t take a Wrangler to work out that once a majority of the Trotskyites had secured places on his Management Committee Andrew could be removed at their whim, whatever his past experience or record.

Whenever Andrew was in Edinburgh the local people continually assured him of their support and their confidence in him, but he could not forget, despite their avowals, that it would still take only a handful of votes to remove him. Andrew feared what the outcome would be if many other members were facing the same problem as he faced in Edinburgh.

“Dad, can I have a new cricket bat, please?”

“What’s wrong with the old one?” asked Simon, as they came out of the house.

“It’s too small,” he said, waving it around as if it was an extension to his arm.

“It will have to do, I’m afraid.”

“But Martin Henderson’s dad has given him a new bat to start the season.”

“I’m sorry, Peter, the truth is that Martin’s father is far better off than I am.”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” said Peter with feeling. “I’m sure not going to be an MP when I grow up.” Simon smiled as his son removed an old cricket ball from his trouser pocket and tossed it over to his father. “Anyway, I bet you can’t get me out even though I’ve only got a small bat.”

“Don’t forget we still have the junior size stumps left over from last year,” said Simon, “so it will be just as hard to hit them.”

“Stop making excuses, Dad. Just admit you’re past it.”

Simon burst out laughing. “We’ll see,” he said, with more bravado than conviction. Simon always enjoyed a few overs in the garden against his elder son although at the age of thirteen Peter was already able to play his best deliveries with a confidence that was beginning to look ominous.

It was several overs before Simon removed Peter’s middle stump and took his turn at the crease.

Michael ran out of the house to join them in the field and Simon couldn’t help noticing that he was wearing a pair of jeans that were far too short and had once belonged to Peter.

“Get behind the wicket, nipper,” shouted Peter at his eleven-year-old brother. “Because that’s where most of the balls will be going.” Michael happily obeyed without comment.

A colleague in the House had recently warned Simon that by fourteen they began to beat you and by sixteen they hoped not to show they weren’t trying their hardest any longer.

Simon gritted his teeth as he watched his elder son’s fastest ball safely on to the middle of the bat. The way he was going Peter wouldn’t have to wait much longer before he could clean bowl him.

He managed to keep his wicket intact for a further five minutes before he was rescued by Elizabeth who came out to tell them that supper was ready.

“What, hamburgers and chips again?” said Michael as his mother put a plate in front of him.

“You’re lucky to get anything,” Elizabeth snapped back.

Simon cursed again at the damage his own selfish greed had brought upon his family, and marveled at how little they all complained. He said nothing, only too aware that the previous day Elizabeth had completed her last week at the hospital and was already missing St. Mary’s.

“How did you all get on?” she asked cheerily.

“I’ll survive,” said Simon, still thinking about his overdraft.

Once the Chancellor had presented his mini budget, in November 1976, the long process of the Finance Bill, confirming all the new measures proposed, fully occupied the House. Charles, although not a member of the front-bench finance team, regularly took the lead among back-benchers on clauses on which he had specialist knowledge.

He and Clive Reynolds studied the new Finance Bill meticulously and between them picked out the seven clauses that would have an adverse effect on banking.

Reynolds guided Charles through each clause, suggesting changes, rewording, and on some occasions presenting an argument for deleting whole sections of the bill. Charles learned quickly and was soon adding his own ideas; one or two even made Give Reynolds reconsider. After Charles had put forward amendments to the House on three of the clauses both front benches became respectfully attentive whenever he rose to present a case. One morning, after the Government’s defeat on a clause relating to banking loans, he received a note of congratulation from Margaret Thatcher.

The clause Charles most wanted to see removed from the bill concerned a client’s right to privacy when dealing with a merchant bank. The Shadow Chancellor was aware of Charles’s specialized knowledge on this subject and invited him to oppose clause 110 from the front bench. Charles realized that if he could defeat the Government on this clause he might be invited to join the Shadow finance team in the run-up to the general election.

Judging by the chairman of Ways and Means’ selection of amendments the Whips estimated that clause 110 on banking privacy would be reached some time on Thursday afternoon.

On Thursday morning Charles rehearsed his arguments thoroughly with Clive Reynolds, who only had one or two minor amendments to add before Charles set off for the House. When he arrived at the Commons there was a note on the message board asking him to phone the Shadow Chancellor urgently.

“The Government are going to accept a Liberal amendment tabled late last night,” the Shadow Chancellor told him.

“Why?” said Charles.

“Minimum change is what they’re really after, but it gets them off the hook and at the same time keeps the Liberal vote intact. In essence nothing of substance has changed, but you’ll need to study the wording carefully. Can I leave you to handle the problem?”

“Certainly,” said Charles, pleased with the responsibility with which they were now entrusting him.

He walked down the long corridor to the vote office and picked up the sheet with clause 110 on it and the proposed Liberal amendment. He read them both through half a dozen times before he started to make notes. Parliamentary counsel, with their usual expertise, had produced an ingenious amendment. Charles ducked into a nearby phone booth and rang Clive Reynolds at the bank. Charles dictated the amendment over the phone to him and then remained silent while Reynolds considered its implications.

“Clever bunch of sharpies. It’s a cosmetic job, but it won’t change the power it invests in the Government one iota. Were you thinking of returning to the bank? That would give me time to work on it.”

“No,” said Charles. “Are you free for lunch?”

Clive Reynolds checked his diary: a Belgian banker would be lunching in the boardroom but his colleagues could handle that. “Yes, I’m free.”

“Good,” said Charles. “Why don’t you join me at White’s around one o’clock?”

“Thank you,” said Reynolds. “By then I should have had enough time to come up with some credible alternatives.”

Charles spent the rest of the morning rewriting his speech which he hoped would counter the Liberal argument and make them reconsider their position. If it met with Reynolds’s imprimatur the day could still be his. He read through the clause once more, convinced he had found a way through the loophole the civil servants couldn’t block. He placed his speech and the amended clause in his inside pocket and went down to the Members’ Entrance and jumped into a waiting taxi.

As the cab drove up St. James’s Charles thought he saw his wife coming down the opposite side of the road. He pushed down the window to be sure but she had disappeared into Prunier’s. He wondered with which of her girlfriends she was lunching.

The cab traveled on up St. James’s and came to a halt outside White’s. Charles found he was a few minutes early so he decided to walk down to Prunie’s and ask Fiona if she would like to come to the House after lunch and hear him oppose the clause. Reaching the restaurant he glanced through the pane-glass window. He froze on the spot. Fiona was chatting at the bar with a man whose back was to Charles but he thought he recognized his profile although he couldn’t be certain. He noticed that his wife was wearing a dress he had never seen before. He didn’t move as he watched a waiter bow, then guide the pair toward a corner table where they were conveniently out of sight. Charles’s first instinct was to march straight in and confront them, but he remained outside. For what seemed an interminable time he stood alone, uncertain what to do next. Finally he crossed back over St. James’s Street and stood in the doorway of the Economist building going over several plans. In the end he decided to do nothing but wait. He stood there so cold and so incensed that he did not consider returning for his lunch appointment with Clive Reynolds a few hundred yards up the road.

An hour and twenty minutes later the man came out of Prunier’s alone and headed up St. James’s. Charles felt a sense of relief until he saw him turn into St. James’s Place. He checked his watch: Reynolds would have left by now but he would still be well in time for clause number 110. A few minutes later Fiona stepped out of the restaurant and followed in the man’s footsteps. Charles crossed the road, causing a cab to swerve while another motorist slammed on her brakes. He didn’t notice. He shadowed his wife, careful to keep a safe distance. When she reached the far end of the passage he watched Fiona enter the Stafford Hotel. Once she was through the swing doors Fiona stepped into an empty lift.

Charles came up to the swing doors and stared at the little numbers above the lift, watching them light up in succession until they stopped at four.

Charles marched through the swing doors and up to the reception desk.

“Can I help you, sir?” the hall porter asked.

“Er — is the dining room in this hotel on the fourth floor?” asked Charles.

“No, sir,” replied the hall porter, surprised. “The dining room is on the ground floor to your left” — he indicated the way with a sweep of his hand — “there are only bedrooms on the fourth floor.”

“Thank you,” said Charles and marched back outside.

He returned slowly to the Economist building, incensed, where he waited for nearly two hours pacing up and down St. James’s before the man emerged from the Stafford Hotel; Alexander Dalglish hailed a taxi and disappeared in the direction of Piccadilly.

Fiona left the hotel about twenty minutes later, and took the path through to the park before setting off toward Eaton Square. On three occasions Charles had to fall back to be certain Fiona didn’t spot him; once he was so close he thought he saw a smile of satisfaction come over her face.

He had followed his wife most of the way across St. James’s Park when he suddenly remembered. He checked his watch, then dashed back to the roadside, hailed a taxi, and shouted, “The House of Commons, as fast as you can.” The cabbie took seven minutes and Charles passed him two pound notes before running up the steps into the Members’ Lobby and through to the Chamber out of breath. He stopped by the Serjeant-at-Arms’s chair.

From the table where he sat during Committee of the whole House, the Mace lowered on its supports in front of the table, the chairman of Ways and Means faced a packed House. He read from the division list.

The Government benches cheered and the Conservatives looked distinctly glum. “What clause were they debating?” a still out of breath Charles asked the Serjeant-at-Arms.

“Clause 110, Mr. Seymour.”