First Among Equals

Chapter twenty-two

Raymond’s second trip to the States was at the behest of the Secretary of State for Trade: he was asked to present the country’s export and import assessment to the International Monetary Fund, following up a loan granted to Britain the previous November. His civil servants went over the prepared speech with him again and again, emphasizing to their minister the responsibility that had been placed on his shoulders. Even the Governor of the Bank of England’s private office had been consulted.

“A chance to impress a few people beyond the boundaries of Leeds,” Kate assured him.

Raymond’s speech was scheduled for the Wednesday morning. He flew into Washington on the Sunday and spent Monday and Tuesday listening to the problems of other nations’ trade ministers while trying to get used to the dreadful earphones and the female interpreter.

The conference was attended by most of the leading industrial nations and the British Ambassador, Sir Peter Ramsbotham, told Raymond over dinner at the Embassy that this was a real chance to convince the hard-headed international bankers that Britain cared about economic realities and was still worth their financial backing.

Raymond soon realized that convincing such a gathering required a very different technique from shouting from a soap box on a street corner in Leeds or even addressing the House from the dispatch box. He was glad he had not been scheduled to present his case on the opening day. Over leisurely lunches he re-established his existing contacts in Congress and made some new ones.

The night before he was to deliver his speech Raymond hardly slept. He continued to rehearse each crucial phrase and repeated the salient points that needed to be emphasized until he almost knew them by heart. At three o’clock in the morning he dropped his speech on the floor beside his bed and phoned Kate to have a chat before she went to work.

“I’d enjoy hearing your speech at the conference,” she told him. “Although I don’t suppose it would be much different from the thirty times I’ve listened to it in the bedroom.”

Once he had said good-bye to Kate he fell into a deep sleep. He woke early that morning and went over the speech one last time before leaving for the conference center.

All the homework and preparation proved worthwhile. By the time he turned the last page Raymond couldn’t be certain how convincing his case had been, but he knew it was the best speech he had ever delivered. When he looked up the smiles all around the oval table assured him that his contribution had been well received. As the ambassador pointed out to him as he rose to leave, any signs of emotion at these gatherings were almost unknown. He felt confident that the IMF loan would be renewed.

There followed two further speeches before they broke for lunch. At the end of the afternoon session Raymond walked out into the clear Washington air and decided to make his way back to the Embassy on foot. He was exhilarated by the experience of dominating an international conference and picked up an evening paper: an article covering the conference suggested that Raymond would be Britain’s next Labor Chancellor. He smiled at the spelling. Just the closing day to go, followed by the official banquet and he would be back home by the weekend.

When he reached the Embassy the guard had to double-check: they weren’t used to ministers arriving on foot and without a bodyguard. Raymond was allowed to proceed down the tree-lined drive toward the massive Lutyens building. He looked up to see the British flag was flying at half mast and wondered which distinguished American had died.

“Who has died?” he asked the tail-coated butler who opened the door for him.

“The Foreign Secretary, sir.”

“Anthony Crosland? I knew he had gone into hospital, but...” said Raymond almost to himself. He hurried into the Embassy to find it abuzz with telexes and coded messages. Raymond sat alone in his private sitting room for several hours and later, to the horror of the security staff, slipped out for a quiet dinner at the Mayflower Hotel with Senator Hart.

Raymond returned to the conference table at nine o’clock the next morning to listen to the French Minister of Commerce put his case for renewed funds. He was savoring the thought of the official banquet at the White House to be held that evening when he was tapped on the shoulder by Sir Peter Ramsbotham, who indicated by touching his lips with his forefinger and pointing that they must have a word in private.

“The Prime Minister wants you to return on the midmorning Concorde,” said Sir Peter. “It leaves in an hour. On arrival in Britain you’re to go straight to Downing Street.”

“What’s this all about?”

“I have no idea, that was the only instruction I received from No. 10,” confided the ambassador.

Raymond returned to the conference table and made his apologies to the chairman, left the room, and was driven immediately to the waiting plane. “Your bags will follow, sir,” he was assured.

He was back on English soil three hours and forty-one minutes later, a little after seven-thirty. The purser ensured that he was the first to disembark. A car waiting by the side of the plane whisked him to Downing Street. He arrived just as the Prime Minister was going to dinner, accompanied by an elderly African statesman who was waving his trademark fan back and forth.

“Welcome home, Ray,” said the Prime Minister, leaving the African leader. “I’d ask you to join us, but as you can see I’m entertaining the President of Malawi. Let’s have a word in my study.”

Once Raymond had settled into a chair Mr. Callaghan wasted no time.

“Because of Tony’s tragic death I have had to make a few changes which will include moving the Secretary of State for Trade. I was hoping you would be willing to take over from him.”

Raymond sat up straighter. “I should be honored, Prime Minister.”

“Good. You’ve earned your promotion, Raymond. I also hear you did us proud in America, very proud.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ll be appointed to the Privy Council immediately and your first Cabinet meeting will be at ten o’clock tomorrow. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must catch up with Dr. Banda.”

Raymond was left standing in the hall.

He asked his driver to take him back to the flat. All he wanted to do was to tell Kate the news. When he arrived the flat was empty: then he remembered she wasn’t expecting him back until the next day. He phoned her home but after twenty continuous rings he resigned himself to the fact that she was out. “Damn,” he said out loud, and after pacing around phoned Joyce to let her know the news. Once again there was no reply.

He went into the kitchen and checked to see what was in the fridge: a piece of curled-up bacon, some half-eaten Brie, three eggs. He couldn’t help thinking about the banquet he was missing at the White House.

The Right Honorable Raymond Gould QC, MP, Her Britannic Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for Trade, sat on the kitchen stool, opened a tin of baked beans, and devoured them with a fork.

Charles closed the file. It had taken him a month to gather all the proof he needed. Albert Cruddick, the private investigator Charles had selected from the Yellow Pages, had been expensive but discreet. Dates, times, places were all fully chronicled. The only name was that of Alexander Dalglish, the same rendezvous, lunch at Prunier’s followed by the Stafford Hotel. They hadn’t stretched Mr. Guddick’s imagination but at least the detective had spared Charles the necessity of standing in the entrance of the Economist building once, sometimes twice a week for hours on end.

Somehow he had managed to get through that month without giving himself away. He had also made his own notes of the dates and times Fiona claimed she was going to be in the constituency. He had then called his agent in Sussex Downs and, after veiled questioning, elicited answers that corroborated Mr. Cruddick’s findings.

Charles saw as little of Fiona as possible during this time, explaining that the Finance Bill was occupying his every moment. His lie had at least a semblance of credibility for he had worked tirelessly on the remaining clauses left for debate, and by the time the watered-down bill had become law he had just about recovered from the disaster of the Government’s successful retention of clause 110.

Charles placed the file on the table by the side of his chair and waited patiently for the call. He knew exactly where she was at that moment and just the thought of it made him sick to his stomach. The phone rang.

“The subject left five minutes ago,” said a voice.

“Thank you,” said Charles and replaced the receiver. He knew it would take her about twenty minutes to reach home.

“Why do you think she walks home instead of taking a taxi?” he had once asked Mr. Cruddick.

“Gets rid of any smells,” Mr. Cruddick had replied quite matter-of-factly.

Charles shuddered. “And what about him? What does he do?” He never could refer to him as Alexander, or even Dalglish; or as anything but “him.”

“He goes to the Lansdowne Club, swims ten lengths or plays a game of squash before returning home. Swimming and squash both solve the problem,” Mr. Cruddick explained cheerily.

The key turned in the lock. Charles braced himself and picked up the file. Fiona came straight into the drawing room and was visibly shaken to discover her husband sitting in an armchair with a small suitcase by his side.

She recovered quickly, walked over, and kissed him on the cheek. “What brings you home so early, darling? The Socialists taken the day off?” She laughed nervously at her joke.

“This,” he said, standing up and holding the file out to her.

She took off her coat and dropped it over the sofa. Then she opened the buff folder and started to read. He watched her carefully. First the color drained from her cheeks, then her legs gave way and she collapsed onto the sofa. Finally she started to sob.

“It’s not true, none of it,” she protested.

“You know very well that every detail is accurate.”

“Charles, it’s you I love, I don’t care about him, you must believe that.”

“I believe nothing of the sort,” said Charles. “You’re no longer someone I could live with.”

“Live with? I’ve been living on my own since the day you entered Parliament.”

“Perhaps I might have come home more often if you had showed some interest in starting a family.”

“And do you imagine I am to blame for that inadequacy?” she said.

Charles ignored the innuendo and continued. “In a few moments I am going to my club where I shall spend the night. I expect you to be out of this house within seven days. When I return I want there to be no sign of you or any of your goods or chattels, to quote the original agreement.”

“Where will I go?” she cried.

“You could try your lover first, but no doubt his wife might object. Failing that, you can camp down at your feather’s place.”

“What if I refuse to go?” said Fiona, turning to defiance.

“Then I shall throw you out, as one should a whore, and cite Alexander Dalglish in a very messy divorce case.”

“Give me another chance. I’ll never look at him again,” begged Fiona, starting to cry once more.

“I seem to remember your telling me that once before, and indeed I did give you another chance. The results have been all too plain to sec.” He pointed to the file where it had fallen to the floor.

Fiona stopped weeping when she realized that Charles remained unmoved.

“I shall not see you again. We shall be separated for at least two years, when we will carry through as quiet a divorce as possible in the circumstances. If you cause me a moment of embarrassment I shall drag you both through the mire. Believe me.”

“You’ll regret your decision, Charles. I promise you. I’ll not be pushed aside quite that easily.”

“They’ve done what?” said Joyce.

“Two Communists have put their names forward for election to the General Purposes Committee,” repeated Fred Padgett.

“Over my dead body.” Joyce’s voice was unusually sharp.

“I thought that would be your attitude,” said Fred.

Joyce searched for the pencil and paper that were normally on the table by the phone.

“When’s the meeting?” she asked.

“Next Thursday.”

“Have we got reliable people to stand against them?”

“Of course,” said Fred. “Councillor Reg Illingworth and Jenny Simpkins from the Co-op.”

“They’re both sensible enough but between them they couldn’t knock the skin off a rice pudding.”

“Shall I phone Raymond at the House and get him to come up for the meeting?”

“No,” said Joyce, “He’s got enough to worry about now that he’s in the Cabinet without piling up trouble for him in Leeds. Leave it to me.”

She replaced the receiver and sat down to compose her thoughts. A few minutes later she went over to her desk and rummaged about for the full list of the G.P. Committee. She checked the sixteen names carefully, realizing that if two Communists were to get themselves elected this time within five years they could control the committee — and then even remove Raymond. She knew how these people worked. With any luck, if they got bloody noses now they might slink off to another constituency.

She checked the sixteen names once more before putting on a pair of sensible walking shoes. During the next four days she visited several homes in the area. “I was just passing,” she explained to nine of the wives who had husbands on the committee. The four men who never listened to a word their wives said were visited by Joyce after work. The three who had never cared for Raymond were left well alone.

By Thursday afternoon thirteen people knew only too well what was expected of them. Joyce sat alone hoping he would call that evening. She cooked herself a Lancashire hotpot but only picked at it, then later fell asleep in front of the television when she tried to watch the final episode of Roots. The phone woke her at five past eleven.

“Raymond?”

“Hope I didn’t wake you,” said Fred.

“No, no,” said Joyce, now impatient to learn the outcome of the meeting. “What happened?”

“Reg and Jenny walked it. Those two Communist bastards only managed three votes between them.”

“Well done,” said Joyce.

“I did nothing,” said Fred, “except count the votes. Shall I tell Raymond what’s been happening?”

“No,” said Joyce. “No need to let him think we’ve had any trouble.”

Joyce fell back into the chair by the phone, kicked off her walking shoes, and went back to sleep.

She knew she had to plan the whole operation so that her husband would never find out. She sat alone in the house considering the several alternative ways in which she could deceive him. After hours of unproductive thought the idea finally came in a flash. She went over the problems and repercussions again and again until she was convinced that nothing could go wrong. She leafed through the Yellow Pages and made an appointment for the following morning.

The saleslady helped her to try on several wigs, but only one was bearable.

“I think it makes Modom look most elegant, I must say.”

She knew that it didn’t — it made Modom look awful — but she hoped it would serve its purpose.

She then applied the eye makeup and lipstick she had acquired at Harrods, and pulled out from the back of her cupboard a floral dress she had never liked. She stood in front of the mirror and checked herself. Surely no one would recognize her in Sussex and she prayed that if he found out he would be forgiving.

She left and drove slowly toward the outskirts of London. How would she explain herself if she was caught? Would he remain understanding when he discovered the truth? When she reached the constituency she parked the car in a side road and walked up and down the high street. No one showed any sign of recognition which gave her the confidence to go through with it. And then she saw him.

She had hoped he’d be in the City that morning. She held her breath as he walked toward her. As he passed she said, “Good morning.” He turned and smiled, replying with a casual “Good morning,” as he might to any constituent. Her heartbeat returned to normal and she went back to find her car.

She drove off completely reassured she could now get away with it. She went over once again what she was going to say, then all too suddenly she had arrived. She parked the car outside the house opposite, got out, and bravely walked up the path.

As Raymond stood outside the Cabinet room several of his colleagues came over to congratulate him. At exactly ten o’clock the Prime Minister walked in, bade everyone “Good morning,” and took his place at the center of the oblong table, while the other twenty-one members of the Cabinet filed in behind him and took their places. The Leader of the House, Michael Foot, sat on his left, while the Foreign Secretary and Chancellor were placed opposite him. Raymond was directed to a seat at the end of the table between the Secretary of State for Wales and the Secretary of State for Education.

“I would like to start the meeting,” said the Prime Minister, “by welcoming David Owen as Foreign Secretary and Raymond Gould as Secretary of State for Trade.” The other nineteen Cabinet members murmured, “Hear, hear” in a discreetly conservative way. David Owen smiled slightly while Raymond could feel himself going red.

“The first item we must discuss in detail is the proposed pact with the Liberals...”

Raymond sat back and decided that today he would only listen.

Andrew sat in the small office and listened carefully to the specialist’s opinion. Louise was restored to almost perfect health in every way except for her speech. She was reading regularly and had even begun to write short messages in reply to Andrew’s questions. The specialist now felt that she needed some other outside interest to take her mind off Robert. Over a year had passed and she could still spend hours simply staring at his photograph.

“I managed to reach Dr. Kerslake at home,” the specialist said, “and I must concur with her opinion that it would be unwise for your wife to contemplate another pregnancy. But Dr. Kerslake does accept my judgment that you should both consider adoption.”

“I’ve already given the idea a lot of thought, even discussed it with my father,” Andrew replied. “But both of us felt that Louise would never agree to it.”

“It’s a calculated risk in the circumstances,” said the specialist. “We mustn’t forget it’s been a whole year. We know to our cost that Mrs. Fraser loves children, and if she is set against such a course she is now well capable of letting you know.”

“If Louise shows any response I’d be only too willing to give it a try. But in the end it will all depend on her.”

“Good. Find out how she feels,” said the specialist, “and if you both decide to go ahead I’ll arrange a meeting with the local authority.” He rose from behind his desk. “I’m sure it won’t be hard to find you a suitable child.”

“If it were possible for him to come from a Scottish orphans’ home, I would appreciate it.”

The specialist nodded. “I’ll be in touch with you as soon as I have any news.”

When Charles returned home he knew at once Fiona had left. He felt an immediate relief. After a week at his club, he was glad the charade was over, a clean, irrevocable break. He strolled into the drawing room and stopped: something was wrong. It took him a few moments before he realized what she had done.

Fiona had removed every one of the family paintings.

No Wellington above the fireplace, no Victoria behind the sofa. Where the two Landseers and the Constable had hung there was nothing more than thin dusty outlines indicating the size of each picture she had removed. He walked to the library: the Van Dyck, the Murillo, and the two small Rembrandts were also missing. Charles ran down the hall. It couldn’t be possible, he thought, as he threw open the dining room door. It was. He stared at the blank wall where only the previous week the Holbein portrait of the first Earl of Bridgwater had hung.

Charles scrabbled in the back of his pocket diary for the number and dialed it frantically. Mr. Cruddick listened to the story in silence.

“Remembering how sensitive you are about publicity, Mr. Seymour, there are two avenues of approach,” he began in his normal level tone and sounding unperturbed. “You can grin and bear it, or the alternative is one I have used often in the past.”

Because of the demands of his new job Raymond saw less of Kate and almost nothing of Joyce apart from his fortnightly visits to Leeds. He worked from eight in the morning until he fell asleep at night.

“And you love every minute of it,” Kate reminded him whenever he complained. Raymond had also become aware of the subtle changes that had taken place in his life since he had become a member of the Cabinet, the way he was treated by other people, how quickly his slightest whim was granted, how flattery fell from almost every tongue. He began to enjoy the change in status although Kate reminded him that only the Queen could afford to get used to it.

At the Labour party conference that year he allowed his name to be put forward for a place on the National Executive. Although he failed to be elected he managed to finish ahead of several other Cabinet ministers and polled only a few votes less than Neil Kinnock, the darling of the constituency section.

Andrew Fraser, who now looked upon Raymond as someone he could confide in, joined Raymond for what was becoming their traditional conference lunch together on the third day. Andrew told him of his distress at the party’s continued drift to the left.

“If some of those resolutions on defense are passed my life will be made impossible,” he said, trying to cut into a very tough steak.

“The hotheads always put up resolutions that are never allowed more than a token discussion.”

‘Token discussion be damned. Some of their mad ideas are beginning to gain credence which, translated, could become party policy.”

“Any particular resolution worrying you?” asked Raymond.

“Yes, Tony Benn’s latest proposal that members must be re-selected before every election. His idea of democracy and accountability.”

“Why should you fear that?”

“If your management committee is taken over by half a dozen Trots they can reverse a decision 50,000 voters have previously agreed on.”

“You’re overreacting, Andrew.”

“Raymond, if we lose the next election I can see a split in the party that will be so great we may never recover.”

“They’ve been saying that in the Labour party since the day it was founded.”

“I hope you’re right, but I fear times have changed,” said Andrew. “Not so long ago it was you who envied me.”

“That can change again.” Raymond abandoned the steak, waved his hand, and asked the waitress to bring two large brandies.

Charles picked up the phone and dialed a number he had not needed to look up. The new young Portuguese maid answered.

“Is Lady Fiona at home?”

“Lady no home, sir.”

“Do you know where she is?” asked Charles, speaking slowly and clearly.

“Go down to country, expect back six o’clock. Take message please?”

“No, thank you,” said Charles. “I’ll call this evening.” He replaced the receiver.

As always the reliable Mr. Cruddick was proved right about his wife’s movements. Charles called him immediately. They agreed to meet as planned in twenty minutes.

He drove into the Boltons, parked on the far side of the road a few yards from his father-in-law’s house, and settled down to wait.

A few minutes later a large anonymous pantechnicon van came round the corner and stopped outside No. 24. Mr. Cruddick jumped out from the driver’s seat. He was dressed in long brown overalls and a flat cap. He was joined by a young assistant who unlocked the back of the van. Mr. Cruddick nodded to Charles before proceeding up the steps to the front door.

The Portuguese maid answered when he pressed the bell.

“We have come to collect the goods for Lady Seymour.”

“No understand,” said the maid.

Mr. Cruddick removed from an inside pocket a long typewritten letter on Lady Seymour’s personal stationery. The Portuguese maid was unable to read the words of a letter her mistress had addressed to Hurlingham Croquet Club agreeing to be their Ladies’ President, but she immediately recognized the letterhead and the signature. She nodded and opened the door wider. All Mr. Cruddick’s carefully laid plans were falling into place.

Mr. Cruddick tipped his hat, the sign for Mr. Seymour to join them. Charles got out of the car cautiously, checking both ways before he crossed the road. He felt uncomfortable in brown overalls and hated the cap with which Mr. Cruddick had supplied him. It was. a little small and Charles was acutely conscious how strange he must look but the Portuguese maid apparently didn’t notice the incongruity between his aristocratic mien and the working overalls. It did not take long to discover the whereabouts of most of the pictures. Many were just stacked up in the hall, and only one or two had already been hung.

Forty minutes later the three men had located and loaded into the van all but one of them. The Holbein of the first Earl of Bridgwater was nowhere to be found.

“We ought to be on our way,” suggested Mr. Cruddick a little nervously, but Charles refused to give up the search. For another thirty-five minutes Mr. Cruddick sat tapping the wheel of the van before Charles finally conceded that the painting must have been taken elsewhere. Mr. Cruddick tipped his hat to the maid while his partner locked up the back of the van.

“A valuable picture, Mr. Seymours?” he inquired.

“A family heirloom that would fetch two million at auction,” said Charles matter-of-factly before returning to his car.

“Silly question, Albert Cruddick,” said Mr. Cruddick to himself as he pulled out from the curb and drove toward Eaton Square. When they arrived the locksmith had replaced all three locks on the front door and was waiting on the top step impatiently.

“Strictly cash, guv’nor. No receipt. Makes it possible for the missus and me to go to Ibiza each year, tax free.”

By the time Fiona had returned to the Boltons from her trip to Sussex every picture was back in its place at Eaton Square with the exception of Holbein’s first Earl of Bridgwater. Mr. Cruddick was left clutching a large check and uttering the unpalatable view that Mr. Seymour would probably have to grin and bear it.

“I’m delighted,” said Simon, when he heard the news. “And at Pucklebridge General Hospital?”

“Yes, I answered an advertisement in The Lancet for the post of general consultant in the maternity section.”

“But your name must have helped there?”

“Certainly not,” said Elizabeth vehemently.

“How come?”

“I didn’t apply as Dr. Kerslake. I filled out the application form in my maiden name of Drummond.”

Simon was momentarily silenced. “But they would have recognized you,” he protested.

“I had the full frontal treatment from Estée Lauder to ensure they didn’t. The final effect fooled even you.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” said Simon.

“I walked straight past you in Pucklebridge High Street, and said ‘Good morning,’ and you returned the greeting.”

Simon stared at her in disbelief. “But what will happen when they find out?”

“They already have,” replied Elizabeth sheepishly. “As soon as they offered me the post I went down to see the senior consultant and told him the truth. He hasn’t stopped telling everyone since.”

“He wasn’t cross?”

“Far from it. In fact he said I nearly failed to be offered the post because he felt I wouldn’t be safe let loose on the unmarried doctors.”

Andrew held Louise’s hand as they approached the door of Grunechan Children’s Home on the outskirts of Edinburgh. The matron was waiting on the freshly scrubbed doorstep to greet them.

“Good morning, Minister,” she said. “We are honored that you have chosen our little home.”

Andrew and Louise smiled.

“Will you be kind enough to follow me?” She led them down a dimly lit corridor to her room, her starched blue uniform crackling as she walked.

“All the children are in the playground at the moment but you will be able to see them from my window.” Andrew had already gone over all the orphans’ histories and photographs; he couldn’t help noticing how one of them bore a striking resemblance to Robert.

They both looked out of the window for several minutes but Louise showed no interest in any of the children. When the boy who resembled Robert ran toward the window, she turned away and took a seat in the corner.

Andrew shook his head. The matron’s lips turned down at the corners.

Coffee and biscuits arrived and while they were eating them Andrew tried once more. “Did you want Matron to bring anyone in to meet you, darling?” Louise shook her head. Andrew cursed himself as he feared the experience might only have done her more harm.

“Have we seen everyone?” he asked, looking for an excuse to leave quickly.

“Yes, sir,” said the matron, putting down her cup of coffee. “Well,” she hesitated, “there was one girl we didn’t bother you with.”

“Why not?” asked Andrew out of curiosity.

“Well, you see, she’s black.”

Andrew stiffened.

“And what’s more,” continued the matron, “we have absolutely no idea who her parents were. She was left on the doorstep. Not at all the sort of girl to be brought up in a minister’s home.”

Andrew was so incensed that he quite forgot about consulting Louise who was still resting silently in the corner.

“I should like to see her,” he said.

“If you insist,” said the matron, a little taken aback. “I’m afraid she hasn’t got her best clothes on,” she added before she left the room.

Andrew paced up and down, conscious that if Louise hadn’t been there he might well have lost his temper with the woman. The matron returned a few moments later with a little girl aged four, perhaps five, and so thin that her dress hung on her like a coathanger. Andrew couldn’t see her face because she kept her head bowed.

“Look up, child,” commanded the matron. The girl raised her head slowly. She had the most perfect oval face and olive skin, piercing black eyes, and a smile that immediately captivated Andrew.

“What’s your name?” he asked quietly.

“Clarissa,” she said, and dropped her head again. He wanted to help her so much, and it made him feel guilty that he had put the poor child through such a pointless ordeal.

The matron still looked affronted and with a sniff she said, “You can leave us now, child.” Clarissa turned and walked toward the door. Looking at Louise the matron added, “I am sure you agree with me, Mrs. Fraser, the girl’s not at all suitable.”

They both turned to Louise. Her face was alight, her eyes shining in a way Andrew had not seen since Robert’s death. She stood up, walked quickly toward the child before she could reach the door, and stared into her black eyes.

“I think you’re beautiful,” Louise said, “and I do hope you will want to come and live with us.”

Chapter twenty-three

“Order, order” had meant nothing to the British electorate until 1978 when the House passed a resolution allowing the proceedings in the Commons to be broadcast on radio. Simon had supported the motion on broadcasting, putting forward the argument that radio was a further extension of democracy as it showed the House at work and allowed the voters to know exactly what their elected representatives were up to. Simon listened carefully to a number of his supplementaries, and realized for the first time that he spoke a little too quickly when he had a minister on the run.

Raymond, on the other hand, did not support the motion as he feared that the cries of “Hear, hear” or “Shame” and the heckling of the Prime Minister would sound to listeners like schoolchildren in a playground squabble. Overhearing the words with only one’s imagination to set the scene would, he believed, create a false impression about the many aspects of a member’s daily duties. When one evening Raymond heard a parliamentary debate in which he had taken part he was delighted to discover his arguments carried so much conviction.

When Andrew heard his own voice on Radio Four one morning answering questions on defense issues he was suddenly aware that what he had always considered was a faint trace of a Scottish accent was in fact — when he was angry or excited — quite pronounced.

Charles found the morning program an excellent way of catching up with any proceedings he had missed the previous day. As he now woke each morning alone, “Yesterday in Parliament” became his constant companion. He hadn’t been aware of how upper class he sounded until the occasion on which he followed Tom Carson. He had no intention of changing his voice for the radio.

When the Queen opened the new underground extension to Heathrow airport on 16 December 1977 Raymond was the minister commanded to be present. Joyce made one of her rare trips down to London as they were invited to join the Queen for lunch after the ceremony. When Joyce selected her new dress from Harvey Nichols, she stood in the little cubicle behind a drawn curtain to make sure it was possible for her to curtsy properly. “Good morning, Your Majesty,” she practiced with a slight wobble, to the bemusement of the shop assistant waiting patiently outside.

By the time she had returned to the flat Joyce was confident that she could carry out her part in the proceedings as well as any courtier. As she prepared for Raymond’s return from the morning Cabinet meeting she hoped he would be pleased with her efforts. She had long given up hope of being a mother, but still liked to believe she could be a good wife. Raymond had forewarned her that he would have to change as soon as he arrived at the flat to be sure of being at Green Park before the Queen arrived. After they had accompanied an entourage to Heathrow on the new extension, a journey that would take thirty minutes, they were to return to Buckingham Palace for lunch. Raymond had already come in contact with his monarch on several occasions in his official capacity as a Cabinet minister, but for Joyce it was to be the first time she had been presented.

Once she had had her bath and dressed — she knew Raymond would never forgive her if she were the reason he was late — she began to lay out his clothes. Tail coat, gray pin-striped trousers, white shirt, stiff collar, and a silver-gray tie, all hired that morning from Moss Bros. All that he still needed was a clean white handkerchief for his top pocket, just showing in a straight line, as the Duke of Edinburgh always wore his.

Joyce rummaged around in Raymond’s chest of drawers, admiring the new shirts as she searched for a handkerchief. When she first saw the scribbled note peeking out underneath the collar of a pink shirt lying near the bottom of the pile, she assumed it must be an old laundry bill. Then she spotted the word “Darling.” She felt suddenly sick as she looked more closely.

Joyce sank on the end of the bed as the tears trickled down her face. Her perfect day was shattered. She knew at once what course of action she must take. She replaced the unworn shirt and closed the drawer, after first removing the note, and then sat alone in the drawing room waiting for Raymond to return.

He arrived back at the flat with only a few minutes to spare and was delighted to find his wife changed and ready.

“I’m running it a bit close,” he said, going straight into the bedroom.

Joyce followed and watched him don his morning dress suit. When he had straightened his tie in the mirror, she faced him.

“What do you think?” he asked, not noticing the slight paleness in her cheeks.

She hesitated. “You look fantastic, Raymond. Now come along or we’ll be late, and that would never do.”

When Ronnie Nethercote invited him to lunch at the Ritz, Simon knew things must be looking up again. After a drink in the lounge they were ushered to a corner table overlooking the park in the most palatial dining room in London. Scattered around the other tables were men who were household names in Ronnie’s world as well as in Simon’s.

When the head waiter offered them menus Ronnie waved his hand and said, “Order the country vegetable soup, followed by beef off the trolley, take my word for it.”

“Sounds like a safe bet,” said Simon.

“Unlike our last little venture,” Ronnie grunted. “How much are you still in hock because of the collapse of Nethercote and Company?”

“Fourteen thousand three hundred pounds when I last looked but I’m making inroads slowly. It’s paying the interest before you can cut down on the capital that really hurts.”

“How do you imagine I felt when we were overdrawn seven mill and then the bank decided to pull the rug from under my feet without any warning?”

“As two of the buttons on your waistcoat can no longer reach the holes they were originally tailored for, Ronnie, I must assume those problems are now a thing of the past.”

“You’re right.” He laughed. “Which is why I invited you to lunch. The only person who ended up losing money on that deal was you. If you’d stayed on as the other directors did, at five grand a year, the company would still owe you £ 11,100 of earned income.”

Simon groaned.

The carver wheeled the trolley of beef up to their table.

“Wait a moment, my boy, I haven’t even begun. Morgan Grenfell want me to change the structure of the new company and will be injecting a large amount of cash. At the moment Whitechapel Properties — I hope you approve of the name — is still a one-hundred-pound off-the-shelf company. I own sixty percent and the bank’s got forty. Now before the new agreement is signed, I’m going to offer you—”

“Would you like it well done, as usual, Mr. Nethercote?”

“Yes, Sam,” said Ronnie, slipping the carver a pound note.

“I am going to offer you—”

“And your guest, sir?” the carver said, glancing at Simon.

“Medium, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I am going to offer you one percent of the new company, in other words one share.”

Simon didn’t comment, feeling confident Ronnie still hadn’t finished.

“Aren’t you going to ask?” said Ronnie.

“Ask what?” said Simon.

“You politicians get dumber by the minute. If I am going to offer you a one-pound share, how much do you think I am going to demand in return?”

“Well, I can’t believe it’s going to be one pound,” said Simon, grinning.

“Wrong,” said Ronnie. “One percent of the company is yours for one pound.”

“Will that be sufficient, sir?” said the carver, putting a plate of beef in front of Simon.

“Hold it, Sam,” said Ronnie before Simon could reply. “I repeat I’m offering you one percent of the company for one. pound; now ask your question again, Sam.”

“Will that be sufficient, sir?” repeated the carver.

“It’s most generous,” said Simon.

“Did you hear that, Sam?”

“I certainly did, sir.”

“Right, Simon, you owe me a pound.”

Simon laughed, removed his wallet from his inside pocket, took out a pound note, and handed it over.

“Now the purpose of that little exercise,” said Ronnie, turning back to the carver and pocketing the note, “was to prove that Sam here isn’t the only person who could make a quid for himself this afternoon.” Sam smiled, having no idea what Mr. Nethercote was talking about, and placed a large plate of well-done beef in front of him.

Ronnie took out an envelope from his inside pocket and passed it to Simon.

“Do I open it now?” asked Simon.

“Yes — I want to see your reaction.”

Simon opened the envelope and studied its contents. A certificate for one share in the new company with a true value of over £10,000.

“Well, well, what do you say?” said Ronnie.

“I’m speechless,” said Simon.

“First politician I’ve known who’s ever suffered from that problem.”

Simon laughed. “Thank you, Ronnie. It’s an incredibly generous gesture.”

“No it’s not. You were loyal to the old company, so why shouldn’t you prosper with the new one?”

“That reminds me, does the name ‘Archie Millburn’ mean anything to you?” asked Simon.

Ronnie hesitated. “No, no, should it?”

“Only that I thought he might be the man who convinced Morgan Grenfell that you were worth bailing out.”

“No, that name doesn’t ring any bells. Mind you, Morgan Grenfell have never admitted where they obtained their information from but they knew every last detail about the old company. But if I come across the name Millburn I’ll let you know. Enough of business. Fill me in on what’s happening in your world. How’s your lady wife?”

“Deceiving me.”

“Deceiving you?”

“Yes, she’s been putting on wigs and dressing up in strange clothes.”

Clarissa wet her bed every night for the first month at Pelham Crescent but Louise never complained. Day by day Andrew watched as mother and daughter grew in mutual confidence. Clarissa assumed from her first meeting with Louise that she could talk as normally as any grown-up and chatted away to her night and day. Half the time Louise didn’t reply, only because she couldn’t get a word in.

Just when Andrew felt everything was getting back on a normal footing at home trouble erupted in Edinburgh. His General Management Committee, which now included five members of Militant Tendency, tabled a motion of no confidence in their member. Their leader, Frank Boyle, had been building up a power base with the sole intention, Andrew suspected, of ousting the member and taking over himself. He didn’t discuss the problem with Louise, as the specialist had advised him to avoid any undue stress while Clarissa was settling in.

The five men who wanted Andrew removed had chosen the following Thursday to hold the meeting because they knew the annual Defense Review was due for a full debate in the House that day. If Andrew was unable to attend their meeting Frank Boyle knew they would have a better chance of winning their motion. If he did turn up to defend himself they were also aware that an embarrassing explanation would have to be made for his absence during the debate. When the Prime Minister was informed of the dilemma by the Chief Whip he had no hesitation in telling Andrew to forget the defense debate and go to Edinburgh.

Andrew took the shuttle up on Thursday afternoon and was met at the airport by his chairman, Hamish Ramsey.

“I apologize about you being put through this ordeal, Andrew,” he said at once. “I can assure you it’s none of my doing, but I must also warn you it’s not the same Labour party that I joined over twenty years ago.”

“How do you think the vote will go tonight?” asked Andrew.

“You’ll win this time. The votes have been decided before the meeting takes place. There’s only one waverer and he’s so gutless that your very presence will stop him siding with the Trotskies.”

When Andrew arrived at his Edinburgh headquarters he was left alone outside the committee room in a cold corridor for over an hour. He knew his opponents were holding things up in the hope he would become frustrated before he eventually had to face them. At last they invited him to join them and he immediately sensed what the Spanish Inquisition must have felt like: question after question from sour-faced men who had never helped him win the seat in the first place and were now alleging that he had shown scant interest in the constituency. Andrew stood his ground and became angry only when Frank Boyle referred to him as “that son of a Tory.”

“When did you last see your father?” flashed through his mind.

“My father has done more for this city than you could ever hope to do in your lifetime,” he told Boyle.

“Then why don’t you join his party?” came back Boyle’s retort.

Andrew was about to answer when Hamish Ramsey banged the table with his gavel and said, “Enough, enough. It’s time to stop this squabbling and vote.”

Andrew felt a stab of anxiety as the little slips were passed up to the chairman to be counted. The outcome was five-all and Hamish Ramsey immediately cast his vote in favor of Andrew.

“At least you’ll be safe for the coming election, laddie,” said Hamish as they drove to the Airport Hotel. “But I wouldn’t like to account for much beyond that.”

When Andrew arrived back in Pelham Crescent the next morning Louise greeted him at the door.

“Everything all right in Edinburgh?” she asked.

“Fine,” said Andrew, taking her in his arms.

“Do you want to hear the good news?”

“Yes,” said Andrew, smiling.

“Clarissa didn’t wet her bed last night. Perhaps you should stay away more often.”

Finally Charles knew he had to discuss what could be done about the stolen Holbein with his solicitor, Sir David Napley. Sir David instructed leading counsel and six weeks later Charles was told that if he sued the Holbein might eventually be returned but not before the story had been on the front page of every national paper. Charles had Albert Cruddick’s opinion confirmed: “Grin and bear it.”

Fiona had been out of touch for well over a year when the letter came. Charles immediately recognized her handwriting and ripped open the envelope. Only one glance at the writing was enough to make him tear up the missive and deposit the little pieces in the wastepaper basket by his desk. He left for the Commons in a rage.

All through the day he thought of the one word he had taken in from the scrawled hand. Holbein. When he returned from the Commons after the ten o’clock division Charles searched for the remains of the letter, which the daily had conscientiously deposited in the dustbin. After rummaging among potato peelings, eggshells, and empty tins Charles spent over an hour Sellotaping the little pieces of paper together. Then he read the letter carefully.

“You’ll have to wait every day of the two years, you bitch,” he said out loud. Then he came to the one sentence for which he was searching.

He crumpled up the paper in the ball of his hand before dropping it on the fire.

Charles remained awake into the early hours considering his reply.

At a Thursday morning Cabinet meeting James Callaghan informed his colleagues that the Liberal leader, David Steel, was not willing to continue the Lib/Lab pact after the end of the current session.

“That can only mean one thing,” the Prime Minister continued. “We must all be prepared for a general election at any time from now on. I am confident we can hold out until Christmas, but not for much longer after that.”

Raymond was saddened by the news. He felt after two years in the Cabinet that he was just beginning to be of some use to the Department of Trade: the changes he was implementing were starting to take effect. But he knew he needed considerably more time if he hoped to leave a permanent impression on his ministry.

Kate’s enthusiasm spurred him on to work even longer hours and to push through as many of his innovations before the next election as possible.

“I’m trying my damnedest,” he told her. “But do remember that the speed of the bureaucratic machine makes British Rail look like Concorde.”

The Labour Government struggled on through a session dubbed by the press as “the winter of discontent”: trying to push bills through the House, losing a clause here and a clause there, Raymond was only too delighted to have reached the recess in one piece.

Raymond spent a cold Christmas in Leeds with Joyce. He returned to London early in the New Year aware it could not be long before the Conservatives felt assured enough to put down a motion of no confidence. When it eventually was tabled no one in Parliament was surprised.

The debate caused a day of intense excitement, not least because a strike had caused the Commons bars to run dry and thirsty members were huddled together in the lobbies, the tea room, the smoking room, and the dining rooms. Harassed Whips rushed hither and thither checking lists, ringing up hospitals, boardrooms, and even great-aunts in their efforts to track down the last few elusive members.

When Mrs. Thatcher rose on 6 April to address a packed House the tension was so electric that the Speaker had considerable difficulty keeping control of the overcharged conductors. She addressed the House in firm, strident tones which brought her own side to their feet when she resumed her place. The atmosphere was no different when it was the turn of the Prime Minister to reply. Both leaders made a gallant effort to rise above the petulance of their adversaries but it was the Speaker who had the last word:

Pandemonium broke out. Opposition members waved their order papers in triumph, knowing the Prime Minister would now have to call a general election. James Callaghan immediately announced the dissolution of Parliament and after an audience with the Queen election day was set for 3 May 1979.

At the end of that momentous week those few members left at Westminster were stunned by an explosion in the Members’ Car Park. Airey Neave, the Shadow spokesman on Northern Ireland, had been blown up by Irish terrorists as he was driving up the exit ramp to leave the Commons. He died on his way to hospital.

Members hurried back to their constituencies. Both Raymond and Andrew found it hard to escape from their departments at such short notice, but Charles and Simon were out in their respective high streets shaking hands with the voters by the morning following the Queen’s proclamation.

For three weeks the arguments about who was competent to govern went back and forth, but on 3 May the British people elected their first woman Prime Minister and gave her party a majority of forty-three in the Commons.

Andrew’s sixth election turned out to be his most unpleasant to date and he was only glad that he had left Louise and Clarissa in London. Jock McPherson, still the SNP candidate, called him every name under the sun and added one or two new ones in the evening, while the Trotskyites who had voted against him on the committee proved no help when it came to gathering in the votes on election day. But the citizens of Edinburgh, knowing nothing of the committee’s opinions, sent Andrew back to Parliament with a majority of 3,738. The Scottish Nationalist vote crumbled, leaving only two members in the House — and Jock McPherson back in Scotland.

Raymond’s vote in Leeds was slightly reduced, while Joyce won the office pool for predicting most accurately what her husband’s majority would be. He was beginning to accept that she knew more about the constituency than he ever would.

A few days later when Raymond returned to London Kate had never seen him so depressed and decided to hold off telling him her own news when he said, “God knows how many years it will be before I can be of some use again.”

“You can spend your time in Opposition making sure the Government doesn’t dismantle all your achievements.”

“With a majority of forty-three they could dismantle me if they wanted to,” he told her. He placed the red leather box marked “Secretary of State for Trade” in the corner, next to the ones marked “Minister of State at the Department of Trade” and “Parliamentary Under-Secretary at the Department of Employment.”

“They’re only your first three,” Kate tried to reassure him.

Simon increased his majority at Pucklebridge to 19,461, notching up another record after which he and Elizabeth spent the weekend in their cottage with the boys waiting for Mrs. Thatcher to select her team.

Simon was surprised when the Prime Minister phoned personally and asked if he could come up to see her in Downing Street: that was an honor usually afforded only to Cabinet ministers. He tried not to anticipate what she might have in mind.

He duly traveled up from the country and spent thirty minutes alone with the new Prime Minister. When he heard what Mrs. Thatcher wanted him to do he was touched that she had taken the trouble to see him in person. She knew that no member ever found it easy to accede to such a request but Simon accepted without hesitation. Mrs. Thatcher added that no announcement would be made until he had had time to talk his decision over with Elizabeth.

Simon thanked her and traveled back to his cottage in Pucklebridge. Elizabeth sat in silence as she listened to Simon’s account of his conversation with the Prime Minister.

“Oh, my God,” she said, when he had finished. “She’s offered you the chance to be a Minister of State, but in return we have no certainty of peace for the rest of our lives.”

“I can still say no,” Simon assured her.

“That would be the act of a coward,” said Elizabeth, “and you’ve never been that.”

“Then I’ll phone the Prime Minister and tell her I accept.”

“I ought to congratulate you,” she said. “But it never crossed my mind for one moment...”

Charles’s was one of the few Tory seats in which the majority went down. A missing wife is hard to explain especially when it is common knowledge that she is living with the former chairman of the adjoining constituency. Charles had faced a certain degree of embarrassment with his local committee and he made sure that the one woman who couldn’t keep her mouth shut was told his version of the story “in strictest confidence.” Any talk of removing him had died when it was rumored that Charles would stand as an independent candidate if replaced. When the vote was counted Sussex Downs still returned Charles to Westminster with a majority of 20,176. He sat alone in Eaton Square over the weekend, but no one contacted him. He read in the Monday Telegraph — how he missed The Times — the full composition of the new Tory team.

The only surprise was Simon Kerslake’s appointment as Minister of State for Northern Ireland.

Chapter twenty-four

“Well, say something.”

“Very flattering, Kate. What reason did you give for turning the offer down?” asked Raymond, who had been surprised to find her waiting for him at the flat.

“I didn’t need a reason.”

“How did they feel about that?”

“You don’t seem to understand. I accepted their offer.”

Raymond removed his glasses and tried to take in what Kate was saying. He steadied himself by holding on to the mantelpiece.

Kate continued. “I had to, darling.”

“Because the offer was too tempting?”

“No, you silly man. It had nothing to do with the offer as such, but it gives me the chance to stop letting my life drift. Can’t you see it was because of you?”

“Because of me you’re going to leave London and go back to New York.”

“To work in New York and start getting my life in perspective. Raymond, don’t you realize it’s been five years?”

“I know how long it is and how many times I’ve asked you to marry me.”

“We both know that isn’t the answer; Joyce can’t be brushed aside that easily. And it could even end up being the single reason you fail in your career.”

“We can overcome that problem, given time,” Raymond reasoned.

“That sounds fine now, until the party wins the next election and lesser men than you are offered the chance to shape future policy.”

“Can’t I do anything to make you change your mind?”

“Nothing, my darling. I’ve handed Chase my resignation and begin my new job with Chemical Bank in a month.”

“Only four weeks,” said Raymond.

“Yes, four weeks. I had to hold off telling you until I had severed all the bonds, had resigned, and could be sure of not letting you talk me out of it.”

“Do you know how much I love you?”

“I hope enough to let me go, before it’s too late.”

Charles would not have normally accepted the invitation. Lately he had found cocktail parties to consist of nothing but silly little bits of food, never being able to get the right drink, and rarely enjoying the trivial conversation. But when he glanced on his mantelpiece and saw an “At Home” from Lady Carrington he felt it might be an amusing break from the routine he had fallen into since Fiona had left. He was also keen to discover more about the rumored squabbles in Cabinet over expenditure cuts. He checked his tie in the mirror, removed an umbrella from the hat stand, and left Eaton Square for Ovington Square.

He and Fiona had been apart for nearly two years. Charles had heard from several sources that his wife had now moved in with Dalglish on a permanent basis despite his unwillingness to cooperate over a divorce. He had remained discreetly silent on his wife’s new life except for one or two selected tidbits dropped selectively in the ears of well-chosen gossips. That way he had elicited for himself sympathy from every quarter while remaining the magnanimous loyal husband.

Charles had spent most of his spare time in the Commons, and his most recent budget speech had been well received both by the House and the national press. During the committee stage of the Finance Bill he had allowed himself to be burdened with a lot of the donkey work. Clive Reynolds had been able to point out discrepancies in some clauses of the bill, which Charles passed on to a grateful Chancellor. Thus Charles received praise for saving the Government from any unnecessary embarrassment. At the same time he disassociated himself from the “wets” as the Prime Minister referred to those of her colleagues who did not unreservedly support her monetarist policies. If he could keep up his work output he was confident he would be preferred in the first reshuffle.

By spending his mornings at the bank and afternoons and evenings in the Commons Charles managed to combine both worlds with the minimum of interruption from his almost nonexistent private life.

He arrived at Lord Carrington’s front door a little after six-forty-five. A maid answered his knock, and he walked straight through to a drawing room that could have held fifty guests and very nearly did.

He even managed to be served with the right blend of whisky before joining his colleagues from both the Upper and Lower Houses. He saw her first over the top of Alec Pimkin’s balding head.

“Who is she?” asked Charles, not expecting Pimkin to know.

“Amanda Wallace,” said Pimkin, glancing over his shoulder. “I could tell you a thing or two...” but Charles had already left his colleague in midsentence. The sexual aura of the woman was attested to by the fact that she spent the entire evening surrounded by attentive men, like moths around a candle. If Charles had not been one of the tallest men in the room he might never have seen the flame. It took him another ten minutes to reach her side of the room where Julian Ridsdale, a colleague of Charles’s in the Commons, introduced them only to find himself dragged away moments later by his wife.

Charles was left staring at a woman who would have looked beautiful in anything from a ballgown to a towel. Her slim body was encased in a white silk dress, and her fair hair touched her bare shoulders. But what struck Charles most was the translucent texture of her skin. It had been years since he had found it so hard to make conversation.

“I expect you already have a dinner engagement?” Charles asked her in the brief intervals before the vultures closed in again.

“No,” she replied and smiled encouragingly. She agreed to meet him at Walton’s in an hour’s time. Charles dutifully began to circulate round the room but it was not long before he found his eyes drawn back to her. Every time she smiled he found himself responding but Amanda didn’t notice because she was always being flattered by someone else. When he left an hour later he smiled directly at her, and this time did win a knowing grin.

Charles sat alone at a corner table in Walton’s for another hour. He was just about to admit defeat and return home when she was ushered to the table. The anger that had developed from being kept waiting was forgotten the moment she smiled and said, “Hello, Charlie.”

He was not surprised to learn that his tall, elegant companion earned her living as a model. As far as Charles could see she could have modeled anything from toothpaste to stockings.

“Shall we have coffee at my place?” Charles asked after an unhurried dinner. She nodded her assent and he called for the bill, not checking the addition for the first time in many years.

He was delighted, if somewhat surprised, when she rested her head on his shoulder in the cab on the way back to Eaton Square. By the time they had been dropped off at Eaton Square most of Amanda’s lipstick had been removed. The cabbie thanked Charles for his excessive tip and couldn’t resist adding, “Good luck, sir.”

Charles never did get round to making the coffee. When he woke in the morning, to his surprise he found her even more captivating, and for the first time in weeks quite forgot “Yesterday in Parliament.”

Elizabeth listened carefully as the man from Special Branch explained how the safety devices worked. She tried to make Peter and Michael concentrate on not pressing the red buttons that were in every room and would bring the police at a moment’s notice. The electricians had already wired the rooms in Beaufort Street and now they had nearly finished at the cottage.

At Beaufort Street a uniformed policeman stood watch by the front door night and day. In Pucklebridge, because the cottage was so isolated, they had to be surrounded by arc lamps that could be switched on at a moment’s notice.

“It must be damned inconvenient,” suggested Archie Millburn during dinner. After his arrival at the cottage he had been checked by security patrols with dogs before he was able to shake hands with his host.

“Inconvenient is putting it mildly,” said Elizabeth. “Last week Peter broke a window with a cricket ball and we were immediately lit up like a Christmas tree.”

“Do you get any privacy?” asked Archie.

“Only when we’re in bed. Even then you can wake up to find you’re being licked; you sigh and it turns out to be an Alsatian.”

Archie laughed. “Lucky Alsatian.”

Every morning when Simon was driven to work he was accompanied by two detectives, a car in front and another to the rear. He had always thought there were only two ways from Beaufort Street to Westminster. For the first twenty-one days as minister he never traveled the same route twice.

Whenever he was due to fly to Belfast he was not informed of either his departure time or from which airport he would be leaving. While the inconvenience drove Elizabeth mad the tension had the opposite effect on Simon. Despite everything, it was the first time in his life he didn’t feel it was necessary to explain to anyone why he had chosen to be a politician.

Inch by inch he worked to try to bring the Catholics and Protestants together. Often after a month of inches he would lose a yard in one day, but he never displayed any anger or prejudice except perhaps as he told Elizabeth, “a prejudice for common sense.” Given time, Simon believed, a breakthrough would be possible — if only he could find on both sides a handful of men of goodwill.

During the all-party meetings both factions began to treat him with respect and — privately — with affection. Even the Opposition spokesman at Westminster openly acknowledged that Simon Kerslake was turning out to be an excellent choice for the “dangerous and thankless ministry.”

Andrew also knew he would require a handful of men of goodwill when Hamish Ramsey resigned as chairman of Edinburgh Carlton.

“I don’t need the hassle any longer,” Hamish told him. “I’m not in politics for the same reason as that bunch of troublemakers.” Andrew reluctantly let him go and had to work hard to convince Hamish’s deputy, David Connaught, that he should stand in his place. When David finally agreed to allow his name to go forward he was immediately opposed by Frank Boyle, who had already made his opinion of the sitting member abundantly clear. Andrew canvassed every person on the committee during the run up to election for the new chairman. He estimated the voting was going to be seven-all, which would still allow Hamish to give his casting vote in favor of Connaught.

Andrew phoned Hamish at home an hour before the meeting was due to begin. “I’ll call and leave a message for you at the House when it’s all over,” Ramsey told him. “Don’t worry, you’re safe this time. At least I’ll leave you with the right chairman.”

Andrew left Pelham Crescent after he had tucked Clarissa up in bed and read her another chapter of Jacob Two Two. He told Louise he would return from Westminster straight after the ten o’clock vote. He sat in the Chamber and listened to Charles Seymour deliver a well-argued discourse on monetarist policy. Andrew didn’t always agree with the logic of Seymour’s case and he had never cared much for the man himself; but he had to admit that such talent was wasted on the back benches.

During the speech a note was passed to Andrew by an attendant. He unfolded the little white slip. Stuart Gray, the lobby correspondent for The Scotsman, needed to speak to him urgently. Andrew slipped from his place on the front bench, stepping over the feet of Shadow ministers still intent on Seymour’s speech. He felt like a small boy leaving a cinema in the middle of a film in pursuit of an ice lolly. He found Gray waiting for him in the Members’ Lobby.

Andrew had known Stuart since he had first entered the House, when the journalist had told him, “You and I are each other’s bread and butter, so we’d better make a sandwich.” Andrew had laughed, and they had had few differences of opinion in the fifteen years since. Stuart suggested that they go down to Annie’s Bar for a drink. They strolled along the corridor and took the stairway near the tea room to the basement bar, named after a former barlady.

Andrew settled down on a couch at the side of a pillar while Stuart went up to the bar to order two whiskies.

“Cheers,” said the journalist, putting Andrew’s glass down on the table in front of him.

Andrew took a long gulp. “Now, what can I do for you?” he asked. “Is my father being tiresome again?”

“I’d call him a supporter compared with your new chairman.”

“What do you mean? I’ve always found David Connaught to be a sound fellow myself,” said Andrew, a little pompously.

“I’m not interested in your views of David Connaught,” said Stuart. “I want an opinion on your new chairman, Frank Boyle.” The journalist sounded very much on the record.

“What?”

“He won the vote tonight seven to six.”

“But...” Andrew fell silent.

“Come on, Andrew. We both know the bloody man’s a Commie troublemaker, and my editor is screaming for a quote.”

“I can’t say anything, Stuart, not until I know all the facts.”

“I’ve just told you all the facts: now, are you going to give me a quote?”

“Yes.” Andrew paused. “I am sure Mr. Boyle will continue to serve in the best traditions of the Labour party, and I look forward to working in close cooperation with him.”

“Balls,” said Stuart. “They will only print that in Pseuds Corner in Private Eye.”

“It’s the only quote you’re going to get out of me tonight,” said Andrew.

Stuart looked at his friend and could see lines on his face that he had never noticed before. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I went too far. Please get in touch when the time’s right. With that bastard Boyle in charge you might be in need of my help.”

Andrew thanked him absentmindedly, downed his whisky in one gulp, then walked out of Annie’s Bar and along the terrace corridor to the phone booths at the foot of the stairs. He dialed Ramsey’s home number.

“What in heaven’s name happened?” was all he could ask.

“One of our voters didn’t show,” said Hamish Ramsey. “Claimed he was held up in Glasgow and couldn’t get back in time. I was just about to ring you.”

“Bloody irresponsible of him,” said Andrew. “Why didn’t you postpone the vote?”

“I tried to, but Frank Boyle produced the rule book. ‘Any motion proposed fourteen days before a meeting cannot be postponed without the agreement of the proposer and seconder.’ I’m sorry, Andrew; my hands were tied.”

“It’s not your fault, Hamish. I couldn’t have had a better chairman than you. I’m only sorry you didn’t leave in a blaze of glory.”

Hamish chuckled. “Don’t you ever forget, Andrew, the voters have the last word in a democracy. In Edinburgh you’re the man who has served them for more than fifteen years and they won’t forget that quickly.”

“You can get dressed now, Miss Wallace,” said the gynecologist returning to her desk.

Amanda started to slip back into her latest Dior outfit — a light blue denim suit bought the previous day in Conduit Street in an attempt to cheer herself up.

“It’s the third time in five years,” said Elizabeth Kerslake, leafing through the confidential file and trying not to sound accusing.

“I may as well book into the same clinic as before,” said Amanda, matter-of-factly.

Elizabeth was determined to make her reconsider the consequences. “Is there any chance that the father would want you to have this child?”

“I can’t be certain who the father is,” said Amanda, looking shame-faced for the first time. “You see, it was the end of one relationship and the beginning of another.”

Elizabeth made no comment other than to say, “I estimate that you are at least eight weeks pregnant, but it could be as much as twelve.” She looked back down at the file. “Have you considered giving birth to the child and then bringing it up yourself?”

“Good heavens, no,” said Amanda. “I make my living as a model, not as a mother.”

“So be it,” Elizabeth sighed, closing the file. “I’ll make all the” — she avoided saying usual — “necessary arrangements. You must see your GP immediately and ask him to sign the required clearance forms. Then phone me in about a week, rather than make the trip down to Pucklebridge again.”

Amanda nodded her agreement. “Could you let me know what the clinic is going to charge this time? I’m sure they are suffering from inflation like the rest of us.”

“Yes, I will look into that, Miss Wallace,” said Elizabeth, just managing to keep her temper as she showed Amanda to the door. Once her patient had left Elizabeth picked up the confidential file from her desk, walked over to the cabinet, and flicked through S, T, U, until she found the right slot. Perhaps she should have been sterner with her but she was convinced that it would have made little difference. She paused, wondering if having the child might change the woman’s cavalier attitude to life.

Charles returned home after the debate feeling pleased with himself. He had received praise for his latest speech from every wing of the party, and the Chief Whip had made it quite clear that his efforts on the Finance Bill had not gone unnoticed.

As he drove back to Eaton Square he wound down the car window and let the fresh air rush in and the cigarette smoke out. His smile widened at the thought of Amanda sitting at home waiting for him. It had been a glorious couple of months. At forty-eight he was experiencing realities he had never even dreamed of in fantasy. As each day passed he expected the infatuation to wear off, but instead it only grew more intense. Even the memory the day after was better than anything he had experienced in the past.

Once the Holbein had been restored to his dining room wall Charles planned to talk to Amanda about their future; if she said “Yes” he would even be willing to grant Fiona a divorce. He parked the car and took out his latch key, but she was already there opening the front door to throw her arms around him.

“Why don’t we go straight to bed?” she greeted him.

Charles would have been shocked had Fiona uttered such feelings even once in their fifteen years of married life, but Amanda made it appear quite natural. She was already lying naked on the bed before Charles could get his waistcoat off. After they had made love and she was settled in his arms Amanda told him she would have to go away for a few days.

“Why?” said Charles, puzzled.

“I’m pregnant,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’ve already booked myself into a clinic. Don’t worry. I’ll be as right as rain in no time.”

“But why don’t we have the baby?” said a delighted Charles, looking down into her gray eyes. “I’ve always wanted a son.”

“Don’t be silly, Charlie. There’s years ahead of me for that.”

“But if we were married?”

“You’re already married. Besides, I’m only twenty-six.”

“I can get a divorce in a moment and life wouldn’t be so bad with me, would it?”

“Of course not, Charlie. You’re the first man I’ve ever really cared for.”

Charles smiled hopefully. “So you’ll think about the idea?”

Amanda looked into Charles’s eyes anxiously. “If I were to have a child I do hope he’d have blue eyes like yours.”

“Will you marry me?” he asked.

“I’ll think about it. In any case, you may have changed your mind by morning.”

Raymond drove Kate to Heathrow. He was wearing the pink shirt she had chosen for him; she was wearing the little red box. He had so much to tell her on the way to the airport that she hardly spoke at all. The last four weeks had gone by in a flash. It was the first time he had been grateful for being in Opposition.

“It’s all right, Carrot Top. Don’t fuss. We’ll see each other whenever you come to New York.”

“I’ve only been to America twice in my life,” he said. She tried to smile.

Once she had checked her eleven bags in at the counter, a process that seemed to take forever, she was allocated a seat.

“Flight BA 107, gate number fourteen, boarding in ten minutes,” she was informed.

“Thank you,” she said and rejoined Raymond, who was sitting on the end of an already crowded tubular settee. He had bought two plastic cups of coffee while Kate had been checking in. They were both already cold. They sat and held hands like children who had met on a summer holiday and had now to return to separate schools.

“Promise me you won’t start wearing contact lenses the moment I’ve gone.”

“Yes, I can promise you that,” said Raymond, touching the bridge of his glasses.

“I’ve so much I still want to tell you,” she said.

He turned toward her. “Vice-presidents of banks shouldn’t cry,” he said, brushing a tear from her cheek. “The customers will realize you’re a soft touch.”

“Neither should Cabinet ministers,” she replied. “All I wanted to say, is that if you really feel...” she began.

“Hello, Mr. Gould.”

They both looked up to see a broad smile spread across the face of someone whose tan proved that he had just arrived from a sunnier climate.

“I’m Bert Cox,” he said, thrusting out his hand, “I don’t suppose you remember me.” Raymond let go of Kate’s hand and shook Mr. Cox’s.

“We were at the same primary school in Leeds, Ray. Mind you, that was a million light years ago. You’ve come a long way since then.”

How can I get rid of him? wondered Raymond desperately.

“This is the missus,” Bert Cox continued obliviously, gesturing at the silent woman in a flowery dress by his side. She smiled but didn’t speak. “She sits on some committee with Joyce, don’t you, love?” he said, not waiting for her reply.

“This is the final call for Flight BA 107, now boarding at gate number fourteen.”

“We always vote for you, of course,” continued Bert Cox. “The missus” — he pointed to the lady in the flowered dress again — “thinks you’ll be Prime Minister. I always say—”

“I must go, Raymond,” said Kate, “or I’ll miss my flight.”

“Can you excuse me for a moment, Mr. Cox?” said Raymond.

“Delighted. I’ll wait. I don’t often get a chance to have a word with my MP.”

Raymond walked with Kate toward the barrier. “I am sorry about this. I’m afraid they’re all like that in Leeds — hearts of gold, but never stop talking. What were you going to say?”

“Only that I would have been happy to live in Leeds, however cold it is. I never envied anyone in my life, but I do envy Joyce.” She kissed him gently on the cheek and walked toward the barrier before he could reply. She didn’t look back.

“Are you feeling all right, madam?” asked an airport official as she went through the security barrier.

“I’m fine,” said Kate, brushing aside her tears. She walked slowly toward gate fourteen, happy that he had worn the pink shirt for the first time. She wondered if he had found the note she had left underneath the collar. If he had asked her just one more time...

Raymond stood alone and then turned to walk aimlessly toward the exit.

“An American lady, I would have guessed,” said Mr. Cox rejoining him. “I’m good on accents.”

“Yes,” said Raymond, still alone.

“A friend of yours?” he asked.

“My best friend,” said Raymond.

When ten days had passed and Elizabeth had not yet heard from Miss Wallace she decided she had no choice but to contact her direct. She flicked through her personal file and noted the latest number Amanda had given.

Elizabeth picked up the phone and dialed. It was some time before anybody answered.

“730-9712. Charles Seymour speaking.” There was a long silence. “Is anyone there?”

Elizabeth couldn’t reply. She replaced the receiver and felt her whole body come out in a cold sweat. She closed Amanda Wallace’s file and returned it to the cabinet.

Chapter twenty-five

Simon had spent nearly a year preparing a White Paper entitled “A Genuine Partnership for Ireland” for consideration by the House. The Government’s aim was to bring north and south together for a period of ten years at the end of which a more permanent arrangement could be considered. During those ten years both sides would remain under the direct rule of Westminster and Dublin. Both Protestants and Catholics had contributed to “the Charter,” as the press had dubbed the complex agreement. With considerable skill, patience, and fortitude Simon had convinced the political leaders of Northern Ireland to append their names to the final draft when and if it was approved by the House.

He admitted to Elizabeth that the agreement was only a piece of paper, but he felt it was a foundation stone on which the House could base an eventual settlement. On both sides of the Irish Sea politicians and journalists alike were describing the Charter as a genuine breakthrough.

The Secretary of State for Northern Ireland was to present the White Paper to the Commons when Irish business was next scheduled on the parliamentary calendar. Simon, as the architect of the Charter, had been asked to deliver the winding-up speech on behalf of the Government. He knew that if the House backed the concept of the document he might then be allowed to prepare a parliamentary bill and thus overcome a problem so many other politicians had failed to solve before him. If he succeeded Simon felt that all the sacrifices he had made in the past would prove worthwhile.

When Elizabeth sat down to read through the final draft in Simon’s study that evening even she admitted for the first time that she was pleased he had accepted the Irish appointment.

“Now, embryonic statesman,” she continued, “are you ready for your dinner like every normal human being at this time in the evening?”

“I certainly am.” Simon moved his copy of the 129-page Charter from the dining room table to the sideboard, planning to go over it yet again once he had finished dinner.

“Damn,” he heard Elizabeth say from the kitchen.

“What is it?” he asked, not looking up from his toy, like a child studying a jigsaw and wondering where a colorless piece fitted in.

“I’m out of Bisto.”

“I’ll go and buy some,” Simon volunteered. The two policemen on the door were chatting when the minister came out.

“Come on, my wife needs a packet of Bisto, so affairs of state must be held up for the time being.”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” said the sergeant. “When I was told you would be in for the rest of the evening I allowed the official car to go off duty. But Constable Barker can accompany you.”

“That’s no problem,” said Simon. “We can take my wife’s car. I’ll just find out where she’s parked the damn thing.”

He slipped back into the house but returned a moment later. “Been in the force long?” he asked Constable Barker as they walked down the road together.

“Not that long, sir. Started on the beat just over a year ago.”

“Are you married, Constable?”

“Fine chance on my salary, sir.”

“Then you won’t have encountered the problem of being Bisto-less.”

“They’ve never heard of gravy in the police canteen, sir.”

“You should try the House of Commons sometime,” said Simon. “I don’t think you’d find it any better — the food, that is, not to mention the salary.”

The two men laughed as they headed off toward the car.

“What does your wife think of the Mini Metro?” the constable asked as Simon put the key in the door.

Like everyone else in Beaufort Street, Elizabeth heard the explosion, but she was the first to realize what it had to be. She ran out of the front door in search of the duty policeman. She saw him running down the road and quickly followed.

The little red Metro was scattered all over the side street, the glass from its windows making the pavement look as though there had been a sudden hailstorm.

When the sergeant saw the severed head he pulled Elizabeth back. Two other bodies lay motionless in the road, one of them an old lady with the contents of her shopping bag spread around her.

Within minutes, six police cars had arrived and Special Branch officers had cordoned off the area with white ribbon. An ambulance rushed the bodies to Westminster Hospital. The job of picking up the remains of the police constable needed a very resolute man.

Elizabeth was taken to the hospital in a police car, where she learned that the old lady had died before arrival while her husband was on the critical list. When she told the surgeon in charge that she was a doctor he was more forthcoming and answered her questions candidly. Simon was suffering from multiple fractures, a dislocated hip, and a severe loss of blood. The only question he was not willing to be drawn on was when she asked about his chances.

She sat alone outside the operating theater waiting for any scrap of news. Hour after hour went by, and Elizabeth kept recalling Simon’s words: “Be tolerant. Always remember there are still men of goodwill in Northern Ireland.” She found it almost impossible not to scream, to think of the whole lot of them as evil murderers. Her husband had worked tirelessly on their behalf. He wasn’t a Catholic or a Protestant, just a man trying to do an impossible task. Although she couldn’t help thinking that it was she who had been the intended target.

Another hour passed.

A tired, gray-faced man came out into the corridor through the flapping rubber doors. “He’s still hanging on, Dr. Kerslake. Your husband has the constitution of an ox; most people would have let go by now.” He smiled “Can I find you a room so that you can get some sleep?”

“No, thank you,” Elizabeth replied. “I’d prefer to be near him.”

She rang home to check the children were coping and her mother answered the phone. She had rushed over the moment she had heard the news and was keeping them away from the radio and television.

“How is he?” she asked.

Elizabeth told her mother all she knew, then spoke to the children.

“We’re taking care of Grandmother,” Peter told her.

Elizabeth couldn’t hold back the tears. “Thank you, darling,” she said, and quickly replaced the receiver. She returned to the bench outside the operating theater, kicked off her shoes, curled her legs under her body, and tried to snatch some sleep.

She woke with a start in the early morning. Her back hurt and her neck was stiff. She walked slowly up and down the corridor in her bare feet stretching her aching limbs, searching for anyone who could tell her some news. Finally a nurse brought her a cup of tea and assured her that her husband was still alive. But what did “still alive” mean? She stood and watched the grim faces coming out of the operating theater and tried not to recognize the telltale signs of despair. The surgeon told her she ought to go home and rest: they would have nothing to tell her for several hours. A policeman kept all journalists — who were arriving by the minute — in an anteroom off the main corridor.

Elizabeth didn’t move from the corridor for another day and another night, and she didn’t return home until the surgeon told her it was all over.

When she heard the news she fell on her knees and wept.

“God must want the Irish problem solved as well,” he added. “Your husband will live, Dr. Kerslake, but it’s a miracle.”

“Got time for a quick one?” asked Alexander Dalglish.

“If you press me,” said Pimkin.

“Fiona,” shouted Alexander. “It’s Alec Pimkin, he’s dropped in for a drink.”

She came through to join them. She was dressed in a bright yellow frock and had allowed her hair to grow down past her shoulders.

“It suits you,” said Pimkin, tapping his bald head.

“Thank you,” said Fiona. “Why don’t we all go through to the drawing room?”

Pimkin happily obeyed and had soon settled himself into Alexander’s favorite chair.

“What will you have?” asked Fiona, as she stood by the drinks cabinet.

“A large gin with just a rumor of tonic.”

“Well, how’s the constituency faring since my resignation?”

“It ticks along, trying hard to survive the biggest sex scandal since Profumo,” chuckled Pimkin.

“I only hope it hasn’t harmed your election chances,” said Alexander.

“Not a bit of it, old fellow,” said Pimkin, accepting the large Beefeaters and tonic Fiona handed him. “On the contrary, it’s taken their minds off me for a change.”

Alexander laughed.

“In fact,” continued Pimkin, “interest in the date of your wedding has only been eclipsed by Charles and Lady Di. Gossips tell me,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself, “that my Honorable friend, the member for Sussex Downs, made you wait the full two years before you could place an announcement in The Times.”

“Yes, that’s true,” said Fiona. “Charles didn’t even answer my letters during that period, but lately when any problem’s arisen he’s been almost friendly.”

“Could that be because he also wants to place an announcement in The Times” said Pimkin, downing his gin quickly in the hope of being offered a second.

“What do you mean?”

“The fact that he has lost his heart to another.”

“Another?” said Alexander Dalglish.

“No less—” Pimkin paused as he sipped pointedly at his empty glass “—than Miss Amanda Wallace, only daughter of the late and little-lamented Brigadier Boozer Wallace.”

“Amanda Wallace?” said Fiona in disbelief. “Surely he’s got more sense than that.”

“I don’t think it has a lot to do with sense,” said Pimkin holding out his glass. “More to do with sex.”

“But he’s old enough to be her father.”

“If that is the case,” said Pimkin, “Charles can always adopt her.”

Alexander laughed.

“But I am informed by a reliable source,” continued Pimkin, “that marriage is being proposed.”

“You can’t be serious,” said Fiona flatly.

“The subject has most certainly been broached for she is undoubtedly pregnant and Charles is hoping for a son,” said Pimkin in triumph as he accepted his second double gin.

“That’s not possible,” said Fiona under her breath.

“And I am also informed,” continued Pimkin, “that some of the more ungenerous of our brethren are already suggesting the name of several candidates for the role of father.”

“Alec, you’re incorrigible.”

“My dear, it is common knowledge that Amanda has slept with half the Cabinet and a considerable cross section of back-benchers.”

“Stop exaggerating,” said Fiona.

“And what’s more,” continued Pimkin as if he hadn’t heard her, “she has only stopped short of the Labour front bench because her mother told her they were common and she might catch something from them.”

Alexander laughed again. “But surely Charles hasn’t fallen for the pregnancy trick?”

“Hook, line, and sinker. He’s like an Irishman who’s been locked into a Guinness brewery over the weekend. Dear Amanda has my Honorable friend uncorking her at every opportunity.”

“But she’s plain stupid,” said Alexander. “The only time I met her she assured me that Michael Parkinson was turning out to be an excellent chairman of the party.”

“Stupid she may well be,” said Pimkin, “but plain she is not and together, I’m told, they are updating the Kama Sutra.”

“Enough, Alec, enough,” said Fiona, laughing.

“You’re right,” said Pimkin, aware that his glass was nearly empty once again. “A man of my impeccable reputation cannot afford to be seen associating with people living in sin. I must leave immediately, darlings,” he said, rising to his feet. Pimkin put his glass down and Alexander accompanied him to the front door.

As it closed Alexander turned to Fiona. “Never short of useful information, our former member,” he said.

“I agree,” said Fiona. “So much gleaned for such a small investment in Beefeaters.”

As Alexander walked back into the drawing room he added, “Does it change your plans for the return of the Holbein?”

“Not in any way,” said Fiona.

“So you’ll still be at Sotheby’s next week for their Old Masters sale?”

Fiona smiled. “Certainly. And if the price is right we won’t have to worry about what we give Charles for a wedding present.”

Three weeks after the bombing Simon left the Westminster Hospital on crutches, Elizabeth by his side. His right leg had been so shattered that he had been told he would never walk properly again. As he stepped out on to Horseferry Road a hundred cameras flashed to meet their editors’ demand to capture the instant hero. He smiled as if there were no pain. “Don’t let those murderers think they got to you,” he was warned by both sides. Elizabeth’s smile showed only relief that her husband was still alive.

After three weeks of complete rest Simon returned to his Irish Charter against doctor’s orders, knowing the document was still due to be debated in the House in less than a fortnight. The Secretary of State and the other Minister of State for Northern Ireland visited him at home on several occasions and it was agreed that the Minister of State would take over Simon’s responsibilities temporarily and deliver the winding-up speech. During his absence the whole Northern Ireland office grew to realize just how much work Simon had put into the Charter, and no one was at all complacent about taking his place.

The attempt on Simon’s life and the build up to the special debate on the Charter became of such national interest that the BBC decided to broadcast the entire proceedings on Radio Four from three-thirty to the vote at ten o’clock.

On the afternoon of the debate Simon sat up in bed listening to every word on the radio as if it were the final episode in his favorite serial and he was desperate to know the outcome. The speeches opened with a clear and concise presentation of the Charter by the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, which left Simon feeling confident that the whole House would support him. The Opposition spokesman followed with a fair-minded speech, raising one or two queries he had over the controversial Patriots’ Clause with its special rights for Protestants in the south and Catholics in the north, and also how it would affect the Catholics unwilling to register in Northern Ireland. Otherwise he reassured the House that the Opposition supported the Charter and would not be calling for a division.

Simon began to relax for the first time as the debate continued, but his mood changed as some back-bench members started to express more and more anxiety over the Patriots’ Provision. One or two back-benchers were even insisting that the Charter should not be sanctioned by the House until the need for the Patriots’ Provision was fully explained by the Government. Simon realized that a few narrow-minded men were simply playing for time in the hope the Charter would be held up and later forgotten. For generations such men had succeeded in stifling the hopes and aspirations of the Irish people while they allowed bigotry to undermine any real desire for peace.

Elizabeth came in and sat on the end of the bed. “How’s it going?” she asked.

“Not well,” said Simon, “it will all depend on the Opposition spokesman.”

They both sat and listened. But no sooner had the Opposition spokesman risen that Simon realized that he too had misunderstood the real purpose of the Patriots’ Provision and that what Simon had agreed to with both sides in Dublin and Belfast was not being accurately explained to the House. There was no malice in the speech and he was clearly following what had been agreed through the usual channels but Simon could sense that his lack of conviction was sowing doubts in the minds of his fellow members. He feared a division might be called after all.

After one or two members had interrupted to voice further doubts about the Patriots’ Clause the Shadow minister suggested: “Perhaps we should wait until the Minister of State is fully recovered and able to report to the House himself.” A few “hear, hears” could be heard around the Chamber.

Simon felt sick. He was going to lose the Charter if it didn’t get through the House tonight. All the hard work and goodwill would count for nothing. He made a decision.

“I’d love a hot cup of cocoa,” he said, trying to sound casual.

“Of course, darling. I’ll just go and turn the kettle on. Would you like a biscuit while I’m up?”

Simon nodded. Once the bedroom door was closed, he slipped quietly out of bed and dressed as quickly as possible. He picked up his blackthorn stick, a gift from Dr. Fitzgerald, the Irish Prime Minister, which had been among the dozens of presents awaiting his return from hospital. Then he hobbled silently down the stairs and across the hall, hoping Elizabeth would not hear him. He eased the front door open. When the policeman on duty saw him Simon put a finger to his lips and closed the door very slowly behind him. He made his way laboriously up to the police car, lurched into the back, and said, “Switch on the radio, please, and drive me to the House as quickly as possible.”

Simon continued to listen to the Opposition spokesman as the police car weaved in and out of the traffic on a route he hadn’t traveled before. They arrived at the St. Stephen’s entrance to the Commons at nine-twenty-five.

Visitors stood to one side as they might for royalty but Simon didn’t notice. He hobbled on through the Central Lobby, oblivious to the awkwardness of his gait, turning left past the policeman and on toward the entrance of the House. He prayed he would reach the Chamber before the Government spokesman rose to deliver his winding-up speech. Simon passed an astonished chief doorkeeper and arrived at the bar of the House as the new digital clock showed nine-twenty-nine.

The Opposition spokesman was resuming his place on the front bench to muffled cries of “Hear, hear.” The Speaker rose but before he had time to call upon the Minister of State to reply Simon stepped slowly forward on to the green carpet of the Commons. For a moment there was a stunned silence; then the cheering began. It had reached a crescendo by the time Simon arrived at the front bench. His blackthorn stick fell to the floor as he clutched the dispatch box. The Speaker called out his name sotto voce.

Simon waited for the House to come to complete silence.

“Mr. Speaker, I must thank the House for its generous welcome. I return this evening because having listened to every word of the debate on the radio I feel it necessary to explain to Honorable members what was behind my thinking with the Patriots’ Provision. This was not some superficial formula for solving an intractable problem, but an act of good faith to which the representatives from all sides felt able to put their names. It may not be perfect, since words can mean different things to different people — as lawyers continually demonstrate to us.”

The laughter broke the tension that had been building up in the House.

“But if we allow this opportunity to pass today it will be another victory for those who revel in the mayhem of Northern Ireland whatever their reason, and a defeat for all men of goodwill.”

The House was silent as Simon went on to explain in detail the thinking behind the Patriots’ Provision and the effect it would have on both Protestants and Catholics in north and south. He also covered the other salient clauses in the Charter, answering the points that had been raised during the debate until, in glancing up at the clock above the Speaker’s chair, he realized he had less than a minute left.

“Mr. Speaker, we in this great House, who have in the past decided the fate of nations, are now given an opportunity to succeed today where our predecessors have failed. I ask you to support this Charter — not unreservedly, but to show the bombers and the murderers that here in Westminster we can cast a vote for the children of tomorrow’s Ireland. Let the twenty-first century be one in which the Irish problem is only a part of history. Mr. Speaker, I seek the support of the whole House.”

The motion on the Charter was agreed without division.

Simon immediately returned home and on arrival silently crept upstairs. He closed the bedroom door behind him and fumbled for the switch. The light by the side of the bed went on and Elizabeth sat up.

“Your cocoa’s gone cold and I’ve eaten all the biscuits,” she said, grinning, “but thank you for leaving the radio on, at least I knew where you were.”

Chapter twenty-six

Charles and Amanda were married at the most inconspicuous register office in Hammersmith. They then departed for a long weekend in Paris. Charles had told his bride that he preferred her not to let anyone learn of the marriage for at least another week. He didn’t want Fiona to find yet a further excuse for not returning the Holbein. Amanda readily agreed, and then remembered — but surely Alec Pimkin didn’t count.

Paris turned out to be fun, even though Charles was sensitive about Amanda’s obvious pregnancy — never more so than when they arrived on the Friday night at the Plaza Athenée and were escorted to a suite overlooking the courtyard. Later, over dinner, Amanda astonished the waiters with her appetite as well as the cut of her dress.

Over breakfast in bed the next day Charles read in the Herald Tribune that Mrs. Thatcher was considering a reshuffle that very weekend. He cut the honeymoon short and returned to London on the Saturday, two days earlier than planned. Amanda was not overjoyed. Her husband spent the whole of Sunday at Eaton Square alongside a phone that never rang.

That same Sunday evening the Prime Minister called for Simon Kerslake and told him that he was to be made a Privy Councillor and would be moved from the Northern Ireland Office to Defense as Minister of State.

He had started to protest, but Mrs. Thatcher forestalled any discussion. “I don’t want any more dead heroes, Simon,” she said sharply.

Elizabeth was relieved when she heard the news, although it took her some time to get used to her husband being referred to as “the Right Honorable Simon Kerslake.” For some weeks the old joke of “rarely right and never honorable” had to be suffered by both of them from countless well-meaning constituents who imagined they were the only people who had thought of the quip.

Mrs. Thatcher called Charles Seymour on the Monday morning while he was waiting in Eaton Square for the return of the Holbein. Both sides’ solicitors had agreed that the first Earl of Bridgwater should be back at Charles’s home by eleven that morning. Only the Queen or Mrs. Thatcher could have kept Charles from being there to receive it.

The Prime Minister’s call came long after he thought the reshuffle was over, but then Mrs. Thatcher had been informed that Charles was in Paris on his honeymoon and wouldn’t be back until the Monday morning.

Charles took a taxi to Downing Street and was quickly ushered into the Prime Minister’s study. Mrs. Thatcher began by complimenting him on the work he had carried out on successive Finance Bills in Opposition and in Government. She then invited him to join the front-bench team as the Financial Secretary to the Treasury.

Charles accepted gracefully, and after a short policy discussion with the Prime Minister drove back to Eaton Square to celebrate both his triumphs. Amanda met him at the door to tell him the Holbein had been returned. Fiona had kept her part of the bargain: the painting had been delivered at eleven o’clock sharp.

Charles strode confidently into his drawing room and was delighted to find the bulky package awaiting him. He was by no means so pleased to be followed by Amanda, a cigarette in one hand and a glass of gin in the other; but this was not a day for quarrels, he decided. He told her of his appointment, but she didn’t seem to take in its significance until her husband opened a bottle of champagne.

Charles poured out two glasses and handed one to his bride.

“A double celebration. What fun,” she said, first draining the gin.

Charles took a quick sip of the champagne before he began to untie the knots and tear away the smart red wrapping paper that covered his masterpiece. Once the paper had been removed he pulled back the final cardboard covers. Charles stared with delight at the portrait.

The first Earl of Bridgwater was back home. Charles picked up the gold frame he knew so well to return it to its place in his study but he noticed that the picture had come a little loose. “Damn,” he said.

“What’s the matter?” asked Amanda, still leaning against the door.

“Nothing important, only I shall have to get the frame fixed. I’ll drop it into Oliver Swann on the way to the bank. I’ve waited nearly three years; another couple of days won’t make any difference.”

Now that Charles had accepted the post of Financial Secretary to the Treasury he knew there was one little arrangement he had to clear up before the appointment became public knowledge. With that in mind, he left Eaton Square and dropped the Holbein off at the framer. He then went on to the bank and summoned Clive Reynolds to his office. It was clear from Reynolds’s manner that the news of Charles’s ministerial appointment had not yet leaked out.

“Clive,” Charles called him for the first time. “I have a proposition to put to you.”

Clive Reynolds remained silent.

“The Prime Minister has offered me a post in the Government.”

“Congratulations,” said Reynolds, “and well deserved, if I may say so.”

“Thank you,” said Charles. “Now: I’m considering offering you the chance to stand in for me as chairman during my absence.”

Clive Reynolds looked surprised.

“On the clear understanding that if the Conservatives were to return to Opposition or I were to lose my appointment in Government I would be reinstated as chairman immediately.”

“Naturally,” said Reynolds. “I should be delighted to fill the appointment for the interim period.”

“Good man,” said Charles. “It can’t have escaped your notice what happened to the last chairman in the same situation.”

“I shall make certain that will not happen again.”

“Thank you,” said Charles. “I shall not forget your loyalty when I return.”

“And I shall also endeavor to carry on the traditions of the bank in your absence,” said Reynolds, his head slightly bowed.

“I feel sure you will,” said Charles.

The board accepted the recommendation that Clive Reynolds be appointed as temporary chairman and Charles vacated his office happily to take up his new post at the Treasury.

Charles considered it had been the most successful week of his life and on the Friday evening on the way back to Eaton Square he dropped into Oliver Swann’s gallery to pick up the Holbein.

“I’m afraid the picture didn’t quite fit the frame,” said Mr. Swann.

“Oh, I expect it’s worked loose over the years,” Charles said noncommittally.

“No, Mr. Seymour, this frame was put on the portrait quite recently,” said Swann.

“That’s not possible,” said Charles. “I remember the frame as well as I remember the picture. The portrait of the first Earl of Bridgwater has been in my family for over 400 years.”

“Not this picture,” said Swann.

“What do you mean?” said Charles, beginning to sound anxious.

“This picture came up for sale at Sotheby’s about three weeks ago.”

Charles went cold as Swann continued.

“It’s the school of Holbein, of course,” he said, “probably painted by one of his pupils around the time of his death. I should think there are a dozen or so in existence.”

“A dozen or so,” repeated Charles, the blood drained from his face.

“Yes, perhaps even more. At least it’s solved one mystery for me,” said Swann, chuckling.

“What’s that?” asked Charles, choking out the words.

“I couldn’t work out why Lady Fiona was bidding for the picture, and then I remembered that your family name is Bridgwater.”

“At least this wedding has some style,” Pimkin assured Fiona between mouthfuls of sandwich at the reception after her marriage to Alexander Dalglish. Pimkin always accepted wedding invitations as it allowed him to devour mounds of smoked salmon sandwiches and consume unlimited quantities of champagne. “I particularly enjoyed that short service of blessing in the Guards’ Chapel; and Claridges can always be relied on to understand my little proclivities.” He peered round the vast room and only stopped to stare at his reflection in a chandelier.

Fiona laughed. “Did you go to Charles’s wedding?”

“My darling, the only Etonians who have ever been seen in Hammersmith pass through it as quickly as possible on a boat, representing either Oxford or Cambridge.”

“So you weren’t invited,” said Fiona.

“I’m told that only Amanda was invited, and even she nearly found she had another engagement. With her doctor, I believe.”

“Well, Charles certainly can’t afford another divorce.”

“No, not in his present position as Her Majesty’s. Financial Secretary. One divorce might go unnoticed but two would be considered habit-forming, and all diligent readers of Nigel Dempster have been able to observe that consummation has taken place.”

“But how long will Charles be able to tolerate her behavior?”

“As long as he still believes she has given him a son who will inherit the family title. Not that a marriage ceremony will necessarily prove legitimacy,” added Pimkin.

“Perhaps Amanda won’t produce a son.”

“Perhaps whatever she produces it will be obvious that it’s not Charles’s offspring,” said Pimkin, falling into a chair that had been momentarily left by a large buxom lady.

“Even if it was I can’t see Amanda as a housewife.”

“No, but it suits Amanda’s current circumstances to be thought of as the loving spouse.”

“Time may change that, too,” said Fiona.

“I doubt it,” said Pimkin. “Amanda is stupid, that has been proven beyond reasonable doubt, but she has a survival instinct second only to a mongoose. So while Charles is spending all the hours of the day advancing his glittering career she would be foolish to search publicly for greener pastures. Especially when she can always lie in them privately.”

“You’re a wicked old gossip,” said Fiona.

“I cannot deny it,” said Pimkin, “for it is an art at which women have never been as accomplished as men.”

“Thank you for such a sensible wedding present,” said Alexander, joining his wife of two hours. “You selected my favorite claret.”

“Giving a dozen bottles of the finest claret serves two purposes,” said Pimkin, his hands resting lightly on his stomach. “First, you can always be assured of a decent wine when you invite yourself to dine.”

“And second?” asked Alexander.

“When the happy couple split up you can feel relieved that they will no longer have your present to quarrel over.”

“Did you give Charles and Amanda a present?” asked Fiona.

“No,” said Pimkin, deftly removing another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “I felt your return of the bogus Earl of Bridgwater was quite enough for both of us.”

“I wonder where he is now?” said Alexander.

“He no longer resides in Eaton Square,” said Pimkin with the air of one who has divulged a piece of information which can only guarantee further rapt attention.

“Who would want the phony earl?”

“We are not aware of the provenance of the buyer, as he emanates from one of Her Majesty’s former colonies, but the seller...”

“Stop teasing, Alec. Who?”

“None other than Mrs. Amanda Seymour.”

“Amanda?”

“Yes. Amanda, no less. The dear, silly creature retrieved the false earl from the cellar where Charles had buried him with full military honors.”

“But she must have realized it was a fake.”

“My dear Amanda wouldn’t know the difference between a Holbein and an Andy Warhol but she still happily accepted £10,000 for the impersonation. I am assured that the dealer who purchased this fabricated masterpiece made what I think vulgar people in the City describe as’a quick turn.’”

“Good God,” said Alexander. “I only paid £8,000 for it myself.”

“Perhaps you should get Amanda to advise you on these matters in future,” said Pimkin. “In exchange for my invaluable piece of information I’m bound to inquire if the real Earl of Bridgwater is to remain in hiding.”

“Certainly not, Alec. He is merely awaiting the right moment to make a public appearance,” said Fiona, unable to hide a smile.

“And where is Amanda now?” asked Alexander, obviously wanting to change the subject.

“In Switzerland producing a baby, which we can but hope will bear sufficient resemblance to a white Caucasian to convince one of Charles’s limited imagination that he is the father.”

“Where do you get all your information from?” asked Alexander.

Pimkin sighed dramatically. “Women have a habit of pouring their hearts out to me, Amanda included.”

“Why should she do that?” asked Alexander.

“She lives safe in the knowledge that I am the one man she knows who has no interest in her body.” Pimkin drew breath, but only to devour another smoked salmon sandwich.

Charles phoned Amanda every day while she was in Geneva. She kept assuring him all was well, and that the baby was expected on time. He had considered it prudent for Amanda not to remain in England advertising her pregnancy, a less than recent occurrence to even the most casual observer. She for her part did not complain. With £10,000 safely tucked away in a private Swiss account there were few little necessities she could not have brought to her, even in Geneva.

It had taken a few weeks for Charles to become accustomed to Government after such a long break. He enjoyed the challenge of the Treasury and quickly fell in with its strange traditions. He was constantly reminded that his was the department on which the Prime Minister kept the closest eye, making the challenge even greater. The civil servants, when asked their opinion of the new Financial Secretary, would reply variously: able, competent, efficient, hardworking — but without any hint of affection in their voices. When someone asked his driver, whose name Charles could never remember, the same question he proffered the view, “He’s the sort of minister who always sits in the back of a car. But I’d still put a week’s wages on Mr. Seymour becoming Prime Minister.”

Amanda produced her child in the middle of the ninth month. After a week’s recuperation she was allowed to return to England. She discovered traveling with her offspring was a nuisance and by the time she arrived at Heathrow she was more than happy to turn the child over to the nanny Charles had selected.

Charles had sent a car to pick her up from the airport. He had an unavoidable conference with a delegation of Japanese businessmen, he explained, all of them busy complaining about the new Government tariffs on imports. At the first opportunity to be rid of his oriental guests he bolted back to Eaton Square.

Amanda was there to meet him at the door. Charles had almost forgotten how beautiful his wife was, and how long she had been away.

“Where’s my child?” he asked, after he had given her a long kiss.

“In a nursery that’s more expensively furnished than our bedroom,” she replied a little sharply.

Charles ran up the wide staircase and along the passage. Amanda followed. He entered the nursery and stopped in his tracks as he stared at the future Earl of Bridgwater. The little black curls and deep brown eyes came as something of a shock.

“Good heavens,” said Charles, stepping forward for a closer examination. Amanda remained by the door, her hand clutching its handle.

She had a hundred answers ready for his question.

“He’s the spitting image of my great-grandfather. You skipped a couple of generations, Harry,” said Charles, lifting the boy high into the air, “but there’s no doubt you’re a real Seymour.”

Amanda sighed with inaudible relief. The hundred answers she could now keep to herself.

“It’s more than a couple of generations the little bastard has skipped,” said Pimkin. “It’s an entire continent.” He took another sip of christening champagne before continuing. “This poor creature, on the other hand,” he said, staring at Fiona’s firstborn, “bears a striking resemblance to Alexander. Dear little girl should have been given a kinder legacy with which to start her life.”

“She’s beautiful,” said Fiona, picking Lucy up from the cradle to check her nappy.

“Now we know why you needed to be married so quickly,” added Pimkin between gulps. “At least this child made wedlock, even if it was a close-run thing.”

Fiona continued as if she had not heard his remark. “Have you actually seen Charles’s son?”

“I think we should refer to young Harry as Amanda’s child,” said Pimkin. “We don’t want to be had up under the Trade Descriptions Act.”

“Come on, Alec, have you seen Harry?” she asked, refusing to fill his empty glass.

“Yes, I have. And I am afraid he also bears too striking a resemblance to his father for it to go unnoticed in later life.”

“Anyone we know?” asked Fiona, probing.

“I am not a scandalmonger,” said Pimkin, removing a crumb from his waistcoat. “As you well know. But a certain Brazilian fazendeiro who frequents Cowdray Park and Ascot during the summer months has obviously maintained his interest in English fillies.”

Pimkin confidently held out his glass.

Chapter twenty-seven

James Callaghan’s resignation as Labour party leader in October 1980 took none of the political analysts by surprise. Unlike his predecessor he was over sixty-five, the age at which his party had recommended retirement.

Those same analysts were surprised, however, when Michael Foot, the veteran left-winger, defeated Denis Healey by 139 votes to 129 to become the new leader of the Labour party. The analysts immediately predicted a long spell of opposition for the socialists.

The Conservatives took much pleasure in watching a leadership struggle from the sidelines for a change. When Charles Seymour heard the result it amused him that the Labour party had ended up replacing a sixty-year-old with a sixty-four-year-old, who in turn was being replaced by a sixty-seven-year-old. Lord Shinwell, who at the age of ninety-six was the oldest living former Labour Cabinet minister, declared that he would be a candidate for party leadership when Foot retired.

When the election for the Shadow Cabinet came a week later Andrew decided not to submit his name. Like many of his colleagues he liked the new leader personally but had rarely been able to agree with him on domestic issues and was totally opposed to his defense and European policies. Instead he took on the chairmanship of the Select Committee on Scottish Affairs. Raymond for his part considered that Foot was destined to be no more than an interim leader and was therefore quite happy to serve under him. When the election to the Shadow Cabinet was announced Raymond came eighth. Michael Foot invited him to continue shadowing the Trade portfolio.

When Andrew entered the Commons Chamber the day after the election he walked up the gangway and took a seat on the back benches for the first time in fourteen years. He looked down at Raymond lounging on the front bench and recalled his own words “There may well come a day when I sit and envy you from the same back benches.”

Andrew was not surprised when he heard from his local committee in Edinburgh that he would once again have to submit himself to reselection as their candidate some time during 1981. When the Labour conference the previous October had approved the mandatory reselection of Labour MPs he had realized his biggest battle would be internal. Frank Boyle had even managed to replace another of Andrew’s supporters with one of his own henchmen.

Roy Jenkins, the former deputy leader of the Labour party, was returning from Brussels as soon as his term as President of the European Commission came to an end. After delivering the Dimbleby lecture on television Jenkins made no secret of the fact that he was considering founding a new party that would take in those moderate radicals who felt the Labour party had swung too far to the left. The party conference had removed the power of selection of the leaders from Members of Parliament; for many this was the final straw, and several Labour MPs told Jenkins they were ready to defect. Andrew would have preferred to remain loyal to the party and try to change it from the inside, but he was fast coming to the conclusion that that hour had passed.

In his morning mail was a curt note from the constituency secretary informing him that Frank Boyle was going to oppose him for the nomination. Andrew flew up to Edinburgh on the day of the meeting, fearing the worst. No one met him at the airport, and at party headquarters David Connaught greeted him with a glum face.

Andrew stood in front of the committee in a cold, cheerless room and answered the same questions that had been put to him only three years before. He gave exactly the same answers: where he stood on nuclear disarmament, why he was in favor of a close association with the United States, his attitude to a wealth tax — on and on, predictable question after predictable question, but he never once allowed them to exasperate him.

He ended with the words: “I have been proud to serve the people of Edinburgh Carlton for almost twenty years as the Labour member and hope to do so for at least another twenty. If you now feel unable to reselect me I would have to consider standing as an independent candidate.” For the first time, one or two members of the committee looked anxious.

“We are not intimidated by your threats, Mr. Fraser,” said Frank Boyle. “The Labour party has always been bigger than any individual. Now we know where Mr. Fraser’s real interests lie I suggest we move to a vote.”

Twelve little slips of paper were passed out. “Fraser” or “Boyle” were scribbled on them before they were sent back to the chairman.

Frank Boyle slowly gathered up the slips, clearly relishing Andrew’s discomfort. He unfolded the first slip of paper. “Boyle,” he said, glancing at the others round the table.

He opened a second — “Fraser” — then a third, “Boyle,” followed by “Fraser, Fraser, Fraser.”

Andrew kept count in his head: four-two in his favor.

“Fraser,” followed by “Boyle, Boyle, Fraser.”

Six-four in Andrew’s favor, with two still unopened: he only needed one more vote. “Boyle.” Six-five. The chairman took some considerable time opening the last slip.

“Boyle,” he announced in triumph.

He paused for effect. “Six votes all,” he declared. “Under standing order forty-two of the Party Constitution,” he said, as if he had learned the words off by heart before the meeting, “in the result of a tie the chairman shall have the casting vote.” He paused once again.

“Boyle,” he said, lingering for a moment. “I therefore declare that Frank Boyle is selected as the official Labour party candidate for the constituency of Edinburgh Carlton at the next general election.” He turned to Andrew and said, “We shall no longer be requiring your services, Mr. Fraser.”

“I would like to thank those of you who supported me,” Andrew said quietly and left without another word.

The next day the Scotsman came out with a lengthy article on the dangers of a small group of willful people having the power to remove a member who had served his constituents honorably over a long period of time. Andrew phoned Stuart Gray to thank him. “I only wish the article had come out the day before,” he said.

“It was set up for yesterday,” Stuart told him, “but the announcement from Buckingham Palace of Prince Charles’s engagement to Lady Diana Spencer moved everything else out — even the Rangers — Celtic report. By the way, doesn’t Boyle’s nomination have to be confirmed by his General Management Committee?”

“Yes, but they are putty in his hands. That would be like trying to explain to your mother-in-law about your wife’s nagging.”

“Then why don’t you appeal to the National Executive and ask for the decision to be put to a full meeting of the constituency party?”

“Because it would take weeks to get the decision overturned and more importantly I’m no longer certain that I want to fight the seat as a Labour candidate.”

Andrew listened to the reporter’s question and said, “Yes, you may quote me.”

As the date for an election drew nearer Charles decided it might be wise to introduce Amanda to the constituency. He had explained to those who inquired that his wife had had rather a bad time of it after the birth, and had been told by her doctors not to participate in anything that might raise her blood pressure — though one or two constituents considered that the Sussex Downs’ Conservatives would find it hard to raise the blood pressure of a ninety-year-old with a pacemaker. Charles had also decided to leave Harry at home, explaining that it was he who had chosen a public life, not his son.

The annual Garden Party held in the grounds of Lord Cuckfield’s country home seemed to Charles to be the ideal opportunity to show off Amanda and he asked her to be certain to wear something appropriate.

He was aware that designer jeans had come into fashion, and that his clothes-conscious wife never seemed to dress in the same thing twice. He also knew that liberated women didn’t wear bras. But he was nevertheless shocked when he saw Amanda in a near see-through blouse and jeans so tight it looked as if she had been poured into them. Charles was genuinely horrified.

“Can’t you find something a little more... conservative?” he suggested.

“Like the things that old frump Fiona used to wear?”

Charles couldn’t think of a suitable reply. “The Garden Party will be frightfully dull,” said Charles desperately. “Perhaps I should go on my own.”

Amanda turned and looked him in the eye. “Are you ashamed of me, Charlie?”

He drove his wife silently down to the constituency and every time he glanced over at her he wanted to make an excuse to turn back. When they arrived at Lord Cuckfield’s home his worst fears were confirmed. Neither the men nor the women could take their eyes off Amanda as she strolled around the lawns devouring strawberries. Many of them would have used the word “hussy” if she hadn’t been the member’s wife.

Charles might have escaped lightly had it only been the one risqué joke Amanda told — to the bishop’s wife — or even her curt refusals to judge the baby contest or to draw the raffle; but he was not to be so lucky. The chairman of the Women’s Advisory Committee had met her match when she was introduced to the member’s wife.

“Darling,” said Charles. “I don’t think you’ve met Mrs. Blenkinsop.”

“No, I haven’t,” said Amanda, ignoring Mrs. Blenkinsop’s outstretched hand.

“Mrs. Blenkinsop,” continued Charles, “was awarded the OBE for her services to the constituency.”

“OBE?” Amanda asked innocently.

Mrs. Blenkinsop drew herself up to her full height.

“Order of the British Empire,” she said.

“I’ve always wondered,” said Amanda, smiling. “My dad used to tell me it stood for ‘other buggers’ efforts.’”

“Seen the Persil anywhere?” asked Louise.

“No, I stopped washing my own pants some time ago,” replied Andrew.

“Ha, ha,” said Louise. “But if you haven’t taken them who has — two giant packets are missing?”

“The phantom Persil thief strikes again. Whatever next?” said Andrew. “The Bovril perhaps?”

“Stop making a fool of yourself and go and fish Clarissa out of the bath.”

Andrew pulled himself out of the armchair, dropped The Economist on the carpet, and ran upstairs. “Time to get out, young lady,” he said even before he reached the bathroom door. First he heard the sobbing, then when he opened the door he found Clarissa covered from head to toe in soap flakes. Her thick black curly hair was matted with them. Andrew burst out laughing but he stopped when he saw Clarissa’s knees and shins were bleeding. She held a large scrubbing brush in one hand which was covered in a mixture of soap powder and blood.

“What’s the matter, darling?” asked Andrew, kneeling on the bath mat.

“It isn’t true,” said Clarissa, not looking at him.

“What isn’t true?” asked Andrew gently.

“Look on the box,” she said, pointing at the two empty packets which were standing on the end of the bath. Andrew glanced at the familiar picture on the box of a little fair-haired girl in a white party dress.

“What isn’t true?” he repeated, still uncertain what Clarissa meant.

“It isn’t true that Persil washes whiter and can remove even the blackest spots. Two large packets and I’m still black,” she said.

Andrew had to smile which only made Clarissa cry even more. After he had washed off all the suds and gently dried her he put antiseptic ointment on the cuts and bruises.

“Why am I so black?” she asked.

“Because your mother and father were black,” replied Andrew, guiding his daughter through to her bedroom.

“Why can’t you be my father? Then I’d be white.”

“I am your father now so you don’t need to be.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“Because the children at school laugh at me,” Clarissa said, clutching firmly on to Andrew’s hand.

“When I was at school they used to laugh at me because I was small,” said Andrew. “They called me puny.”

“What did you do about it?” asked Clarissa.

“I trained hard and ended up as captain of the school rugby team and that made them stop laughing.”

“But by then you were big. I can’t train to be white.”

“No, I was still small, and you won’t need to train.”

“Why?” asked Clarissa, still not letting go of his hand.

“Because you’re going to be beautiful, and then all those ugly white girls will be oh so jealous.”

Clarissa was silent for some time before she spoke again.

“Promise, Daddy?”

“I promise,” he said, remaining on the edge of the bed.

“Like Frank Boyle is jealous of you?”

Andrew was startled. “What do you know about him?”

“Only what I heard Mummy say, that he’s going to be the Labour man for Edinburgh, but you’ll still beat him.”

Andrew was speechless.

“Is he going to be the Labour man, Daddy?” she asked.

“Yes, he is.”

“And will you beat him?”

“I’ll try.”

“Can I help?” Clarissa asked, a tiny smile appearing on her face.

“Of course. Now off you go to sleep,” said Andrew, getting up and drawing the curtains.

“Is he black?”

“Who?” asked Andrew.

“The nasty Frank Boyle.”

“No,” said Andrew, laughing, “he’s white.”

“Then he ought to be made to have my skin then I could have his.”

Andrew turned off the light, relieved Clarissa could no longer see his face.

Harry’s second birthday party was attended by all those two-year-olds in the vicinity of Eaton Square whom his nanny considered acceptable. Charles managed to escape from a departmental meeting accompanied by a large paint board and a red tricycle. As he parked his car in Eaton Square he spotted Fiona’s old Volvo driving away toward Sloane Square. He dismissed the coincidence although he still had plans for regaining the priceless Holbein. Harry naturally wanted to ride the tricycle round and round the dining room table. Charles sat watching his son and couldn’t help noticing that he was smaller than most of his friends. Then he remembered that great grandfather had only been five feet eight inches tall.

It was the moment after the candles had been blown out, and nanny switched the light back on, that Charles was first aware that something was missing. It was like the game children play with objects on a tray: everyone shuts his eyes, nanny takes one away, and then you all have to guess which piece it was.

It took Charles some time to realize that the missing object was his gold cigar box. He walked over to the sideboard and studied the empty space. He continued to stare at the spot where the small gold box left to him by his great-grandfather had been the previous night. Now all that was left in its place was the matching lighter.

He immediately asked Amanda if she knew where the heirloom was, but his wife seemed totally absorbed in lining up the children for a game of musical chairs. After checking carefully in the other rooms Charles went into his study and phoned the Chelsea police.

An inspector from the Crime Squad came round immediately and took down all the details. Charles was able to supply the police officer with a photograph of the box which carried the initials C.G.S. He stopped just short of mentioning Fiona by name. The inspector assured Charles that he would deal with the investigation personally. Charles returned to the party to find nannies arriving to gather their wards.

When the Edinburgh Carlton Labour party issued a press statement after their AGM announcing that Frank Boyle had been selected to fight the seat as their candidate, Andrew was surprised and touched by the flood of letters and calls of goodwill he received, many from people he didn’t even know. Most of the messages begged him to stand at the next general election as an Independent.

Twenty Labour MPs and one Conservative had joined the newly formed Social Democratic Party and many others were expected to follow. Andrew knew he would have to make an announcement soon if he didn’t want his supporters to drift away. He spent agonizing hours discussing with Louise the problem of severing the final bonds with the party.

“What shall I do?” he asked, yet again.

“I can’t tell you that; I just hope you make up your mind fairly quickly.”

“Why quickly?”

“Because I’m going to vote for the Social Democrats at the next election, so you had better be my local candidate.”

A few days later Roy Jenkins, Andrew’s old chief at the Home Office, phoned to say he was fighting a by-election in Glasgow as the SDP candidate.

“I do hope you will feel able to join us,” said Jenkins.

Andrew had always admired Jenkins’s firm stand against the left and felt he was the one man who might break the two-party system.

“I need a little more time,” he replied.

A week later Andrew made up his mind and informed the Chief Whip that he was leaving the party and would be joining the SDP. Then he packed a bag and traveled to Glasgow.

Roy Jenkins won the seat at Glasgow Hillhead with a large enough swing to worry both main parties. By Easter, a total of twenty-nine Members of Parliament had broken away to join him, while the alliance of SDP and Liberal MPs together could muster more than forty votes on the floor of the House.

With opinion polls putting them in second place, it began to look possible that the Social Democrats might hold the balance of power after the next election. The Conservatives were now running a poor third in all the national opinion polls.

Charles heard nothing for three weeks about the missing gold box and was beginning to despair when the inspector phoned to say that the family heirloom had been found.

“Excellent news,” said Charles. “Are you able to bring the box round to Eaton Square?”

“It’s not quite as simple as that, sir,” said the policeman.

“What do you mean?”

“I would prefer not to discuss the matter over the phone. May I come and see you, sir?”

“By all means,” said Charles, slightly mystified.

He waited impatiently for the inspector to arrive, although the policeman was at the front door barely ten minutes later. His first question took Charles by surprise.

“Are we alone, sir?”

“Yes,” said Charles. “My wife and son are away visiting my mother-in-law in Wales. You say you’ve found the gold box,” he continued, impatient to hear the inspector’s news.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well done, Inspector. I shall speak to the Commissioner personally,” he added, guiding the officer toward the drawing room.

“I’m afraid there’s a complication, sir.”

“How can there be when you’ve found the box?”

“We cannot be sure there was anything illegal about its disappearance in the first place.”

“What do you mean, inspector?”

“The gold case was offered to a dealer in Grafton Street for £2,500.”

“And who was doing the selling?” asked Charles impatiently.

“That’s the problem, sir. The check was made out to Amanda Seymour and the description fits your wife,” said the inspector. Charles was speechless. “And the dealer has a receipt to prove the transaction.” The inspector passed over a copy of the receipt. Charles was unable to steady his shaking hand as he recognized Amanda’s signature.

“Now, as this matter has already been referred to the Director of Public Prosecutions I thought I ought to have a word with you in private, as I am sure you would not want us to prefer charges.”

“Yes, no, of course, thank you for your consideration, Inspector,” said Charles flatly.

“Not at all, sir. The dealer has made his position clear: he would be only too happy to return the cigar box for the exact sum he paid for it. I don’t think that could be fairer.”

Charles made no comment other than to thank the inspector again before showing him out.

He returned to his study, phoned Amanda at her mother’s house, and told her to return immediately. She started to protest, but he had already hung up.

Charles remained at home until they all arrived back at Eaton Square late that night. The nanny and Harry were immediately sent upstairs.

It took Charles about five minutes to discover that only a few hundred pounds of the money was left. When his wife burst into tears he struck her across the face with such force that she fell to the ground. “If anything else goes missing from this house,” he said, “you will go with it and I will also make sure you spend a very long time in jail.” Amanda ran out of the room sobbing uncontrollably.

The next day Charles advertised for a full-time governess. He also moved his own bedroom to the top floor so that he could be close to his son. Amanda made no protest.

Once the governess had settled in Amanda quickly became bored with the child and began disappearing for long periods. Charles couldn’t be sure where she was most of the time, and didn’t care.

After Pimkin had recounted the latest state of affairs to Alexander Dalglish in well-embroidered detail Fiona remarked to her husband, “I never thought the day would come when I would feel sorry for Charles.”

On a sleepy Thursday in April 1982 Argentina attacked and occupied two small islands whose 1,800 British citizens were forced to lower the Union Jack for the first time in over a hundred years. Few members returned to their constituency that Friday and the House met unusually on a Saturday morning to debate the crisis while the nation followed every word on the radio.

The same day Mrs. Thatcher immediately dispatched a task force halfway around the globe to recapture the islands. Her fellow countrymen followed every scrap of news so intently that the London theaters found themselves empty at the height of the season.

Simon felt exhilarated to be a member of the Defense team at such an historic moment, and Elizabeth didn’t begrudge him those days when he left before she had woken and arrived home after she had fallen asleep.

Under less public scrutiny but almost equal pressure, Charles beavered away at the Treasury addressing the economic problems that had been presented. He spent day after day in the House helping to put the Government’s case. Like Simon he found he could only snatch moments to be at home but, unlike Elizabeth, his wife remained in bed until midday. When Charles did manage to slip away from the department he spent all his spare time with Harry, whose progress he followed with delighted concern.

At the time when the Union Jack was raised once again in the Falklands, the budget became an Act.

Chapter twenty-eight

“PM to go in Nov” and “Will Maggie wait till June?” were two of the headlines Andrew read on the first day of the new Parliamentary session.

Anyone who is defending a marginal seat is always on edge as the statutory five years draws to a close, and the new SDP members all treated their seats as marginal. Andrew was no exception.

He had worked hard to prove he was worth his place in the group the leader of the Social Democrats was beginning to form in the Commons. When Roy Jenkins had announced the make-up of his Shadow team Andrew was appointed Defense spokesman and enjoyed the challenge of pitting himself against the two main parties in the Commons in the run-up to the election. But once the Falklands crisis was over he knew his real problems were not going to be in Westminster but in Edinburgh, where he spent an increasing amount of his time. Hamish Ramsey phoned to ask him if there was anything he could do to help.

“Be my chairman for the election campaign,” said Andrew simply.

Ramsey agreed without hesitation and within a fortnight four members of Andrew’s old Labour party committee had defected to join him. Support for Andrew came from the most surprising quarters, including Jock McPherson, who pledged that the Scottish Nationalists would not be contesting the Edinburgh Carlton seat as they had no desire to see Frank Boyle in Parliament. Sir Duncan Fraser kept very quiet about what the Conservatives were up to until they announced that Jamie Lomax would be their standardbearer.

“Lomax. Lomax,” repeated Andrew. “He and I were at school together,” he told his father. “He was known as Loopy Lomax. You’ve selected the biggest idiot of his generation.”

“That’s a disgraceful slur on an able man,” said Sir Duncan, trying to keep a straight face. “I can assure you it took a lot of convincing the committee to make certain Lomax was selected.”

“How did you fix it?”

“I must admit it wasn’t easy. We had some very good applicants, but I managed to undermine every one of them and point out how blemish-free Lomax’s political past was,” said Sir Duncan, winking.

“Nonexistent careers make for the best blemish-free pasts,” said Andrew, and burst out laughing.

“Yes, I’m afraid one or two of the committee noticed that. But you must admit Lomax is a fine figure of a man,” added his father.

“What’s that got to do with it?” asked Andrew. “You weren’t looking for a male model as candidate.”

“I know, but it did help me to swing the ladies on the Women’s Advisory Committee round to my way of thinking.”

“You’re a rogue, Father.”

“No, I’m not. There isn’t a Conservative in Scotland who would rather see Frank Boyle in the House than you, and as we have no chance of winning the seat, why let him in?”

Louise and Clarissa spent the Christmas recess in Edinburgh. Sir Duncan warned Louise that if Andrew lost this election he could never hope to return to the House of Commons again.

During 1983 Margaret Thatcher stuck firm to her monetarist policies and brought inflation below four percent, while in parts of Scotland unemployment rose to fifteen percent. She had gradually stifled any opposition from the “wets” and by the end of her first administration they were totally outmaneuvered. But it was the outcome of the Falklands crisis that had kept her ahead in the opinion polls for over a year. The press speculated on the date of the general election all through the month of April, and after the Conservatives’ success in the local elections on 5 May the Prime Minister sought an audience with the Queen. Shortly afterward Margaret Thatcher told the nation that she needed another five years to continue her policies and prove that they worked. The election date was set for 9 June.

Once the election campaign had begun in earnest Stuart Gray interviewed all three candidates on behalf of the Scotsman and told Andrew he had a plan to help him.

“You can’t,” said Andrew. “You’re bound to remain neutral and give all three candidates equal column inches during the campaign.”

“Agreed,” said Stuart. “But on the one hand we know Frank Boyle is sharp and has the looks of an escaped convict, while Jamie Lomax looks like a film star but makes crass statements every time he opens his mouth.”

“So?” said Andrew.

“So I’m going to cover the political pages with the worst shots I can find of Boyle and fill up inch after inch with the sayings of Lomax. They’ll both get equal coverage while at the same time they’ll lose votes.”

“They’ll suss it out and complain to the editor.”

“I doubt it,” said Stuart. “I have yet to meet a politician who complained about having his photo in the paper, or one who was angered by seeing his mad views aired to a larger audience than he could have hoped to influence in the past.”

“And what do you propose to do about me?”

“That’s a problem,” admitted Stuart, laughing. “Perhaps I’ll leave the columns blank. That’s one way you can’t lose votes.”

Whenever Andrew carried out a door-to-door canvass he found a clear division between those who still backed him and those who thought he had been disloyal to the Labour party. As the canvass returns came in and the colors were put out on the trestle tables in the new party headquarters it became clear from even a cursory glance that it was going to be his toughest election yet.

Andrew had experienced some dirty campaigns over the years, especially when he had been up against the Scottish Nationalists, but after only a few days he had sweet memories of Jock McPherson who was Little Red Riding Hood compared with Boyle. Andrew could just about tolerate hearing that he had been thrown out of the Labour party because he was such a lazy member, even that he had left them in the lurch because he had been told he could never hope to be a minister again, but when it was repeated to him that the Boyle camp were spreading a rumor that Louise had lost her voice because, when she had her baby, it turned out to be black he was furious.

If Andrew had seen Boyle that day he would undoubtedly have hit him. Sir Duncan counseled restraint, pointing out that any other action could only harm Louise and Clarissa. Andrew took a deep breath and said nothing.

With a week to go a local opinion poll in the Scotsman showed Boyle leading by thirty-five percent to Andrew’s thirty-two. The Conservatives had nineteen percent but fourteen percent remained undecided. Jock McPherson had kept his word: no Scottish Nationalist candidate had entered the lists.

On the Friday before the election McPherson went one better by issuing a statement advising his supporters to back Andrew Fraser.

When Andrew phoned to thank him, he said, “I’m returning a favor.”

“l don’t remember ever doing you a favor,” said Andrew.

“You certainly did, remembering you’re an Edinburgh man. One mention to the press of my offer of the leadership of the Scottish Nationalists and I’d have been sunk down the nearest pothole.”

With five days to go Alliance supporters from the two Edinburgh constituencies which were not fielding an SDP candidate swarmed in to help Andrew, and he began to believe the canvass returns that were now showing he could win. With two days to go the Scotsman proclaimed it was thirty-nine percent to thirty-eight percent in Boyle’s favor, but also went on to point out that the Labour party would have a better-oiled machine to depend on when it came to polling day.

In his eve-of-poll message Andrew issued a clear statement on why his views differed from those of his opponent in the Labour party, and how he saw the future of Britain if the Alliance gained enough seats to hold the balance of power. He reminded voters that without exception the national opinion polls showed the SDP now running neck and neck with Labour.

Frank Boyle also put out an eve-of-poll message, delivered to every house in the constituency, showing a picture of Andrew holding Clarissa in his arms under the caption “Does your member tell you the whole truth?” There was no mention of Louise or Clarissa in the text but the innuendo could not have been clearer. Andrew didn’t see the sheet until the morning of polling day by which time he knew there was nothing effective he could do to refute Boyle’s implied slur. Issuing a writ that could not be dealt with until weeks after the election was over could only prove impotent. He either won the day or he lost it.

To that end, he and Louise never stopped working from seven that morning until ten at night. Helpers arrived from the most unexpected places, as if to prove the Scotsman wrong about the Labour party machine, but Andrew couldn’t help noticing that there were red rosettes everywhere he went.

Toward the end of the day even Sir Duncan joined him and began chauffeuring SDP voters to the polls in his Rolls Royce.

“We’ve faced the fact that our candidate has lost so now I’ve come to help you,” he told Andrew bluntly.

As the city hall clock struck ten Andrew sat down on the steps of the last polling station. He knew there was nothing he could do now. He had done everything possible, only avoiding members of the House of Lords and lunatics — neither of which group was entitled to vote.

An old lady was coming out of the polling station with a smile on her face.

“Hello, Mrs. Bloxham,” said Andrew. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, Andrew.” She smiled. “I nearly forgot to vote and that would never have done.”

He raised his tired head.

“Now don’t fret yourself, laddie,” she continued, “I never failed to vote for the winner in fifty-two years and that’s longer than you’ve lived.” She chuckled and left him sitting on the steps.

Andrew somehow picked himself up and made his way through the dark cobbled streets to his election headquarters. They cheered him as he entered the room, and the chairman offered him a “wee dram of whisky.”

“To hell with a wee dram,” said Andrew. “Just keep pouring.”

He tried to get round the room to thank everyone before Hamish Ramsey told him it was time to go over to the city hall for the count. A small band of supporters accompanied the Frasers to the city hall to witness the proceedings. As he entered the hall the first person he saw was Boyle, who had a big smile on his face. Andrew was not discouraged by the smile as he watched the little slips of paper pour out of the boxes. Boyle had yet to learn that the first boxes to be counted were always from the inner wards, where most of the committed Socialists lived.

As both men walked round the tables, the little piles began to be checked — first in tens, then hundreds, until they were finally placed in thousands and handed over to the Sheriff. As the night drew on Boyle’s smile turned to a grin, from a grin to a poker face, and finally to a look of anxiety as the piles grew closer and closer in size.

For over three hours the process of emptying the boxes continued and the scrutineers checked each little white slip before handing in their own records. At one twenty-two in the morning the Sheriff added up the list of numbers in front of him and asked the three candidates to join him.

He told them the result.

Frank Boyle smiled once again. Andrew showed no emotion, but called for a recount.

For over an hour, he paced nervously around the room as the scrutineers checked and double-checked each pile: a change here, a mistake there, a lost vote discovered and, on one occasion, the name on the top of a pile of one hundred votes was not the same as the ninety-nine beneath it. At last the scrutineers handed back their figures. Once again the Sheriff added up the columns of numbers and asked the candidates to join him.

This time Andrew smiled while Boyle looked surprised and demanded another recount. The Sheriff acquiesced, but said it must be the last time. Both candidates agreed in the absence of their Conservative rival, who was sleeping soundly in a corner, secure in the knowledge that no amount of recounting would alter his position in the contest.

Once again the piles were checked and double-checked and five mistakes were discovered in the 42,588 votes cast. At three-twenty a.m., with counters and checkers falling asleep at their tables, the Sheriff once more asked the two candidates to join him. They were both stunned when they heard the result and the Sheriff informed them that there would be a further recount in the morning after his staff had managed to get some sleep.

All the voting papers were then placed carefully back in the black boxes, locked, and left in the safekeeping of the local constabulary while the candidates crept away to their beds.

Andrew slept in fits and starts through the remainder of the night. Louise, pale with exhaustion but still grinning, brought him a cup of tea at eight in the morning. He took a cold shower, shaved slowly, and was back at the city hall a few minutes before the count was due to recommence. As he walked up the steps he was greeted by a battery of television cameras and journalists who had heard rumors as to why the count had been held up overnight and knew they couldn’t afford to be absent as the final drama unfolded.

The counters looked eager and ready when the Sheriff checked his watch and nodded. The boxes were unlocked and placed in front of the staff for the fourth time. Once again the little piles grew from tens into hundreds and then into thousands. Andrew paced around the tables, more to burn up his nervous energy than out of a desire to keep checking. He had thirty witnesses registered as his counting agents to make sure he didn’t lose by sleight of hand or genuine mistake.

Once the counters and scrutineers had finished they sat in front of their piles and waited for the slips to be collected and taken to the Sheriff. When the Sheriff had added up his little columns of figures for the final time he found that no votes had changed hands.

He explained to Andrew and Frank Boyle the procedure he intended to adopt in view of the outcome. He told both candidates that he had spoken to Lord Wylie at nine that morning and the Lord Advocate had read out the relevant statute in election law that was to be followed in such circumstances. Both candidates agreed on which of the two choices they preferred.

The Sheriff walked up onto the stage with Andrew Fraser and Frank Boyle in his wake, both looking anxious.

Everyone in the room stood to be sure of a better view of the proceedings. When the pushing back of chairs, the coughing, and the nervous chattering had stopped, the Sheriff began. First he tapped the microphone that stood in front of him to be sure it was working. The metallic scratch was audible throughout the silent room. Satisfied, he began to speak.

“I, the returning officer for the district of Edinburgh Carlton, hereby declare the total number of votes cast for each candidate to be as follows:

Frank Boyle 18,437

Jamie Lomax 5,714

Andrew Fraser 18,437.”

The supporters of both the leading candidates erupted into a noisy frenzy. It was several minutes before the Sheriffs voice could be heard above the babble of Scottish burrs.

“In accordance with section sixteen of the Representation of the People Act 1949 and rule fifty of the Parliamentary Election Rules in the second schedule to that Act, I am obliged to decide between tied candidates by lot,” he announced. “I have spoken with the Lord Advocate of Scotland, and have confirmed that the drawing of straws or the toss of a coin may constitute decision by lot for this purpose. Both candidates have agreed to the latter course of action.”

Pandemonium broke out again as Andrew and Boyle stood motionless on each side of the Sheriff waiting for their fate to be determined.

“I have borrowed from the Royal Bank of Scotland,” continued the Sheriff, aware that twenty million people were watching him on television for the first and probably the last time in his life, “a golden sovereign. On one side is the head of King George III, on the other Britannia. I shall invite the sitting member, Mr. Fraser, to call his preference.” Boyle curtly nodded his agreement. Both men inspected the coin.

The Sheriff rested the golden sovereign on his thumb, Andrew and Boyle still standing on either side of him. He turned to Andrew and said, “You will call, Mr. Fraser, while the coin is in the air.”

The silence was such that they might have been the only three people in the room. Andrew could feel his heart thumping in his chest as the Sheriff spun the coin high above him.

“Tails,” he said clearly when the coin was at its zenith. The sovereign hit the floor and bounced, turning over several times before settling at the feet of the Sheriff.

Andrew stared down at the lady and sighed audibly. The Sheriff cleared his throat before declaring, “Following the decision by lot, I declare the aforementioned Mr. Andrew Fraser to be the duly elected Member of Parliament for Edinburgh Carlton.”

Andrew’s supporters charged forward and onto the stage and carried him on their shoulders out of the city hall and through the streets of Edinburgh. Andrew searched for Louise and Clarissa, but they were lost in the crush.

The Royal Bank of Scotland presented the golden sovereign to the member the next day, and the editor of the Scotsman rang to ask if there had been any particular reason why he had selected tails.

“Naturally,” Andrew replied. “George III lost America for us. I wasn’t going to let him lose Edinburgh for me.”

Chapter twenty-nine

Raymond read the Daily Mail caption again and smiled: “On the toss of a coin.”

It saddened Raymond that Andrew had felt it necessary to leave the Labour party, although he was delighted that he had been returned to the Commons. Raymond was only thankful that there had been no Frank Boyles in his constituency. He often wondered if it was because Joyce kept such a watchful eye on all the committees.

Margaret Thatcher’s second victory had come as a bitter blow to him although he couldn’t have pretended it was a surprise. Her overall majority of 144 was even larger than had been predicted, while the SDP managed only six seats — although the Alliance were only two percentage points behind Labour in actual votes cast. Raymond was enough of a realist to know that now nothing was going to stop the Tories from governing for another five-year term.

Once again Raymond returned to his practice at the bar and a new round of time-consuming briefs. When the Lord Chancellor, Lord Hailsham, offered him the chance to become a High Court judge, with a place in the House of Lords, Raymond gave the matter considerable thought before finally asking Joyce for her opinion.

“You’d be bored to tears in a week,” she told him.

“No more bored than I am now.”

“Your turn will come.”

“Joyce, I’m nearly fifty, and all I have to show for it is the chairmanship of the Select Committee on Trade and Industry. If the party fails to win next time I may never hold office again. Don’t forget that the last occasion we lost this badly we were in Opposition for thirteen years.”

“Once Michael Foot has been replaced the party will take on a new look, and I bet you’ll be offered one of the senior Shadow jobs.”

“That’ll depend on who’s our next leader,” said Raymond. “And I can’t see a great deal of difference between Neil Kinnock who looks unbeatable, and Michael Foot — except that Kinnock’s ten years younger than I am.”

“Then why not stand yourself?” asked Joyce.

“It’s too early for me,” said Raymond.

“Then why don’t you at least wait until we know who’s going to be the leader of the party,” said Joyce. “You can be a judge at any time — they die off just as quickly as Cabinet ministers.”

When Raymond returned to his chambers the following Monday he followed Joyce’s advice and let Lord Hailsham know that he was not interested in being a judge in the foreseeable future, and settled down to keep a watchful eye on Cecil Parkinson, the new Secretary of State for Trade and Industry.

Only a few days later Michael Foot announced that he would not be standing for leader when the party’s annual conference took place. When he informed the Shadow Cabinet several faces lit up at the thought of the forthcoming battle at Brighton in October. Neil Kinnock and Roy Hattersley became the front runners, while during the weeks leading up to the conference several trade unionists and MPs approached Raymond and asked him to stand; but he told them all “next time.”

The vote for the new leader took place on the Sunday before the conference began: as Raymond predicted Kinnock won easily and Hattersley, his closest rival, was elected as his deputy.

After the conference Raymond returned to Leeds for the weekend, still confident that he would be offered a major post in the Shadow Cabinet despite the fact he hadn’t supported the winner. Having completed his morning surgery he hung around the house waiting for the new leader to call him, even missing the match against Chelsea. He didn’t like being in the second division.

When Neil Kinnock eventually phoned late that evening Raymond was shocked by his offer and replied without hesitation that he was not interested. It was a short conversation.

Joyce came into the drawing room as he sank back into his favorite armchair.

“Well, what did he offer you?” she asked, facing him.

“Transport. Virtually a demotion.”

“What did you say?”

“I turned him down, of course.”

“Who has he given the main jobs to?”

“I didn’t ask and he didn’t volunteer, but I suspect we’ll only have to wait for the morning papers to find out. Not that I’m that interested,” he continued, staring at the floor, “as I intend to take the first place that comes free on the bench. I’ve wasted too many years already.”

“So have I,” said Joyce quietly.

“What do you mean?” asked Raymond, looking up at his wife for the first time since she had come into the room.

“If you’re going to make a complete break, I think it’s time for me to do so as well.”

“I don’t understand,” said Raymond.

“We haven’t been close for a long time, Ray,” said Joyce, looking straight into her husband’s eyes. “If you’re thinking of giving up the constituency and spending even more time in London I think we should part.” She turned away.

“Is there someone else?” asked Raymond, his voice cracking.

“No one special.”

“But someone?”

“There is a man who wants to marry me,” said Joyce, “if that’s what you mean. We were at school in Bradford together. He’s an accountant now and has never married.”

“But do you love him?”

Joyce considered the question. “No, I can’t pretend I do. But we’re good friends, he’s very kind and understanding and, more important, he’s there.”

Raymond couldn’t move.

“And the break would at least give you the chance to ask Kate Garthwaite to give up her job in New York and return to London.” Raymond gasped. “Think about it and let me know what you decide.” She left the room quickly so that he could not see her tears.

Raymond sat alone in the room and thought back over his years with Joyce — and Kate — and knew exactly what he wanted to do now that the whole affair was out in the open.

He caught the last train to London the same evening because he had to be in court by ten o’clock the next morning to attend a judge’s summing up. In the flat that night he slept intermittently as he thought about how he would spend the rest of his new life. Before he went into court the next morning he ordered a dozen red roses via Interflora. He phoned the Attorney General. If he was going to change his life he must change it in every way.

When the summing up was over and the judge had passed sentence Raymond checked the plane schedules. Nowadays you could be there in such a short time. He booked his flight and took a taxi to Heathrow. He sat on the plane praying it wasn’t too late and that too much time hadn’t passed. The flight seemed endless and he took another taxi from the airport.

When he arrived at her front door she was astonished. “What are you doing here on a Monday afternoon?”

“I’ve come to try and win you back,” said Raymond. “Christ, that sounds corny,” he added.

“It’s the nicest thing you’ve said in years,” she said as he held her in his arms; over Joyce’s shoulder Raymond could see the roses brightening up the drawing room.

“Let’s go and have a quiet dinner.”

Over dinner Raymond told Joyce of his plans to accept the Attorney General’s offer to join the bench, but only if she would agree to live in London. After a second bottle of champagne which Joyce had been reluctant to open they finally returned home.

When they arrived back a little after one the phone was ringing. Raymond opened the door and stumbled toward it while Joyce groped for the light switch.

“Ray, I’ve been trying to get you all night,” a lilting Welsh voice said.

“Have you now?” Raymond said thickly, trying to keep his eyes open.

“You sound as if you’ve been to a good party.”

“I’ve been celebrating with my wife.”

“Celebrating before you’ve heard the news?”

“What news?” said Raymond, collapsing into the armchair.

“I’ve been juggling the new team around all day and I was hoping you would agree to join the Shadow Cabinet as...”

Raymond sobered up very quickly and listened carefully to the new leader. “Can you hold the line?”

“Of course,” said the surprised voice on the other end.

“Joyce,” said Raymond, as she came out of the kitchen clutching two mugs of very black coffee. “Would you agree to live with me in London if I don’t become a judge?”

A broad smile spread across Joyce’s face with the realization that he was seeking her approval.

She nodded several times.

“I’d be delighted to accept,” he said.

“Thank you, Raymond. Perhaps we could meet at my room in the Commons tomorrow and talk over policy in your new field.”

“Yes, of course,” said Raymond. “See you tomorrow.” He dropped the phone on the floor and fell asleep in the chair.

Joyce replaced the phone and didn’t discover until the following morning that her husband was the new Shadow Secretary of State for Social Services.

Raymond sold his flat in the Barbican, and he and Joyce moved into a small Georgian house in Cowley Street, only a few hundred yards from the House of Commons.

Raymond watched Joyce decorate his study first, then she set about the rest of the house with the energy and enthusiasm of a newlywed. Once she had completed the guest bedroom Raymond’s parents came down to spend the weekend. He burst out laughing when he greeted his father at the door clutching on to a bag, marked “Gould, the family butcher.”

“They do have meat in London, you know,” said Raymond.

“Not like mine, son,” his father replied.

Over the finest beef Raymond could remember he watched Joyce and his mother chatting away. “Thank God I woke up in time,” he said out loud.

“What did you say?” asked Joyce.

“Nothing, my dear, nothing.”

Although Raymond spent most of his time on the overall strategy for a future Labour Government, like all politicians he had pet anomalies that particularly upset him. His had always been war widows’ pensions, a preoccupation which dated back to his living with his grandmother in Leeds. He remembered the shock when he first realized shortly after leaving university that his grandmother had eked out an existence for thirty years on a weekly widow’s pension that wouldn’t have covered the cost of a decent meal in a London restaurant.

From the back benches, he had always pressed for the redeeming of war bonds and higher pensions for war widows. His weekly mail showed unequivocally just how major a problem war widows’ pensions had become. During his years in Opposition he had worked doggedly to achieve ever-increasing, smaller rises, but he vowed that were he to become Secretary of State he would enact something more radical.

Joyce left a cutting from the Standard for him to read when he returned from the Commons that night. She had scribbled across it: “This could end up on the front page of every national paper.”

Raymond agreed with her, and the following day he tried to press his view on to a reluctant Shadow Cabinet who seemed more concerned with the planned series of picketing by the Yorkshire miners’ union than the case of Mrs. Dora Benson.

Raymond researched the story carefully and discovered that the case didn’t differ greatly from the many others he had looked into over the years, except for the added ingredient of a Victoria Cross. By any standards, Mrs. Dora Benson highlighted Raymond’s cause. She was one of the handful of surviving widows of the First World War and her husband, Private Albert Benson, had been killed at the Somme leading an attack on a German trench. Nine Germans had been killed before Albert Benson died, which was why he had been awarded the VC. His widow had continued working as a cleaner in the King’s Head at Barking for over fifty years. Her only possessions of any value were her war bonds, but with no redemption date they were still passing hands at twenty-five pounds each. Mrs. Benson’s case might have gone unnoticed if in desperation she had not asked Sotheby’s to auction her husband’s medal.

Once Raymond had armed himself with all the facts he put down a question to the minister concerned asking if he would at last honor the Government’s long-promised pledges in such cases. A sleepy but packed House heard Simon Kerslake, as Minister of State for Defense, reply that his department was once again considering the problem and he would make known their findings in the near future. Simon settled back on to the green benches satisfied that would pacify Gould. But Raymond’s supplementary stunned him and woke up the House.

“Does the Right Honorable Gentleman realize that this eighty-four-year-old widow, whose husband was killed in action and won the Victoria Cross, has a lower income than a sixteen-year-old cadet on his first day in the armed forces?”

Simon rose once more, determined to put a stop to the issue until he had had more time to study the details of this particular case.

“I was not aware of this fact, Mr. Speaker, and I can assure the Right Honorable Gentleman that I shall take into consideration all the points he has mentioned.”

Simon felt confident the Speaker would now move on to the next question. But Raymond rose again, the Opposition benches spurring him on.

“Is the Right Honorable Gentleman also aware that an admiral, on an index-linked income, can hope to end his career with a pension of over £500 a week while Mrs. Dora Benson’s weekly income remains fixed at £47.32?”

There was a gasp even from the Conservative benches as Raymond sat down.

Simon rose again, painfully aware that he was unprepared for Gould’s attack and that he had to stifle it as quickly as he could. “I was not aware of that particular comparison either, but once again I can assure the Right Honorable Gentleman I will give the case my immediate consideration.”

To Simon’s horror Raymond rose from the benches for yet a third time. He could see that Labour members opposite were enjoying the rare spectacle of watching him up against the ropes. “Is the Right Honorable Gentleman also aware that the annuity for a Victoria Cross is £100 with no extra pension benefits? We pay our fourth-division footballers more, while keeping Mrs. Benson in the bottom league of the national income bracket.”

Simon looked distinctly harassed when he in turn rose for a fourth time and made an uncharacteristic remark that he regretted the moment he said it.

“I take the Right Honorable Gentleman’s point,” he began, his words coming out a little too quickly. “And I am fascinated by his sudden interest in Mrs. Benson. Would it be cynical of me to suggest that it has been prompted by the wide publicity this case has enjoyed in the national press?”

Raymond made no attempt to answer but sat motionless with his arms folded and his feet up on the table in front of him while his own back-benchers screamed their abuse at Simon.

The national papers the next day were covered with pictures of the arthritic Dora Benson with her bucket and mop alongside photos of her handsome young husband in private’s uniform. Many of the papers went on to describe how Albert Benson had won his VC, and some of the tabloids used considerable license. But all of them picked up Raymond’s point that Mrs. Benson was in the bottom one percent of the income bracket and that the annuity for a Victoria Cross was a pathetic £100.

It was an enterprising and unusually thorough journalist from the Guardian who led her story on a different angle which the rest of the national press had to turn to in their second edition. It transpired that Raymond Gould had put down forty-seven questions concerning war widows’ pension rights during his time in the House and spoken on the subject in three budgets and five social service debates from the back benches. He had also made the subject the thrust of his maiden speech over twenty years before. But when the journalist revealed that Raymond gave £500 a year to the Erskine Hospital for wounded soldiers every member knew that Simon Kerslake would have to retract his attack and make an apology to the House.

At three-thirty the Speaker rose from his chair and told a packed house that the Minister of State for Defense wished to make a personal statement.

Simon Kerslake rose warily from the front bench and stood nervously at the dispatch box.

“Mr. Speaker,” he began. “With your permission and that of the House I would like to make a personal statement. During a question put to me yesterday I impugned the integrity of the Right Honorable Gentleman, the member for Leeds North. It has since been brought to my attention that I did him a gross injustice and I offer the House my sincere apologies, and the Right Honorable Gentleman the assurances that I will not question his integrity a third time.”

While younger members were puzzled by the reference, Raymond smiled to himself.

Aware of how rare personal statements were in anyone’s parliamentary career, members looked on eagerly to see how he would respond.

He moved slowly to the dispatch box.

“Mr. Speaker, I accept the gracious manner in which the Right Honorable Gentleman has apologized and hope that he will not lose sight of the greater issue, namely that of war widows’ benefits, and in particular the plight of Mrs. Dora Benson.”

Simon looked relieved and nodded courteously.

Many Opposition members told Raymond he should have gone for Simon when he had him on the run, while Tom Carson continued shouting at Simon long after the House had proceeded to the next business. The Times leader writer proved them wrong when he wrote the next morning: “In an age of militant demands from the left, Parliament and the Labour party have found a new Clement Attlee on their front bench. Britain need have no fear for human dignity or the rights of man should Raymond Gould ever accede to the high office which that gentleman held.”

When Raymond returned home from the Commons that night he found Joyce had cut out all the press comments for him to study and had also somehow managed to make inroads into his overflowing correspondence.

Joyce turned out to have a better feel for gut politics than the entire Shadow Cabinet put together.

Alec Pimkin threw a party for all his Tory colleagues who had entered the House in 1964, “To celebrate the first twenty years in the Commons,” as he described the occasion in an impromptu after-dinner speech.

Over brandy and cigars the corpulent, balding figure sat back and surveyed his fellow members. Many had fallen by the wayside over the years, but of those that were left, he believed only two men now dominated the intake.

Pimkin’s eyes first settled on his old friend Charles Seymour. Despite studying him closely he was still unable to spot a gray hair on the Treasury minister’s head. From time to time Pimkin still saw Amanda, who had returned to being a full-time model and was rarely to be found in England nowadays. Charles, he suspected, saw more of her on the covers of magazines than he ever did in his home at Eaton Square. Pimkin had been surprised by how much time Charles was willing to put aside for little Harry. Charles was the last man he would have suspected of ending up a doting father. Certainly there was no sign of his ambitions diminishing, and Pimkin suspected that only one man remained a worthy rival for the party leadership.

His eyes moved on to someone for whom in 1984 Orwell’s big brother seemed to hold no fears. Simon Kerslake was deep in animated conversation about his work on the proposed disarmament talks between Thatcher, Gorbachev, and Reagan. Pimkin studied the Defense minister intently. He considered that had he been graced with such looks he would not have had to fear for his dwindling majority. Rumors of some financial crisis had long since died away, and Kerslake now seemed well set for a formidable future.

The party began to break up, as one by one his contemporaries came over to thank him for such a “splendid,” “memorable,” “worthwhile” evening. When the last one had departed and Pimkin found himself alone he drained the drop of brandy that remained in his balloon and stubbed out the dying cigar. He sighed as he speculated on the fact that he could now never hope to be made a minister. He therefore determined to become a kingmaker, for in another twenty years there would be nothing left on which to speculate.

Raymond celebrated his twenty years in the House by taking Joyce to the Guinea Restaurant off Berkeley Square for dinner. He admired the long burgundy dress his wife had chosen for the occasion and even noticed that one or two women gave it more than a casual glance throughout their meal.

He too reflected on his twenty years in the Commons, and he told Joyce over a brandy that he hoped he would spend more of the next twenty years in Government. 1984 had not turned out to be a good year for the Conservatives, and Raymond was already forming plans to make 1985 as uncomfortable for the Government as possible.

A few weeks later Tony Benn, who had lost his seat at the general election, returned to the House of Commons as the member for Chesterfield. The Conservatives came a poor third and went on to lose two more by-elections early in 1985. Even the press began to acknowledge that the Labour party was once again looking like a serious alternative Government.

The winter of 1985 brought a further rise in the unemployment figures which only increased the Labour party’s lead in the polls. And then after the resignation of two cabinet ministers over a small helicopter company in the West Country and the loss of two further by-elections, the Conservatives fell into third place for the first time in five years.

A drop in the price of oil from $22 to $10 a barrel in the space of six weeks did not help the Chancellor’s budget judgment. After a long, hot summer Mrs. Thatcher decided on a further cabinet reshuffle bringing in those who would be formulating policy in the run-up to the general election. The average age of the cabinet fell by seven years and the press dubbed it, “Mrs. Thatcher’s new lamps for old reshuffle.”

Chapter thirty

Andrew was on his way to the House of Commons when he heard the first reports on his car radio. There had been no mention of the news in the morning papers so it must have happened overnight. It began with a news flash: just the bare details. HMS Broadsword, one of the Navy’s destroyers, had been passing through the Gulf of Surt between Tunis and Benghazi when she was boarded by a group of mercenaries, posing as coast guard officials, who took over the ship in the name of Colonel Gaddafi. The newscaster went on to say that there would be a more detailed report in their ten o’clock bulletin.

Andrew had reached his room in the House of Commons by nine-thirty, and he immediately phoned the SDP leader David Owen to discuss the political implications of the news. Once a course of action had been agreed on Andrew took a handwritten letter round to the Speaker’s office before the noon deadline, requesting an emergency debate following question time that afternoon. He also sent a copy of the letter by messenger to the Foreign Secretary and the Secretary of State for Defense.

By staying near a radio most of the morning Andrew was able to learn that HMS Broadsword was now in the hands of over a hundred guerillas. They were demanding the freedom of all Libyan prisoners in British jails in exchange for the 217-strong crew of the Broadsword, who were being held hostage in the engine room.

By twelve o’clock the ticker-tape machine in the Members’ Corridor was hovered over by craning necks, and the dining rooms were so full that many members had to go without lunch.

Question time that day had been allocated to Welsh Affairs, so the Chamber itself did not start filling up until nearly three-fifteen although the Palace of Westminster was already packed and buzzing with each new snippet of information. Political correspondents waited hawklike in the Members’ Lobby seeking opinions on the crisis from any senior politicians as they passed to and from the Chamber. Few were rash enough to say anything that might be reinterpreted the next day.

When Andrew came into the Chamber he took his seat next to David Owen on the Opposition front bench below the gangway Since Andrew had the overall responsibility for the Alliance Defense portfolio he was expected to represent the other twenty-two Alliance members. At three-twenty-seven the Prime Minister, followed by the Foreign Secretary and the Secretary of State for Defense, filed into the House and took their places on the Treasury bench. All three looked suitably somber. The last two questions on Welsh Affairs had the largest audience of members since the Aberfan disaster of 1966.

At three-thirty Mr. Speaker Weatherill rose and called for order.

“Statements to the House,” he announced in his crisp, military style. “There will be two statements on HMS Broadsword before the House debates Welsh Affairs.” The Speaker then called the Secretary of State for Defense.

Simon Kerslake rose from the front bench and placed a prepared statement on the dispatch box in front of him.

“Mr. Speaker, with your permission and that of the House, I would like to make a statement concerning Her Majesty’s frigate Broadsword. At seven-forty GMT this morning HMS Broadsword was passing through the Gulf of Surt between Tunis and Benghazi when a group of guerillas, posing as official coast guards, boarded the ship and seized the officer in command, Captain Lawrence Packard, and placed the crew under arrest. The captain and his company did everything possible to resist but were outnumbered three to one. The guerillas, claiming to represent the People’s Liberation Army, have since placed Captain Packard and the crew in the engine room of the ship. As far as it is possible to ascertain from our Embassy in Tripoli no lives have been lost, although Captain Packard sustained severe injuries during the battle, and we cannot be certain of his fate. There is no suggestion that Broadsword was doing anything other than going about her lawful business. This barbaric act must be looked upon as piracy under the 1958 Geneva Convention on the High Seas. The guerillas are demanding the release of all Libyan prisoners in British prisons in exchange for the return of HMS Broadsword and her crew. My Right Honorable friend, the Home Secretary, informs me there are only nine known Libyans in British jails at the present time, two of whom have been sentenced to three months for persistent shoplifting, two who were convicted on more serious drug charges, and the five who tried to hijack a British Airways 747 last year. Her Majesty’s Government cannot and will not interfere with the due process of law and has no intention of releasing any of these men.”

Loud “Hear, hears,” came from all sections of the House.

“My Right Honorable friend, the Foreign Secretary, has made Her Majesty’s Government’s position clear to the Libyan Ambassador, in particular that Her Majesty’s Government cannot be expected to tolerate this sort of treatment of British subjects or of British property. We have demanded and expect immediate action from the Libyan Government.”

Simon sat down to loud and prolonged cheers before the leader of the Opposition rose from his place to say that he would wish it to be known that the Opposition gave the Govemment their full backing. He asked if any plans had been formulated at this early stage for the recovery of Broadsword.

Simon rose again. “We are, Mr. Speaker, at present seeking a diplomatic solution, but I have already chaired a meeting of the Joint Chiefs and I anticipate making a further statement to the House tomorrow.”

“Mr. Andrew Fraser,” said the Speaker.

Andrew rose from his place. “May I inform the Right Honorable Gentleman that we in the Alliance also concur with his views that this is an act of piracy. But can he tell the House how long he will allow negotiations to continue when it is well known throughout the diplomatic world that Gaddafi is a master of procrastination, especially if we were to rely on the United Nations to adjudicate on this issue?” From the noise that greeted Andrew’s question it seemed that his views were shared by the majority of the House.

Simon rose to answer the question. “I accept the point the Honorable Gentleman is making but he will know, having been a Minister of State for Defense himself, that I am not in a position to divulge any information which might imperil the safety of Broadsword.”

Question after question came at Simon. He handled them with such confidence that visitors to the Strangers Gallery would have found it hard to believe that he had been invited to join the Cabinet only five weeks before.

At four-fifteen, after Simon had answered the last question the Speaker was going to allow, he sank back on the front bench to listen to the statement from the Foreign Office. The House fell silent once again as the Foreign Secretary rose from his place and checked the large double-spaced sheets in front of him. All eyes were now on the tall, elegant man who was making his first official statement since his appointment.

“Mr. Speaker, with your permission and that of the House, I too would like to make a statement concerning HMS Broadsword. Once news had reached the Foreign Office this morning of the plight of Her Majesty’s ship Broadsword my office immediately issued a strongly worded statement to the Government of Libya. The Libyan Ambassador has been called to the Foreign Office and I shall be seeing him again immediately this statement and the questions arising from it has been completed.”

Raymond looked up at the Strangers’ Gallery from his place on the Opposition front bench. It was one of the ironies of modern diplomacy that the Libyan Ambassador was sitting in the gallery making notes while the Foreign Secretary delivered his statement. He couldn’t imagine Colonel Gaddafi inviting the British Ambassador to take notes while he sat in his tent addressing his followers. Raymond was pleased to see an attendant ask the ambassador to stop writing; the prohibition dated from the time when the House had jealously guarded its privacy. Raymond’s eyes dropped back to the front bench, and he continued to listen to Charles Seymour.

“Our ambassador to the United Nations has tabled a resolution to be debated by the General Assembly this afternoon, asking representatives to back Britain against this flagrant violation of the 1958 Geneva Convention on the High Seas. I confidently expect the support of the free world over this act of piracy against Her Majesty’s ship Broadsword. Her Majesty’s Government will do everything in its power to ensure a diplomatic solution bearing in mind that the lives of 217 British servicemen are still at risk.”

The leader of the Opposition rose for a second time and asked at what point the Foreign Secretary would consider once again breaking off diplomatic relations with Libya.

“I naturally hope it will not come to that, Mr. Speaker, and I expect the Libyan Government to deal quickly with their own mercenaries.”

Charles continued to answer questions from all sections of the House but could only repeat that there was little new intelligence to offer the House at the present time. Raymond watched his two contemporaries as they displayed over twenty years of parliamentary skill in presenting their case. He wondered if this episode would make one of them Mrs. Thatcher’s obvious successor.

At four-thirty, the Speaker, realizing nothing original had been said for some time, announced that he would allow one further question from each side before returning to the business of the day. He shrewdly called Alec Pimkin who sounded to Raymond like “the very model of a modern major-general” and then Tom Carson who suggested that Colonel Gaddafi was often grossly misrepresented by the British press. Once Carson had sat down, Mr. Speaker found it easy to move on to other business.

The Speaker rose again and thanked the Honorable Gentleman, the member for Edinburgh Carlton, for his courtesy in informing him that he would be making an application under standing order number ten for an emergency debate. The Speaker said he had given the matter careful thought but he reminded the House that, under the terms of the standing order, he did not need to divulge the reasons for his decision, merely decide whether the matter should have precedence over the orders of the day. He ruled that the matter was not proper for discussion within the terms of standing order number ten.

Andrew rose to protest but as the Speaker remained standing he had to resume his seat.

“This does not mean, however,” continued Mr. Speaker, “that I would not reconsider such a request at a later date.”

Andrew realized that Charles Seymour and Simon Kerslake must have pleaded for more time, but he was only going to allow them twenty-four hours. The clerk at the table rose and bellowed above the noise of members leaving the Chamber, “Adjournment.” The Speaker called the Secretary of State for Wales to move the adjournment motion on the problems facing the Welsh mining industry. The Chamber emptied of all but the thirty-eight Welsh MPs who had been waiting weeks for a full debate on the Principality’s affairs.

Andrew went straight to his office and tried to piece together the latest information from news bulletins before preparing himself for a full debate the following day. Simon made his way back to the Ministry of Defense to continue discussions with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, while Charles was driven quickly to the Foreign Office.

When Charles reached his room, he was told by the Permanent Under-Secretary that the Libyan Ambassador awaited him.

“Does he have anything new to tell us?” asked Charles.

“Frankly, nothing; it seems that we’re not the only people who are unable to make any contact with Colonel Gaddafi.”

“Send him in then.”

Charles stubbed out his cigarette and stood by the mantelpiece below a portrait of Palmerston. Charles had never met the ambassador before, largely because he had taken over at the Foreign Office only five weeks previously.

When Mr. Kadir, the five-foot-one, dark-haired, immaculately dressed Ambassador for Libya entered the room, the office resembled nothing so much as a study in which a headmaster was about to tick off an unruly boy from the lower fifth.

Charles was momentarily taken aback when he noticed the ambassador’s old Etonian tie. He recovered quickly.

“Foreign Secretary?” began Mr. Kadir.

“Her Majesty’s Government wishes to make it abundantly clear to your Government,” began Charles, not allowing the ambassador to complete his sentiments, “that we consider the act of boarding and holding Her Majesty’s ship Broadsword against her will as one of piracy on the high seas.”

“May I say—?” began Mr. Kadir.

“No, you may not,” said Charles, “and until our ship has been released, we shall do everything in our power to bring pressure, both diplomatic and economic, on your Government.”

“But may I just say—?” Mr. Kadir tried again.

“My Prime Minister also wants you to know that she wishes to speak to your Head of State at the soonest possible opportunity, so I shall expect to hear back from you within the hour.”

“Yes, Foreign Secretary, but may I—”

“And you may further report that we will reserve our right to take any action we deem appropriate if you fail to secure the release into safe custody of HMS Broadsword and her crew by twelve noon tomorrow, GMT. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Foreign Secretary, but I would like to ask—”

“Good day, Mr. Kadir.”

After the Libyan Ambassador was shown out Charles couldn’t help wondering what it was he had wanted to know.

“What do we do now?” he asked when the Permanent Under-Secretary returned, having deposited Mr. Kadir in the lift.

“We act out the oldest diplomatic game in the world.”

“What do you mean?” said Charles.

“Our sit-and-wait policy. We’re awfully good at it,” said the Permanent Under-Secretary, “but then we’ve been at it for nearly a thousand years.”

“Well, while we sit let’s at least make some phone calls. I’ll start with Secretary of State Kirkpatrick in Washington and then I’d like to speak to Gromyko in Moscow.”

When Simon arrived back at the Ministry of Defense from the Commons he was told that the Joint Chiefs were assembled in his office waiting for him to chair the next strategy meeting. As he entered the room to take his place at the head of the table the Joint Chiefs rose.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Simon said. “Please be seated. Can you bring me up to date on the latest situation, Sir John?”

Admiral Sir John Fieldhouse, Chief of the Defense Staff, pushed up the half-moon glasses from the end of his nose and checked the notes in front of him.

“Very little has changed in the last hour, sir,” he began. “The Prime Minister’s office has still had no success in contacting Colonel Gaddafi. I fear we must now treat the capture of Broadsword as a blatant act of terrorism, rather similar to the occupation seven years ago of the American Embassy in Iran by students who backed the late Ayatollah Khomeini. In such circumstances we can either ‘jaw-jaw or war-war,’ to quote Churchill. With that in mind, this committee will have formed a detailed plan by the early evening for the recapture of HMS Broadsword, as we assume the Foreign Office are better qualified to prepare for jaw-jaw.” Sir John replaced his glasses and looked toward his minister.

“Are you in a position to give me a provisional plan which I could place in front of the Cabinet for their consideration?”

“Certainly, Minister,” said Sir John, removing his glasses again before opening a large blue file in front of him.

Simon listened intently as Sir John went over his provisional strategy. Around the table sat eight of the senior ranking staff officers of the Army, Navy, and Air Force, and even the first draft plan bore the stamp of their 300 years of military experience. He couldn’t help remembering that his call-up status was still that of a Second Lieutenant. For an hour he asked the Joint Chiefs questions that ranged from the elementary to ones that demonstrated a clear insight into their problems. By the time Simon left the room to attend the Cabinet meeting at No. 10 the Joint Chiefs were already updating their plan.

Simon walked slowly across Whitehall from the Department of Defense to Downing Street, his private detective by his side. Downing Street was thronged with people curious to see the comings and goings of ministers involved in the crisis. Simon was touched that the crowd applauded him all the way to the front door of No. 10, where the journalists and TV crews awaited each arrival. The great television arc lights were switched on as he reached the door and a microphone was thrust in front of him, but he made no comment. Simon was surprised by how many of the normally cynical journalists called out, “Good luck” and “Bring our boys home.”

The front door opened and he went straight through to the corridor outside the Cabinet room, where twenty-two of his colleagues were already waiting. A moment later the Prime Minister walked into the Cabinet room and took her seat in the center of the table with Charles and Simon opposite her.

Mrs. Thatcher began by telling her colleagues that she had been unable to make any contact with Colonel Gaddafi and that they must therefore decide on a course of action that did not involve his acquiescence. She invited the Foreign Secretary to brief the Cabinet first.

Charles went over the actions in which the Foreign Office was involved at the diplomatic level. He reported his meeting with Ambassador Kadir, and the resolution which had been tabled at the UN and was already being debated at an emergency session of the General Assembly. The purpose of asking the United Nations to back Britain on Resolution 12/40, he said, was to gain the diplomatic initiative and virtually guarantee international sympathy. Charles went on to tell the Cabinet that he expected a vote to take place in the General Assembly in New York that evening which would demonstrate overwhelming support for the United Kingdom’s resolution, and which would be regarded as a moral victory by the whole world. He was delighted to be able to report to the Cabinet that the Foreign Ministers of both the United States and Russia had agreed to back the UK in her diplomatic endeavors as long as she launched no retaliatory action. Charles ended by reminding his colleagues of the importance of treating the whole affair as an act of piracy, rather than an injury at the hands of the Libyan Government itself.

A legal nicety, thought Simon as he watched the faces of his colleagues round the table. They were obviously impressed that Charles had brought the two super powers together in support of Britain. The Prime Minister’s face remained inscrutable. She called upon Simon to air his views.

He was able to report that Broadsword had, since the last meeting of the Cabinet, been towed into the Bay of Surt and moored; there was no hope of boarding her except by sea. Captain Packard and his crew of 216 remained under close arrest in the engine room on the lower deck of the ship. From confirmed reports Simon had received in the last hour it appeared that the ship’s company were bound, gagged, and that the ventilation systems had been turned off. “Captain Packard,” he informed the House, “had refused to cooperate with the guerillas in any way, and we remain unsure of his fate.” He paused. “I therefore suggest,” Simon continued, “that we have no choice but to mount a rescue operation in order to avoid a protracted negotiation that can only end in grave loss of morale for the entire armed forces. The longer we put off such a decision the harder our task will become. The Joint Chiefs are putting the final touches to a plan code-named ‘Shoplifter’ which they feel must be carried out in the next forty-eight hours, if the men and the ship are to be saved.” Simon added that he hoped diplomatic channels would be kept open while the operation was being worked out, in order that the rescue team could be assured of the greatest element of surprise.

“But what if your plan fails?” interrupted Charles. “We would risk losing not only Broadsword and her crew but also the goodwill of the free world.”

“There is no serving officer in the British Navy who will thank us for leaving Broadsword in Libyan waters while we negotiate a settlement in which, at best, our ship will be returned when it suits the guerillas-to say nothing of the humiliation of our Navy. Gaddafi can laugh at the United Nations while he has captured not only one of our most modern frigates but also the headlines of the world’s press. As Ayatollah Khomeini did, he will want to keep them both for as long as he can. These headlines can only demoralize our countrymen and invite the sort of election defeat Carter suffered at the hands of the American people after the Iranian Embassy debacle.”

“We would be foolish to take such an unnecessary risk while we have world opinion on our side,” protested Charles. “Let us at least wait a few more days.”

“I fear that if we wait,” said Simon, “the crew will be transferred from the ship to a military prison, which would only result in our having two targets to concentrate on, and then Gaddafi can sit around in the desert taking whatever amount of time suits him.”

Simon and Charles weighed argument against counterargument while the Prime Minister listened, taking note of the views of her other colleagues round the table to see if she had a majority for one course or the other. Three hours later, when everyone had given his opinion, she had “fourteen-nine” written on the pad in front of her.

“I think we have exhausted the arguments, gentlemen,” she said, “and having listened to the collective views around this table I feel we must on balance allow the Secretary of State for Defense to proceed with Operation Shoplifter. I therefore propose that the Foreign Secretary, the Defense Secretary, the Attorney General, and myself make up a sub-committee, backed up by a professional staff, to consider the Joint Chiefs’ plan. The utmost secrecy will be required from us at all times, so the subject will not be raised again until the plan is ready for presentation to a full meeting of the Cabinet. Therefore, with the exception of the sub-committee, all ministers will return to their departments and carry on with their normal duties. We must not lose sight of the fact that the country still has to be governed. Thank you, gentlemen.” The Prime Minister asked Charles and Simon to join her in the study.

As soon as the door was closed she said to Charles, “Please let me know the moment you hear the result of the vote in the General Assembly. Now that the Cabinet has favored a military initiative, it is important that you are seen to be pressing for a diplomatic solution.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” said Charles without emotion.

Mrs. Thatcher then turned to Simon. “When can I have a rundown on the details of the Joint Chiefs’ plan?”

“We anticipate working on the strategy through the night, Prime Minister, and I should be able to make a full presentation to you by ten tomorrow.”

“No later, Simon,” said the Prime Minister. “Now our next problem is tomorrow’s proposed emergency debate. Andrew Fraser will undoubtedly put in a second request for a full debate under standing order number ten and the Speaker gave a clear hint today he will allow it. Anyway, we can’t avoid making a policy statement without an outcry from the Opposition benches — and I suspect our own — so I’ve decided that we will grasp the nettle and no doubt get stung.”

The two men looked at each other, exasperated at the thought of having to waste precious hours in the Commons.

“Charles, you must be prepared to open the debate for the Government, and Simon, you will wind up. At least the debate will be on Thursday afternoon; that way some of our colleagues may have gone home for the weekend, though frankly I doubt it. But with any luck we will have secured a moral victory at the United Nations, and we can keep the Opposition minds concentrating on that. When you sum up, Simon, just answer the questions put during the debate without offering any new initiative.”

She then added, “Report any news you hear direct to me. I shan’t be sleeping tonight.”

Charles walked back to the Foreign Office, at least thankful that Amanda was somewhere in South America.

Simon returned to the Joint Chiefs to find a large map of Libyan territorial waters pinned to a blackboard. Generals, admirals, and air marshals were studying the contours and ocean depths like children preparing for a geography test.

They all stood again when Simon entered the room. They looked at him in anticipation, men of action who were suspicious of talk. When Simon told them the Cabinet’s decision was to back the Ministry of Defense the suggestion of a smile came over the face of Sir John. “Perhaps that battle will turn out to be our hardest,” he said, just loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Take me through the plan again,” said Simon, ignoring Sir John’s comment. “I have to present it to the Prime Minister by ten o’clock tomorrow.”

Sir John placed the tip of a long wooden pointer on a model of HMS Broadsword in the middle of a stretch of water in a well-protected bay.

When Charles reached his office the international telegrams and telexes of support for a diplomatic solution were piled high on his desk. The Permanent Under-Secretary reported that the debate in the United Nations had been so one-sided that he anticipated an overwhelming majority when they came to vote. Charles feared his hands were tied; he had to be seen to go through the motions, even by his own staff, although he had not yet given up hopes of undermining Simon’s plan. He intended the whole episode to end up as a triumph for the Foreign Office and not for “those warmongers” at the Ministry of Defense. After consulting the Permanent Under-Secretary Charles appointed a small Libyan task force consisting of some older Foreign Office mandarins with experience of Gaddafi and four of the department’s most promising high fliers.

Mr. Oliver Miles, the former Ambassador to Libya, had his leave canceled and was deposited in a tiny room in the upper reaches of the Foreign Office so that Charles could call on his local knowledge at any time, day or night, throughout the crisis.

Charles asked the Permanent Under-Secretary to link him up with Britain’s ambassador at the United Nations.

“And keep trying to raise Gaddafi.”

Simon listened to Sir John go over the latest version of Operation Shoplifter. Thirty-seven men from the crack Special Boat Service, the Marine equivalent of the SAS regiment which had been involved in the St. James’s Square siege in April 1984, were now in Rosyth on the Scottish coast, preparing to board HMS Brilliant, the sister ship to Broadsword.

The men were to be dropped from a submarine a mile outside Rosyth harbor and to swim the last mile and a half under water until they reached the ship. They would then board Brilliant and expect to recapture her from a mock Libyan crew in an estimated twelve minutes. Brilliant would then be sailed to a distance of one nautical mile off the Scottish coast. The operation was to be completed in sixty-five minutes. The SBS planned to rehearse the procedure on Brilliant three times before first light the following morning, when they hoped to have the entire exercise down to one hour.

Simon had already confirmed the order to send two submarines from the Mediterranean full steam in the direction of the Libyan coast. The rest of the fleet was to be seen to be conspicuously going about its normal business while the Foreign Office appeared to be searching for a diplomatic solution.

Simon’s request to the Joint Chiefs came as no surprise and was granted immediately. He phoned Elizabeth to explain why he wouldn’t be home that night. An hour later the Secretary of State for Defense was strapped into a helicopter and on his way to Rosyth.

Charles followed the proceedings at the United Nations live in his office on a satellite link-up. At the end of a brief debate a vote was called for. The Secretary General announced 147–3 in Great Britain’s favor, with twenty-two abstentions. Charles wondered if such an overwhelming vote would be enough to get the Prime Minister to change her mind over Kerslake’s plan. He checked over the voting list carefully. The Russians, along with the Warsaw Pact countries and the Americans, had kept their word and voted with the UK. Only Libya, South Yemen, and Djibouti had voted against. Charles was put through to Downing Street and passed on the news. The Prime Minister, although delighted with the diplomatic triumph, refused to change course until she had heard from Gaddafi. Charles put the phone down and asked his Permanent Under-Secretary to call Ambassador Kadir to the Foreign Office once more.

“But it’s two o’clock in the morning, Foreign Secretary.”

“I am quite aware what time it is but I can see no reason why, when we are all awake, he should be having a peaceful night’s sleep.”

When Mr. Kadir was shown into his room it annoyed Charles to see the little man still looking fresh and dapper. It was obvious that he had just shaved and put on a clean shirt.

“You called for me, Foreign Secretary?” asked Mr. Kadir politely, as if he had been invited to afternoon tea.

“Yes,” said Charles. “We wished to be certain that you are aware of the vote taken at the United Nations an hour ago supporting the United Kingdom’s Resolution 12/40.”

“Yes, Foreign Secretary.”

“In which your Government was condemned by the leaders of ninety percent of the people on the globe” — a fact the Permanent Under-Secretary had fed to Charles a few minutes before Mr. Kadir had arrived.

“Yes, Foreign Secretary.”

“My Prime Minister is still waiting to hear from your Head of State.”

“Yes, Foreign Secretary.”

“Have you yet made contact with Colonel Gaddafi?”

“No, Foreign Secretary.”

“But you have a direct telephone link to his headquarters.”

“Then you will be only too aware, Foreign Secretary, that I have been unable to speak to him,” said Mr. Kadir with a wry smile.

Charles saw the Permanent Under-Secretary lower his eyes. “I shall speak to you on the hour every hour, Mr. Kadir, but do not press my country’s hospitality too far.”

“No, Foreign Secretary.”

“Good night, Ambassador,” said Charles.

“Good night, Foreign Secretary.”

Kadir turned and left the Foreign Office to be driven back to his Embassy. He cursed the Right Honorable Charles Seymour. Didn’t the man realize that he hadn’t been back to Libya, except to visit his mother, since the age of four? Colonel Gaddafi was ignoring his ambassador every bit as much as he was the British Prime Minister. He checked his watch: it was two forty-four.

Simon’s helicopter landed in Scotland at two forty-five. He and Sir John were immediately driven to the dockside, then ferried out to HMS Brilliant through the misty night.

“The first Secretary of State not to be piped on board in living memory,” said Sir John as Simon made his way with difficulty, his blackthorn stick tapping up the gangplank. The captain of the Brilliant couldn’t disguise his surprise when he saw his uninvited guests and took them quickly to the bridge. Sir John whispered something in the captain’s ear which Simon missed.

“When is the next raid due?” asked Simon, staring out from the bridge but unable to see more than a few yards in front of him.

“They leave the sub at 0300, sir,” said the captain, “and should reach Brilliant at approximately three-twenty. They hope to have taken command of the ship in eleven minutes and be a mile beyond territorial waters in under the hour.”

Simon checked his watch: it was five to three. He thought of the SBS preparing for their task, unaware that the Secretary of State and the Chief of the Defense Staff were on board Brilliant waiting for them. He pulled his coat collar up.

Suddenly he was thrown to the deck, a black and oily hand clamped over his mouth before he could protest. He felt his arms whipped up and tied behind his back as his eyes were blindfolded and he was gagged. He tried to retaliate and received a sharp elbow in the ribs. Then he was dragged down a narrow staircase and dumped onto a wooden floor. He lay trussed up like a chicken for what he thought was about ten minutes before he heard the ship’s engines revving up and felt the movement of the ship below him. The Secretary of State could not move for another fifteen minutes.

“Release them,” Simon heard a voice say in distinctly Oxford English. The rope around his arms was untied and the blindfold and gag removed. Standing over the Secretary of State was an SBS frogman, black from head to toe, his white teeth gleaming. Simon was still slightly stunned as he turned to see the Services Chief also being untied.

“I must apologize, Minister,” said Sir John, as soon as his gag was removed, “but I told the captain not to inform the submarine commander we were on board. If I am going to risk 217 of my men’s lives I wanted to be sure this rabble from the SBS knew what they were up to.” Simon backed away from the six-foot-two giant who towered over him, still grinning.

“Good thing we didn’t bring the Prime Minister along for the ride,” said Sir John.

“I agree,” said Simon, looking up at the SBS commando. “She would have broken his neck.” Everyone laughed except the frogman who pursed his lips.

“What’s wrong with him?” said Simon.

“If he utters the slightest sound during the first sixty minutes he has no hope of being selected for the final team.”

“The Conservative party could do with some back-bench Members of Parliament like that,” said Simon, “especially when I have to address the House tomorrow and explain why I’m doing nothing.”

By three-forty-nine Brilliant was a mile beyond territorial waters. The newspaper headlines that morning ranged from “Diplomatic Victory” in The Times to “Gaddafi the Pirate” in the Mirror.

At a meeting of the inner Cabinet held at ten in the morning Simon reported his first-hand experience of Shoplifter to the Prime Minister. Charles was quick to follow him. “But after the overwhelming vote in our favor at the UN it must be sensible for us to postpone anything that might be construed as an outright act of aggression.”

“If the SBS don’t go tomorrow morning we will have to wait another month, Prime Minister,” said Simon, interrupting him. All eyes at the meeting of the inner Cabinet turned to Kerslake.

“Why?” asked Mrs. Thatcher.

“Because Ramadan, when Moslems fast and cannot take drink during daylight hours, will be coming to an end tomorrow. Traditionally the heaviest eating and drinking takes place the following day, which means tomorrow night will be our best chance to catch the guerillas off guard. I have been over the entire operation in Rosyth and by now the SBS are well on their way to the submarines and preparing for the assault. It’s all so finely tuned, Prime Minister, that obviously we can’t throw away such a strategic advantage.”

“That’s good reasoning,” she concurred. “With the weekend ahead of us we must pray that this mess will be all over by Monday morning. Let’s put on our negotiating faces for the Commons this afternoon. I expect a very convincing performance from you, Charles.”

When Andrew rose at three-thirty that Thursday afternoon to ask for a second time for an emergency debate under standing order number ten the Speaker granted his request, directing that the urgency of the matter warranted a debate to commence at seven o’clock that evening.

The Chamber emptied quickly as the members scuttled off to prepare their speeches, although they all knew that less than two percent of them could hope to be called. The Speaker departed the Chamber and did not return until five to seven when he took over the chair from his deputy.

By seven o’clock, when Charles and Simon had entered the House, all thirty-seven SBS men were aboard Her Majesty’s submarine Conqueror, lying on the ocean bed about sixty nautical miles off the Libyan coast. A second submarine, Courageous, was ten miles to her rear. Neither had broken radio silence for the past twelve hours.

The Prime Minister had still not heard from Colonel Gaddafi and they were now only eight hours away from Operation Shoplifter. Simon looked around him. The atmosphere resembled Budget Day and an eerie silence fell as the Speaker called Andrew Fraser to address the House.

He began by explaining, under standing order number ten, why the matter he had raised was specific, important, and needed urgent consideration. He quickly moved on to demand that the Foreign Secretary confirm that if negotiations with Gaddafi failed or dragged on the Secretary of State for Defense would not hesitate to take the necessary action to recover HMS Broadsword. Simon sat on the front bench looking glum and shaking his head.

“Gaddafi’s nothing more than a pirate,” said Andrew. “Why talk of diplomatic solutions?”

The House cheered as each well-rehearsed phrase rolled off Andrew’s tongue. When he sat down the cheers came from all parts of the Chamber and it was several minutes before the Speaker could bring the House back to order. Mr. Kadir sat in the Distinguished Strangers’ Gallery staring impassively down, trying to memorize the salient points that had been made and the House’s reaction to them, so that — if he were ever given the chance — he could pass them on to Colonel Gaddafi.

“The Foreign Secretary,” called the Speaker and Charles rose from his place on the Treasury bench. He placed his speech on the dispatch box in front of him and waited. Once again the House fell silent.

Charles opened his case by emphasizing the significance of the United Nations’ vote as the foundation for a genuine negotiated settlement. He went on to say that his first priority was to secure the lives of the 217 men on board HMS Broadsword and that he intended to work tirelessly to that end. The Secretary General was hoping to contact Gaddafi personally and brief him on the strong feelings of his colleagues in the General Assembly. Charles stressed that taking any other course at the present time could only lose the support and goodwill of the free world. When Charles sat down he realized that the rowdy House was not convinced.

The contribution from the back benches confirmed the Prime Minister’s and Simon’s beliefs that they had gauged the feelings of the nation correctly, but neither of them allowed the slightest show of emotion to cross their faces and give hope to those who were demanding military action.

By the time Simon rose to wind up for the Government at nine-thirty that night he had spent two and a half hours in the Chamber listening to men and women tell him to get on with exactly what he was already doing. Blandly, he backed the Foreign Secretary in his pursuit of a diplomatic solution. The House became restive, and when the clock reached ten Simon sat down to cries of “Resign” from some of his own colleagues and the more right-wing of the Labour benches.

Andrew watched carefully as Kerslake and Seymour left the Chamber. He wondered what was really going on in his old department.

He arrived home after the debate. Louise congratulated him on his speech and added, “But it didn’t evoke much of a response from Simon Kerslake.”

“He’s up to something,” said Andrew. “I only wish I was sitting in his office tonight and could find out what it is.”

When Simon arrived in that office he phoned Elizabeth and explained that he would be spending another night at the ministry.

“Some women do lose their men to the strangest mistresses,” said Elizabeth. “By the way, your younger son wants to know if you will have time to watch him play hockey in his cuppers’ match at Oxford on Saturday.”

“What’s today?”

“It’s still Thursday,” she said, “and you’re the one in charge of the nation’s defenses.”

Simon knew the rescue attempt would be all over one way or the other by lunchtime the next day. Why shouldn’t he watch his son play hockey?

“Tell him I’ll be there,” he said.

Although nothing could be achieved between midnight and six o’clock now the submarines were in place, none of the Joint Chiefs left the operations room. Radio silence was not broken once through the night as Simon tried to occupy himself with the bulging red boxes containing other pressing matters which still demanded his attention. He took advantage of the presence of the Joint Chiefs and had a hundred queries answered in minutes that would normally have taken him a month.

At midnight the first editions of the morning papers were brought to him. Simon pinned up the Telegraph’s headline on the operations board. “Kerslake’s In his Hammock till the great Armada comes.” The article demanded to know how the hero of Northern Ireland could be so indecisive while our sailors lay bound and gagged in foreign waters, and ended with the words “Captain, art thou sleeping there below?” “Not a wink,” muttered Simon. “Resign” was the single-word headline in the Daily Express. Sir John looked over the minister’s shoulder and read the opening paragraph.

“I shall never understand why anyone wants to be a politician,” he said before reporting: “We have just heard from reconnaissance in the area that both submarines Conqueror and Courageous have moved up into place.”

Simon picked up his stick from the side of his desk and left the Joint Chiefs to go to Downing Street. He took the private lift to the basement and then walked through the tunnel which runs under Whitehall direct to the Cabinet room, thus avoiding the press and any curious onlookers.

He found the Prime Minister sitting alone in the Cabinet room.

Simon went over the final plan with her in great detail, explaining that everything was ready and would be over by the time most people were having their breakfasts.

“Let me know the moment you hear anything, however trivial,” she concluded, before returning to the latest gloomy study of the economy from the Wynne Godley team, who were suggesting the pound and the dollar would be on an equal parity by 1988. “One day you may have all these problems on your shoulders,” she said.

Simon smiled and left her to walk back through the private tunnel to his office on the other side of Whitehall.

He took the lift back up to his room on the sixth floor and joined the Joint Chiefs. Although it was past midnight none of them looked tired despite their all having shared the lonely vigil with their comrades 2,000 miles away. They told stories of Suez and the Falklands, and there was frequently laughter. But it was never long before their eyes returned to the clock.

As Big Ben struck two chimes, Simon thought: four o’clock in Libya. He could visualize the men falling backward over the side of the boat and deep into the water before starting the long, slow swim toward Broadsword.

When the phone rang, breaking the eerie silence like a fire alarm, Simon picked it up to hear Charles Seymour’s voice.

“Simon,” he began, “I’ve finally got through to Gaddafi and he wants to negotiate.” Simon looked at his watch; the SBS men could only be a few hundred yards from Broadsword.

“It’s too late,” he said. “I can’t stop them now.”

“Don’t be such a bloody fool — order them to turn back. Don’t you understand we’ve won a diplomatic coup?”

“Gaddafi could negotiate for months and still end up humiliating us. No, I won’t turn back.”

“We shall see how the Prime Minister reacts to your arrogance,” said Charles and slammed down the receiver.

Simon sat at his desk and waited for the telephone to ring. He wondered if he could get away with taking the damn thing off the hook — the modern equivalent of Nelson placing the telescope to his blind eye, he considered. He needed a few minutes, but the phone rang again only seconds later. He picked it up and heard Margaret Thatcher’s unmistakable voice.

“Can you stop them if I order you to, Simon?”

He considered lying. “Yes, Prime Minister,” he said.

“But you would still like to carry it through, wouldn’t you?”

“I only need a few minutes, Prime Minister.”

“Do you understand the consequences if you fail, with Charles already claiming a diplomatic victory?”

“You would have my resignation within the hour.”

“I suspect mine would have to go with it,” she said. “In which case Charles would undoubtedly be Prime Minister by this time tomorrow.” There was a moment’s pause before she continued. “Gaddafi is on the other line and I am going to tell him that I am willing to negotiate.” Simon felt defeated. “Perhaps that will give you enough time, and let’s hope it’s Gaddafi who has to worry about resignations at breakfast.”

Simon nearly cheered.

“Do you know the hardest thing I have had to do in this entire operation?”

“No, Prime Minister.”

“When Gaddafi rang in the middle of the night, I had to pretend to be asleep so that he didn’t know I was sitting by the phone.”

He laughed.

“Good luck, Simon. I’ll phone and explain my decision to Charles.”

The clock read three-thirty.

On his return the bevy of admirals were variously clenching their fists, tapping the table, or walking around it, and Simon began to sense what the Israelis must have felt like as they waited for news from Entebbe.

The phone rang again. He knew it couldn’t be the Prime Minister this time as she was the one woman in England who never changed her mind. It was Charles Seymour.

“I want it clearly understood, Simon, that I gave you the news concerning Gaddafi’s desire to negotiate at three-twenty. That is on the record, so there will be only one minister handing in his resignation later this morning.”

“I know exactly where you stand, Charles, and I feel confident that whatever happens you’ll come through your own mound of manure smelling of roses.” He slammed down the phone just as four o’clock struck. For no fathomable reason everyone in the room stood up, but as the minutes passed again one by one they sat back down.

At seven minutes past four radio silence was broken with the five words, “Shoplifter apprehended, repeat Shoplifter apprehended.”

Simon watched the Joint Chiefs cheer like schoolchildren reacting to the winning goal at a football match. Broadsword was on the high seas in neutral waters. He sat down at his desk and asked to be put through to No. 10. The Prime Minister came on the line. “Shoplifter apprehended,” he told her.

“Congratulations, continue as agreed,” was all she said.

The next move was to be sure that all the Libyan prisoners who had been taken aboard Broadsword would be discharged at Malta and sent home unharmed. Simon waited impatiently for radio silence to be broken again, as agreed, at five o’clock.

Captain Lawrence Packard came on the line as Big Ben struck five. He gave Simon a full report on the operation: one Libyan guerilla had been killed and eleven injured. There had been no, repeat no, British deaths and only a few minor injuries sustained. The thirty-seven SBS men were back on board the submarines Conqueror and Courageous. HMS Broadsword had two engines out of action and currently resembled an Arab bazaar, but was sailing the high seas on her way home. God Save the Queen.

“Congratulations, Captain,” said Simon. He returned to Downing Street, no longer bothering to use the secret tunnel. As he limped up the road journalists with no idea of the news that was about to be announced were already gathering outside No. 10. Once again he answered none of their shouted questions. When he was shown into the Cabinet room he found Charles already there with the Prime Minister. He told them both the latest news.

“Well done, Simon,” said Mrs. Thatcher.

Charles made no comment.

It was agreed that the Prime Minister would make a statement to the House at three-thirty that afternoon.

“I must admit that my opinion of Charles Seymour has gone up,” said Elizabeth in the car on the way to Oxford to watch Peter play in his hockey match.

“What do you mean?” asked Simon.

“He’s just been interviewed on television. He said he had backed your judgment all along while having to pretend to carry out pointless negotiations. He had a very good line to the effect that it was the first time in his life that he had felt honorable about lying.”

“Smelling like roses,” Simon said sharply. Elizabeth didn’t understand her husband’s response.

He went on to tell his wife everything that had gone on between them during the last few hours.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“And admit that the Foreign Secretary and I were quarrelling throughout the entire operation? It would only show up the Government in a bad light and give the Opposition something to latch on to.”

“I’ll never understand politics,” said Elizabeth resignedly.

It amused Simon to watch his son massacred in the mud while he stood on the touchline in the rain only hours after he had feared Gaddafi might have done the same to him. “It’s a walkover,” he told the Principal when Peter’s college were four goals down by half-time.

“Perhaps he’ll be like you and surprise us all in the second half,” came back the reply.

At eight o’clock on the following Saturday morning Simon sat in his office and heard the news that Broadsword had all engines on full speed and was expected to reach Portsmouth by three o’clock, exactly one week after his son had lost his college match eight-nil: they hadn’t had a good second half. Simon had tried to console his downcast son but it didn’t help that he had been the goalkeeper.

He was smiling when his secretary interrupted his thoughts to remind him that he was due in Portsmouth in an hour. As Simon reached the door the phone rang. “Explain to whoever it is I’m already late,” he said.

His secretary replied, “I don’t think I can, sir.”

Simon turned round, puzzled. “Who is it?” he asked.

“Her Majesty the Queen.”

Simon returned to his desk, picked up the receiver, and listened to the sovereign. When she had finished Simon thanked her and said he would pass on her message to Captain Packard as soon as he reached Portsmouth. During the flight down Simon looked out of the helicopter and stared at a traffic jam that stretched from the coast to London with people who were going to welcome Broadsword home. The helicopter landed an hour later.

The Secretary of State for Defense stood on the pier and was able to pick out the destroyer through a pair of binoculars. She was about an hour away but was already so surrounded by a flotilla of small craft that it was hard to identify her.

Sir John told him that Captain Packard had signaled to ask if the Secretary of State wished to join him on the bridge as they sailed into port. “No, thank you,” said Simon. “It’s his day, not mine.”

“Good thing the Foreign Secretary isn’t with us,” said Sir John. A squad of Tornadoes flew over, drowning Simon’s reply. As Broadsword sailed into port, the ship’s company were all on deck standing to attention in full dress uniform. The ship itself shone like a Rolls-Royce that had just come off the production line.

By the time the captain descended the gangplank a crowd of some 500,000 were cheering so loudly that Simon could not hear himself speak. Captain Packard saluted as the Secretary of State leaned forward and whispered the Queen’s message in his ear:

“Welcome home, Rear-Admiral Sir Lawrence Packard.”

Chapter thirty-one

The Broadsword factor remained in the memories of the electorate for a far shorter time than had the Falklands victory and the Conservative cause was not helped by the breakdown in Geneva of the disarmament talks between Reagan, Gorbachev, and Thatcher.

The Russians put the blame for the breakdown on Mrs. Thatcher’s “aggressive stance” over Broadsword after they had backed her for a diplomatic solution at the UN. Within six months the Conservative lead in the opinion polls had dropped to three percent.

“The truth is,” noted Raymond at a Shadow Cabinet meeting, “Mrs. Thatcher has had nearly eight years at No. 10 and no Prime Minister has served two full terms in succession — let alone three — since Lord Liverpool in 1812.”

At that time of the year when referees leave the field to be replaced by umpires Raymond watched his predictions become history. Once the Christmas recess had ended he felt sure the Prime Minister would go to the country in late May or some time in June rather than face another winter. When the Conservatives held on to the marginal seat in Birmingham and fared better than expected at the local elections in May no one believed the Prime Minister would delay the announcement much longer.

Margaret Thatcher seemed to care nothing for Lord Liverpool or historical precedent, because she called an election for late June, believing that the month that had been a winner for her in the past would prove to be good for her again.

“It’s time to let the nation choose who is to govern for the next five years,” she declared on “Panorama.”

“Of course, it’s got nothing to do with the fact she’s regained a slight lead in the opinion polls,” said Joyce tartly.

“A lead that could well disappear during the next few weeks,” Raymond added.

He returned to Yorkshire for only three days of the campaign. As one of the party’s leading spokesmen he had to travel around the country addressing meeting after meeting in marginal seats. Many journalists went as far as to suggest that were Raymond leading the party they would be in a far stronger position to win the election. On the few occasions he was back in Leeds he enjoyed the electioneering and felt completely relaxed with his constituents for the first time in his life. He also felt his age when he discovered that the new Tory candidate for Leeds North had been born in 1964, the year he had first entered Parliament. When they met the only insult Raymond suffered at his young rival’s hands was being called “sir.”

“Please call me by my Christian name,” said Raymond.

“Raymond—” began the young man.

“No, Ray will do just fine.”

Charles and Simon also saw little of their constituencies as they too toured the marginal seats, adding more and more to their schedules as the polling day became closer. Halfway through the campaign the Conservatives mounted a massive attack on the Alliance, as opinion polls were continuing to show that they were making considerable inroads into the Conservative vote, while traditional Labour supporters were returning to their old allegiance.

Andrew had to remain in Edinburgh for the entire campaign, to face Frank Boyle once again. But this time, as Stuart Gray informed the constituents of Edinburgh Carlton through his columns in the Scotsman. it was a Frank Boyle without teeth. Andrew felt what was left of those teeth a few times during the final three weeks but at least the Royal Bank of Scotland did not find it necessary to part with a second golden sovereign in their 300-year history. Andrew retained his seat by over 2,000 votes, to be returned to Parliament for the eighth time. Louise claimed that her husband’s majority were the 2,000 people who had fallen in love with the thirteen-year-old coltish Clarissa, who was already fulfilling her father’s prophecy as gauche fifteen-year-old Scots blushed in her presence.

The final result of the election did not become clear until four o’clock on the Friday afternoon as several recounts took place up and down the country.

“It will be a hung Parliament,” David Dimbleby told the viewers tuned into the BBC “Election Special” program that afternoon. He repeated the detailed figures for those people still returning from work:

Dimbleby went on to point out that there was no necessity for Mrs. Thatcher to resign as she was still the leader of the largest party in the Commons. But one thing was apparent, the SDP might well hold the balance at the next election.

The Prime Minister made very few changes to her front-bench team as she clearly wished to leave an impression of unity despite her small majority. The press dubbed it “The cosmetic Cabinet.” Charles moved to the Home Office while Simon became Foreign Secretary.

Everyone at Westminster was thankful when a few weeks later Parliament broke up for the summer recess and politicians returned home for a rest.

That rest was to last a complete week before Tony Benn rolled a thundercloud across the clear blue summer sky by announcing he would contest the leadership of the Labour party at the October conference.

Benn claimed that Kinnock’s naïveté and gauche approach as leader had been the single reason that the Labour party had not been returned to power. There were many Socialists who agreed with this judgment, but they also felt they would have fared considerably worse under Benn.

What his announcement did, however, was to make respectable the claim of any other candidates who wished their names to be put forward. Roy Hattersley and John Smith joined Benn and Kinnock for the first ballot. Many Members of Parliament, trade union leaders, and constituency activists pressed Raymond to stand for the leadership.

“If you don’t stand now,” Joyce told him, “you’ll have no chance in the future.”

“It’s the future I’m thinking about,” replied Raymond.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I want to stand for deputy leader against Michael Meacher and John Cunningham, and that will secure me a power base in the party which would afford me a better chance next time.”

Raymond waited another week before he launched his candidacy. On the following Monday, at a packed press conference, he announced he would be standing for deputy leader.

With four candidates in the field for the leadership no clear favorite emerged although most prophets accepted Benn would lead after the first ballot. Hattersley came to an agreement with Smith that whichever one of them captured the most votes in the first round the other would drop out and support the leader of the right in the final ballot.

When the vote had been counted Benn, as predicted, topped the first ballot, with Kinnock in third place. To everyone’s surprise when Kinnock dropped out he advised his supporters not to back Benn as he felt it could only spell a further prolonged period of Opposition for the Labour party.

A few hours later the party chairman announced that Tony Benn had been soundly beaten. The Labour party had a new moderate leader.

The vote then took place for the deputy leadership and although the new leader made clear his preference for Raymond everyone still expected it to be close. Joyce spent the last hour running from delegate to delegate while Raymond tried to appear calm. At eleven o’clock that Sunday night the chairman of the Labour party’s National Executive announced that by a mere three percent Raymond Gould was the newly elected deputy leader of the Labour party.

The new leader immediately appointed Raymond Shadow Chancellor of the Exchequer.

Among the many letters and telegrams Raymond received was one from Kate, which read: Congratulations. But have you read standing order no. 5(4) of the party constitution? Raymond replied: Hadn’t. Have now. Let’s hope it’s an omen.

In their first twelve months the new Labour team looked fresh and innovative as Mrs. Thatcher began to look tired and out of touch. She was not helped in her cause by the election of Gary Hart to the White House in November 1988. President Hart’s avowed intention to lower unemployment and spend more of the nation’s wealth to help “genuine Democrats” left Britain with a handful of new problems. The pound strengthened against the dollar overnight, and large export orders sat gathering dust in dockside warehouses.

But what threw her economic forecasts into total disarray was the decision of the recently elected Governments of Brazil and Argentina to refuse to repay any of the loans negotiated by their former military rulers leaving the Bank of England with what could only be described as an overdraft.

During the long cold winter of 1988 the Conservatives lost several votes on the floor of the House and many more upstairs in committee. The Prime Minister seemed somewhat relieved to find herself spending Christmas. at Chequers

The relief did not last long as two elderly Conservative members died before the House convened in January. The press dubbed the Government the “lame drake” administration.

Both of the pending by-elections were held in May: the Conservatives fared far better than might have been expected, holding on to one and just losing the other. For a third time Mrs. Thatcher plumped for a June election.

After a decade of the lady from Grantham Raymond sensed the mood was for change. The monthly unemployment, inflation, and import/export figures announced at regular intervals during the campaign all augured badly for the Conservatives.

The Prime Minister’s reiterated plea that a Government shouldn’t be judged on one month’s figures now sounded unconvincing, and by the final week the only point of contention was whether the Labour party would end up with a decent working majority.

Raymond woke up on the Friday morning after the election to be told by Joyce that the computer predictions indicated an overall majority of four seats. Together they toured the constituency that morning before joining Raymond’s parents for a late lunch. When they left the little butcher’s shop that afternoon there was a crowd of well-wishers awaiting them on the pavement who cheered them all the way to their car. Raymond and Joyce traveled down to London and were back in Cowley Street in time to watch the first Labour Prime Minister since 1979 emerge from Buckingham Palace with the television cameras following him all the way back until he took up residence at 10 Downing Street.

This time Raymond did not have long to wait for a telephone call because the first appointment the new Prime Minister confirmed was his Chancellor. Raymond and Joyce traveled to No. 11 later that afternoon, instructing estate agents to lease their Cowley Street house on a six-month let that might or might not be renewable. Joyce spent hours checking over her new home and replacing some of the objects she had inherited from Diana Brittan while Raymond called his team over from Transport House to prepare the Labour party’s first budget, and replace even more of what Leon Brittan had left behind.

After Raymond’s advisers returned to Transport House that night he started to go over the hundreds of letters and telegrams of congratulations that had been flooding in throughout the day. One from America made him particularly happy, and he returned his own best wishes to Mrs. Kate Wilberhoff.

Andrew had defeated Frank Boyle for a third time and the left-winger announced that he would not be standing again.

Andrew had also spent a weekend thanking all his helpers. When he returned to the Commons on the Monday morning he found a note awaiting him on the Members’ Letterboard.

Over lunch in the Members’ Dining Room David Owen informed him privately that he would not be seeking reelection as leader of the SDP: seven years had been quite enough. Although the party had slightly improved their position in the House he accepted that they now faced a five-year Parliament, and he wanted Andrew to take over.

As soon as Owen had issued an official press statement Geoffrey Parkhouse of the Glasgow Herald was the first to phone and ask Andrew, “When will you be announcing your bid for the SDP leadership?”

Leaving the Home Office came as a great blow to Charles. His period of time there had been so short that he felt he had achieved very little. The civil servants had procrastinated over all major decisions as they waited for another general election and a clear mandate. He informed Amanda over breakfast on the Monday after the election that he would be returning to Seymour’s Bank and that his salary would once again be sufficient for her allowance to remain constant — so long as she kept to her part of the bargain. Amanda nodded and left the breakfast table without comment just as Harry came in.

It was an important morning for Harry as he was to be taken to his first day of prep school at Hill House to begin the academic course mapped out for him by his father. Charles tried to convince him that it would be the start of a wonderful future, but Harry looked apprehensive. Once he had deposited a tearful eight-year-old with his first headmaster Charles continued on to the City, cheerful at the prospect of returning to the world of banking.

When he arrived at Seymour’s, he was met by Clive Reynolds’s secretary who immediately took him through to the boardroom and asked him if he would like a coffee.

“Thank you,” said Charles, taking off his gloves, placing his umbrella in the stand, and settling himself in the chairman’s seat at the head of the table. “And would you tell Mr. Reynolds I’m in?”

“Certainly,” said the secretary.

Clive Reynolds joined him a few moments later.

“Good morning, Mr. Seymour. How nice to see you again after such a long time,” he said, shaking Charles by the hand.

“Good morning, Clive. It’s nice to see you, too. First I must congratulate you on the manner in which you have conducted the bank’s affairs in my absence.”

“It’s kind of you to say so, Mr. Seymour.”

“I was particularly impressed by the Distillers takeover; that certainly took the City by surprise.”

“Yes, quite a coup, wasn’t it?” said Reynolds, smiling. “And there’s another one in the pipeline.”

“I shall look forward to hearing the details.”

“Well, I’m afraid it remains confidential at the moment,” said Clive, taking the seat beside him.

“Of course, but now I have returned I had better be briefed fairly soon.”

“I’m afraid shareholders cannot be briefed until we are certain the deals have been concluded. We can’t afford any rumors harming our chances, can we?”

“But I’m not an ordinary shareholder,” said Charles sharply. “I am returning as chairman of the bank.”

“No, Mr. Seymour,” said Reynolds quietly. “I am chairman of this bank.”

“Do you realize whom you are addressing?” said Charles.

“Yes, I think so. A former Foreign Secretary, a former Home Secretary, a former chairman of the bank, and a two percent shareholder.”

“But you are fully aware that the board agreed to have me back as chairman when the Conservatives went into Opposition,” Charles reminded him.

“The composition of the board has changed considerably since those days,” said Reynolds. “Perhaps you’ve been too busy running the rest of the world to notice minor comings and goings in Cheapside.”

“I shall call a board meeting.”

“You don’t have the authority.”

“Then I shall demand an Extraordinary General Meeting,” said Charles.

“And tell the shareholders what? That you had a standing order to return as Chairman when you felt like it? That won’t sound like a former Foreign Secretary.”

“I’ll have you out of this office in twenty-four hours,” Charles continued, his voice suddenly rising.

“I don’t think so, Mr. Seymour. Miss Trubshaw has completed her five years and left us on a full pension, and it won’t take you long to discover that I don’t possess a Swiss bank account or a well-compensated mistress.”

Charles went red in the face. “I’ll get you removed. You don’t begin to understand how far my influence stretches.”

“I hope I’m not removed, for your sake,” said Reynolds calmly.

“Are you threatening me?”

“Certainly not, Mr. Seymour, but I would hate to have to explain how Seymour’s lost over £500,000 on the Nethercote account because of your personal wish to ruin Simon Kerslake’s career. It may interest you to know that the only thing the bank gained from that fiasco was goodwill, and we only managed that because I recommended that Morgan Grenfell pick up the pieces.”

Charles couldn’t resist a smile. “When I make that public it will finish you,” he said triumphantly.

“Perhaps,” said Reynolds calmly, “but it would also stop you from becoming Prime Minister.”

Charles turned, picked up his umbrella, put on his gloves, and walked away. As he reached the door, a secretary walked in holding two cups of coffee. Charles passed her without a word and slammed the door.

“I’ll only be needing one, Miss Bristow.”

During the first week after the Queen’s Speech Andrew was pleased to discover that a majority of his colleagues wrote to say that they would support him if he put his name forward for the leadership of the SDP.

At their weekly parliamentary meeting the party Whip asked that names for the post of party leader be submitted to his office within seven days. Each candidate had to be proposed and seconded by Members of Parliament.

For the next week the popular press tried to suggest, conjure up, or even invent a rival for Andrew. Louise, who believed almost everything she read in the papers, took to perusing the Morning Star, the only paper which showed no interest in the outcome. But by five o’clock on the seventh day it had become obvious that Andrew was to be the sole nomination.

At the next parliamentary meeting of the SDP he was not so much elected as anointed. On the following Saturday, having been made a Privy Councillor the day before, Andrew addressed the party faithful at a packed Albert Hall. After a well-received speech, the press unanimously predicted — yet again — an SDP-Liberal revival. One or two journalists were quick to point out that if the balance of power did ever rest in his hands the Right Honorable Andrew Fraser might not know which way to jump: with on the one hand a father who was a distinguished Tory, while on the other having been a member of the Labour party himself for twenty years, which party would he consider the lesser of the two evils? Andrew always told the press that he would worry about that when the problem arose, because the SDP might not even be able to come to an agreement with the Liberals.

Numerous articles on the new SDP leader appeared in newspapers and magazines across the country. They all reported the stories of his attempt to save his son’s life, the gradual recovery of his wife after Robert’s death, the successful adoption of Clarissa, and his reelection to Parliament on the toss of a golden sovereign.

All the publicity made Clarissa feel like a film star, she told her father. She was the most popular girl in school, she added, so he had better become Prime Minister. He laughed but proceeded to lead his party with a determination and energy that caused him to be talked of in the same breath as the leaders of the two main parties.

No sooner had the publicity over Andrew’s election died down than the press started speculating as to whether Mrs. Thatcher would now make way for a younger man.

“Don’t you know any other restaurant?”

“Yes, but they don’t know me,” replied Ronnie Nethercote, as the two men strolled into the Ritz for the first time in a couple of years. Heads turned as people leaned forward and whispered Simon’s name to their guests.

“What are you up to nowadays? I can’t believe Opposition fully occupies you,” Ronnie said as they took their seats.

“Not really. I might also be described as one of the four million unemployed,” replied Simon.

“That’s what we’re here to talk about,” said Ronnie, “but first I recommend the country vegetable soup and the...”

“Beef off the trolley,” interjected Simon.

“You remembered.”

“It’s the one thing you’ve always been right about.”

Ronnie laughed more loudly than people normally did in the Ritz before saying, “Now you no longer have the entire armed forces at your disposal or ambassadors to call you Your Eminence or whatever they call you now, why don’t you join the board of my new company?”

“It’s kind of you to ask, Ronnie, but the answer has to be no.”

They both broke off their conversation to allow the head waiter to take their orders.

“There’s a salary of £20,000 a year that goes with it.”

“I can’t deny that Elizabeth and I could do with the money. With Peter staying up at Oxford to do a D.Phil. and Michael bent on being an actor I wonder if my bank account will ever be in credit.”

“Then why not come in with us?” asked Ronnie.

“Because I’m a committed politician,” said Simon, “and I no longer want to involve myself in any commercial activities.”

“That might stop you becoming Prime Minister?”

Simon hesitated at the bluntness of Ronnie’s question then said, “Frankly, yes. I’ve got a better than outside chance and I’d be foolish to lengthen the odds by becoming involved in anything else right now.”

“But everyone knows that as soon as Margaret announces she’s going to pack up you’ll be the next leader. It’s as simple as that.”

“No, Ronnie, it’s never as simple as that.”

“Then tell me, who could beat you?”

“Charles Seymour, for one.”

“Seymour? He’s a toffee-nosed git,” said Ronnie.

“He has a lot of friends in the party, and his patrician background still counts for something with the Tories. Sir Alec remains the best loved of our most recent Prime Ministers.”

“Yes, but he was given the leadership by the magic circle,” said Ronnie. “You’d kill Seymour with every elected member of the party having a vote.”

“Time will tell,” said Simon, bored with a conversation he had had with so many people lately. “But what have you been up to?” he asked, deliberately changing the subject.

“I’ve been working my backside off in preparation for going public in about a year’s time, which is why I wanted you on the board.”

“You never give up.”

“No, and I hope you haven’t given up your one percent of the company.”

“Elizabeth has it locked away somewhere.”

“Then you had better find the key.”

“Why?” asked Simon.

“Because when I put out ten million shares on the market at three quid a time, your one original share will be exchanged for 100,000 shares of common stock. I know you weren’t ever Chancellor but that’s £300,000 of anyone’s money.”

Simon was speechless.

“Well, say something,” said Ronnie.

“Frankly I’d forgotten the share existed,” Simon finally managed.

“Well, I think I can safely say,” said Ronnie, parodying one of Mrs. Thatcher’s favorite phrases, “that’s not a bad investment for a pound, and one you will never regret.”

As the budget debate drew nearer Raymond found twenty-four hours each day were not enough, even without sleep. He discussed the changes he required with the Treasury mandarins, but it became more obvious as each week passed that he would have to make sacrifices. He was sick of being told that there would always be next year, feeling he had waited far too long already. He often went over to Transport House to discuss with his party researchers those promises in the manifesto which they considered the top priorities. Raymond had been pleased by the party’s decision to leave Walworth Road and return to Transport House as the party headquarters soon after their victory at the polls.

As the weeks passed, compromises were reached and cutbacks agreed but Raymond managed to cling to the changes about which he felt most passionate. By the Friday morning before the budget the mandarins had handed him his speech. It ran to 143 pages and they estimated it would keep him at the dispatch box for two and a half hours.

On the Tuesday morning of Budget Day he spelled out his tax changes to the Cabinet, who traditionally did not hear the full details until a few hours before the budget was presented to the House.

Budget Day in the House of Commons is a traditional affair. Ambassadors, diplomats, bankers, and members of the House of Lords rub shoulders with the general public in the tiny Strangers’ Gallery. The queue for seats often stretches for a quarter of a mile from St. Stephen’s to Westminster Bridge, but only half a dozen people at the front of the line actually hear the Chancellor’s speech, because every other place has been allocated even before the queue has begun to form. The Chamber itself is usually packed by two-thirty although the, Chancellor does not rise until an hour later. The Press Gallery is equally overcrowded with correspondents ready to run to the nearest phone as soon as any change in taxation is announced. Back-benchers, who because of the size of the Chamber cannot be guaranteed their normal places, are mostly seated by two-twenty-five. Conservatives can reserve their seats by filling in a small prayer card during the morning and leaving it on the place they wish to occupy. Socialists, who consider the system undemocratic, refuse to use the prayer cards and make a mad rush for places at two-thirty. The atheists on both sides wait for the chaplain to finish prayers before they charge in, hoping to find their usual places free.

Budget Day is also traditionally one for eccentric dress. A few top hats can be observed on the Conservative benches and the odd miner’s helmet rests on a Labour head. Tom Carson arrived in a boiler suit with a Liverpool scarf around his neck, while Alec Pimkin satisfied himself with a red silk waistcoat and a white carnation in the buttonhole of his morning coat.

The green leather of the two front benches begins to disappear long before three o’clock, and by then any straggling back-bencher will be relegated to the floor or to the upstairs galleries, known as the “Members’ Side Galleries,” which lack the atmosphere of the House and from which members traditionally do not rise to interrupt or make a speech.

At ten past three Raymond stepped out of No. 11 and held the famous battered budget box, first used by Gladstone, high above his head, so that the press photographers could take the traditional picture before he was driven off to the Commons.

By three-fifteen, when the Prime Minister rose to answer questions, the Chamber had taken on the look of an opening night in the West End, for what members were about to experience was pure theater.

At three-twenty-five Raymond entered the Chamber to be greeted by cheers from his own side. Every place in the Commons except his had been filled. He looked up to see Joyce in the Strangers’ Gallery, and smiled. At three-thirty, when the Prime Minister had finished answering questions, the chairman of Ways and Means — who traditionally takes the Speaker’s place for a budget debate as the Speaker, being “the King’s man,” does not preside over money matters — rose from his chair and called:

“Budget statement, Mr. Chancellor of the Exchequer.”

Raymond rose and placed his speech in front of him. He began with a review of the world economic position and went on to inform the House of the philosophy behind his first budget, namely to bring down unemployment without driving up inflation. He spoke for the first hour and a half without divulging to the House any of the fiscal changes that he would be making, so abiding by the tradition that no irreversible decisions could be considered until the Stock Exchange had closed, but also giving him the opportunity to tease the House with the odd hint or suggestion.

Raymond took a sip from the glass of water by his side when he had turned page seventy-eight. He had finished with the theory and was now ready to start on the practice.

“Old-age pensions will be raised to a record level,” he declared, “as will allowances for single-parent families and disablement grants.” Raymond paused and taking a faded sheet from his inside pocket read from the first speech he had ever delivered in public. “No woman whose husband has sacrificed his life for his country shall be allowed to suffer because of an ungrateful nation. War widows’ pensions will go up by fifty percent and war bonds will be honored at their full face value.” The cheering after this statement lasted for some considerable time. Once the House had settled again he continued. “The tax on beer, cigarettes, petrol, and perfume will go up by five percent. Taxes on salaries of more than £30,000 a year will be raised to eighty-five percent and capital gains tax to fifty percent.” Several Conservatives looked glum. The Chancellor went on to announce an expansion program in the regions to stimulate employment. He detailed his plan region by region, to cheers from different sections of the House.

He ended his speech by saying, “My purpose as the first Labour Chancellor for ten years is not to rob the rich and give to the poor, but rather to make those who live in comparative ease pay taxes that will alleviate the plight of those in genuine need. Let me tell those Honorable members who sit on the benches opposite that this is only a fifth of what I intend to achieve in the lifetime of this Parliament, and by then Britain can hope to be a more equal and just society. We intend to create a generation in which class is as outdated as the debtors’ prison, in which talent, hard work, and honesty are their own reward, a Socialist society that is the envy of the East as well as the West. This budget, Mr. Speaker, is nothing more than the architect’s plan for that dream. I look forward to being given enough time to build the reality.”

When Raymond resumed his seat after two hours and twenty minutes, the length of time it takes to run a world-class marathon, he was greeted by cheers and the waving of order papers from the benches behind him.

The leader of the Opposition was faced with the almost impossible task of an immediate response, and couldn’t hope to do more than pick up one or two weaknesses in the Chancellor’s philosophy. The House did not hang on her every word.