First Among Equals

Chapter thirty-two

After the success of Raymond’s first budget the leader of the Opposition made changes to her Shadow Cabinet as quickly as was diplomatic. She moved the former Chancellor to cover the Foreign Office, Simon to tackle Home Affairs, and Charles to counter the formidable problems now raised by Raymond Gould at the Treasury.

Raymond soon discovered his task of pushing legislation through became that much harder when Charles had added the enthusiasm of his new young team to his own considerable experience of financial matters.

Raymond’s success continued, however, even if it was at a slower pace than that for which he would have hoped. Labour won the first two by-elections occasioned by members’ deaths, which in itself was remarkable in Government. The by-election results only started a fresh round of rumors that Denis Thatcher was pressing his wife to retire.

Charles Seymour knew that when such moves were finally made they could happen so suddenly that everyone seemed unprepared and uncertain what to do next. By the time Mrs. Thatcher announced her resignation he had been building up a loyal team around him for several months.

The former Prime Minister sent a letter to Sir Cranley Onslow, the new chairman of the 1922 Committee, letting him know that she would not be putting her name forward for reelection. She explained that she would be over sixty-five at the next election and had already led the party for fourteen years, the longest period for any Conservative since Churchill, and that she now felt she was ready to pass the leadership on to new blood.

The moment everyone in the party had said the usual phrases about the retiring leader being the greatest Prime Minister since Churchill, they proceeded to look for the new Churchill.

Within hours of Mrs. Thatcher’s resignation both Charles Seymour and Simon Kerslake had received calls and messages from about fifty or sixty supporters, and been contacted by all the leading political journalists. Charles went about his campaign in the thorough manner in which he approached everything, appointing lieutenants to cover each intake of new members since 1964. Simon had invited Bill Travers to organize his backup team. Travers, like any farmer, rose early each morning to gather in his harvest.

Both Simon and Charles were nominated within twenty-four hours of the necessary seven days, and by the weekend none of the rumored third candidates had appeared in the lists which convinced the press it would be a two-horse race.

The Financial Times went one better than its rivals. Its political editor, Peter Riddell, spent the whole week trying to contact the 289 Tory members. He succeeded in reaching 228 of them and was able to report to his readers that 101 had said they would vote for Simon Kerslake, ninety-eight for Charles Seymour, while twenty-nine had refused to give any opinion. The article’s headline read “Narrow lead for Kerslake,” and went on to point out that although the two men were polite about each other in public no one pretended they were friends.

“King Kerslake” ran the banner headline in the Monday editions of the Sun, and its political editor predicted Simon would win by 116 to 112: Simon suspected that they had done little more than divide the Financial Times’s don’t-knows down the middle. With eight days to go he was being quoted at two-one on with Charles eleven-eight against by the veteran ex-Labour MP Lord Mikardo, who had run a book on the last fourteen leadership contests irrespective of party. When Elizabeth told him the odds Simon remained sceptical, as he knew from bitter experience that it never paid to underestimate the Right Honorable member for Sussex Downs. Elizabeth agreed and then pointed to a small paragraph in the paper which he had overlooked. Ronnie’s new company was going public, and the shares looked certain to be well over-subscribed.

“That’s one prediction that’s turned out to be accurate,” said Simon, smiling.

With twelve hours to go to the close of nominations a new candidate appeared in the lists, which came as a shock to everyone because until that moment the general public were entirely unaware of Alec Pimkin. Some of his colleagues even expressed surprise that he had been able to find a proposer and a seconder. As it had been assumed that Pimkin’s supporters were all men who would have backed Charles it was considered a blow to his cause, although most political pundits doubted if Pimkin could scrape together more than seven or eight out of the 289 votes to be cast.

Charles pleaded with Pimkin to withdraw but he stubbornly refused, admitting to Fiona that he was thoroughly enjoying his brief moment of glory. He held a press conference in the Commons, gave endless interviews to television, radio, and the national press, and found he was receiving considerable political attention for the first time in his life since the Common Market debate. He even enjoyed the cartoon that appeared in the Daily Telegraph of the three candidates in the 100 meters which had Charles portrayed as a string bean, Simon as a jumping bean, and Alec as a has-bean waddling in a long way behind the other two. But Alexander Dalglish remained puzzled as to what had made Pimkin place his name in the lists in the first place.

“My majority in Littlehampton had plummeted from over 12,000 to 3,200 since I was first elected, and frankly the Social Democrats have been getting a little too close for comfort. That tiresome fellow Andrew Fraser is in Sussex once a month making speeches on behalf of his candidate and there are still over four years to go until the election.”

“But how many votes can you hope to pick up?” asked Fiona.

“Many more than those drunken scribblers realize. I have nine votes already pledged, not including my own, and I could well end up with as many as fifteen.”

“Why so many?” asked Fiona, immediately realizing how tactless the question must have sounded.

“Dear, simple creature,” Pimkin replied. “There are some members of our party who do not care to be led either by a middle-class pushy minor public schoolboy or an aristocratic, arrogant snob. By voting for me they can lodge their protest very clearly.”

“But isn’t that irresponsible of you?” asked Fiona, annoyed by the “simple” quip.

“Irresponsible it may be, but you can’t begin to imagine the invitations I have been receiving during the last few days. They should continue for at least a year after the election is over.”

Bombshells occur in the House of Commons only on rare occasions, mainly because the elements of bad luck and timing have to come together. Something that will create a headline one week may be hardly worthy of a mention the next. On the Thursday before the leadership election the House was packed for questions to the Chancellor. Raymond and Charles were having their usual verbal battles across the dispatch box, Charles coming out slightly on top. As the Treasury wasn’t his portfolio, all Simon could do was sit with his legs up on the table and listen while his rival scored points.

Tom Carson seemed extremely anxious to get in a supplementary on almost any question that was down on the order paper. Between two-thirty and five past three he had leaped up from his place no less than a dozen times. The digital clock above the Speaker’s chair had reached three-twelve when, out of exasperation, the Speaker called him on a seemingly innocuous question on windfall profits.

With Prime Minister’s questions just about to begin Carson faced a packed House and a full press gallery. He paused for a moment before putting his question.

“What would be my Right Honorable friend’s attitude to a man who invests one pound in a company and, five years later, receives a check for £300,000 despite not being on the board or appearing to be involved in any way with that company?”

Raymond was puzzled as he had no idea what Carson was talking about. He did not notice that Simon Kerslake had turned white.

Raymond rose to the dispatch box. “I would remind my Honorable friend that I put capital gains tax up to fifty percent which might dampen his ardor a little,” he said. It was about the only attempt at humor Raymond had made at the dispatch box that year, which may have been the reason so few members laughed. As Carson rose a second time Simon slipped a note across to Raymond which he hurriedly skimmed.

“But does the Chancellor consider that such a person would be fit to be Prime Minister or even leader of the Opposition?”

Members started talking amongst themselves, trying to work out at whom the question was directed while the Speaker stirred restlessly in his seat, anxious to bring a halt to such disorderly supplementaries. Raymond returned to the dispatch box and told Carson that the question was not worthy of an answer. There the matter might have rested had Charles not risen to the dispatch box.

“Mr. Speaker, is the Chancellor aware that this personal attack is aimed at my Right Honorable friend, the member for Pucklebridge, and is a disgraceful slur on his character and reputation? The Honorable member for Liverpool Dockside should withdraw his allegation immediately.”

The Conservatives cheered their colleague’s magnanimity while Simon remained silent, knowing that Charles had successfully put the story on the front page of every national paper.

Simon read the papers over breakfast on the Friday morning, and was not surprised by the coverage of Charles’s bogus supplementary. The details of his transaction with Ronnie Nethercote were chronicled in the fullest extent, and it did not read well that he had received £300,000 from a “property speculator” for a one pound investment. Some of the papers felt “bound to ask” what Nethercote hoped to gain out of the transaction. No one seemed to realize that Simon had been on the previous company’s board for five years, had invested £60,000 of his own money in that company, and had only recently finished paying off the overdraft.

By the Sunday Simon had made a full press statement to put the record straight, and most of the papers had given him a fair hearing. However, Sir Peter McKay, the editor of the Sunday Express, didn’t help matters with a comment in his widely-read PM column on the center page.

The Monday papers were reassessing the outcome of the ballot to take place the next day and were predicting that Seymour now had the edge Some journalists went so far as to suggest that Alec Pimkin might profit from the incident as members waited to see if there would be a second chance to give their final verdict.

Simon had received several letters of sympathy during the week, including one from Raymond Gould. Raymond assured Simon that he had not been prepared for the Carson supplementary and apologized for any embarrassment his first answer might have caused.

“It never crossed my mind that he had,” said Simon, as he passed Raymond’s letter over to Elizabeth.

“The Times was right,” she said a few moments later. “He is a very fair man.”

A moment later Simon passed his wife another letter.

“Will you use it?” asked Elizabeth, when she had finished reading the letter through.

“No. It will only draw more attention to the issue.”

Elizabeth looked at her husband as he continued to read the letters, and remembered the file that she still possessed on Amanda Wallace. She would never reveal its contents to Simon; but perhaps the time had come to make Charles Seymour sweat a little.

On the Monday evening Simon sat on the front bench listening to the Financial Secretary moving those clauses of the short Finance Bill which were being taken in committee on the floor of the House. Charles never let any of Raymond Gould’s team get away with a phrase or even a comma if he could see a weakness in their case, and the Opposition were enjoying every moment. Simon sat and watched the votes slipping away, knowing he could do nothing to stop the process.

Of the three candidates only Pimkin slept well the night before the election.

Voting began promptly at nine o’clock the next day in the Grand Committee room of the House of Commons, the party Whips acting as tellers. By three-ten all but one of those entitled to vote had done so. John Cope, the Chief Whip, stood guard over the large black tin box until Big Ben struck four, when it became apparent that Mrs. Thatcher had decided to remain neutral.

At four o’clock the box was removed to the Chief Whip’s office and the little slips were tipped out and checked twice in less than fifteen minutes. As John Cope left his room he was followed, Pied Piper-like, by lobby correspondents hoping to learn the result, but he had no intention of divulging anything before he reached the 1922 Committee who were keenly awaiting him.

Committee room fourteen was filled to overflowing, with some 280 of the 289 Conservative Members of Parliament present. Their chairman, Sir Cranley Onslow, welcomed the Chief Whip and asked him to join him on the small raised platform. He did so and passed over a folded piece of paper. The chairman of the 1922 Committee rose, faced the committee, unfolded the piece of paper, and pushed up his glasses. He hesitated as he took in the figures.

“The result of the ballot carried out to select the leader of the parliamentary party is as follows:

Charles Seymour 138

Simon Kerslake 135

Alec Pimkin 15”

There was a gasp followed by prolonged chatter, which lasted until members noticed that the chairman remained standing as he waited for some semblance of order to return among his colleagues.

“There being no outright winner,” Sir Cranley continued, “a second ballot will take place next Tuesday without Mr. Pimkin.”

The national press surrounded Pimkin as he left the Commons that afternoon, wanting to know whom he would advise his supporters to vote for in the second ballot. Pimkin, obviously relishing every moment, declared a little pompously that he intended to interview both candidates in the near future and ask them one or two apposite questions. He was at once dubbed “Kingmaker” by the press, and the phones at his home and office never stopped ringing. Whatever their private thoughts, both Simon and Charles agreed to see Pimkin before he told his supporters how he intended to cast his vote.

Elizabeth sat alone at her desk willing herself to go through with it. She glanced down at the faded file that she had not looked at for so many years. She sipped the brandy from the tumbler by her side, both of which she had discovered in the medicine cabinet a few minutes before. All her years of training and commitment to the Hippocratic oath went against what she felt she must now do. While Simon had slept soundly she had lain awake considering the consequences, then made the final decision. Simon’s career came first. She picked up the receiver, dialed the number, and waited. She nearly replaced it at once when she heard his voice.

“730-9712. Charles Seymour speaking.”

“It’s Elizabeth Kerslake,” she said, trying to sound confident. There was a long silence in which neither of them spoke.

Once Elizabeth had taken another sip of brandy she added, “Don’t hang up, Mr. Seymour, because I feel confident you’ll be interested in what I have to say.”

Charles still didn’t speak.

“Having watched you from a distance over the years I am sure that your reaction to Carson’s question in the Commons last week was not spontaneous.”

Charles cleared his throat but still didn’t speak.

“And if anything else happens this week that could cause my husband to lose the election, be assured I shall not sit by and watch.”

There was still no reply.

“I have a file in front of me marked ‘Miss Amanda Wallace and if you wish all its contents to remain confidential I would advise you to avoid any repercussion of your antics. It’s packed with names Private Eye would wallow in for months.”

Charles said nothing.

Elizabeth’s confidence was growing. “You needn’t bother to inform me that such an action would get me struck off the medical register. That would be a small penalty for watching you have to suffer the way my husband has this week.” She paused. “Good day, Mr. Seymour.”

Charles still didn’t speak.

Elizabeth put the phone down and swallowed the remainder of the brandy. She prayed that she had sounded convincing because she knew she could never carry out such a threat.

Charles took Pimkin to dinner at White’s — where Alec had always wanted to be a member — and was escorted to a private room on the first floor.

Charles didn’t wait long to ask, “Why are you going through with this charade? Don’t you realize I would have won it in the first round, if you hadn’t stood?”

Pimkin bridled. “No doubt, but I haven’t had so much fun in years.”

“Who the hell got you your seat in the first place?”

“I well remember,” said Pimkin. “And I also remember the price you exacted for it. But now it’s my turn to call the tune, and this time I require something quite different.”

“What are you hoping for? Chancellor of the Exchequer in my first administration?” said Charles, barely able to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

“No, no,” said Pimkin, “I know my worth; I am not a complete fool.”

“So what do you want? Membership of White’s? Perhaps I could fix that.”

“Nothing as mundane. In return for putting you into Downing Street I expect to be translated to the House of Lords.”

Charles hesitated. He could always give Pimkin his word; and who other than Pimkin would notice if in three years’ time he didn’t carry it through?

“If you and your fifteen men vote for me next Tuesday I’ll put you in the Lords,” said Charles. “You have my word on it.”

“Good,” said Pimkin. “But one small thing, old chum,” he added as he closely folded his napkin.

“Christ — what do you want now?” asked Charles, exasperated.

“Like you, I want the agreement in writing.”

Charles hesitated again, but this time he knew he was beaten. “I agree,” he said.

“Good, then it’s a deal,” said Pimkin. Looking round for a waiter he added, “I rather think champagne is called for.”

When Pimkin put the same proposition two days later Simon Kerslake took some time before he answered. Then he said, “That’s a question I would have to consider on its merits at the time, if and when I became Prime Minister.”

“So bourgeois,” said Pimkin as he left Simon’s room. “I offer him the keys to No. 10 and he treats me like a locksmith.”

Charles left the Commons that night having spent his time going round a large cross-section of his supporters, and he was reassured to discover they were standing firm. Wherever he went in the long Gothic corridors members singly or in groups came up to pledge their support. It was true that Kerslake’s windfall of £300,000 was fast becoming yesterday’s news, but Charles still felt enough blood had been let from that wound to ensure his final victory, even though he still cursed Pimkin for holding up the result. One anonymous note, with all the necessary details, sent to the right Labour member, had certainly proved most effective. Charles cursed as he realized Elizabeth Kerslake had successfully stopped any further covert attacks on his rival.

When he arrived home he was appalled to find Amanda waiting for him in the drawing room.

“I thought I told you to stay away until the middle of next week?”

“I changed my mind, Charlie,” said Amanda.

“Why?” he asked suspiciously.

“I think I’ve earned a little reward for being such a good girl.”

“What do you have in mind?” he asked as he stood by the mantelpiece.

“Fair exchange.”

“For what?”

“For the world rights to my life story.”

“Your what?” said Charles in disbelief. “Who is going to be the slightest bit interested in you?”

“It’s not me they’re interested in, Charlie, it’s you. The News of the World have offered me £100,000 for the unexpurgated story of life with Charles Seymour.” She added dramatically, “Or what it’s like to live with the second son of an earl who will go to any lengths to become Prime Minister.”

“You can’t be serious,” said Charles.

“Deadly serious. I’ve made quite a few notes over the years. How you got rid of Derek Spencer but failed to pull the same trick on Clive Reynolds. The extremes you went to trying to keep Simon Kerslake out of the House. How your first wife swapped the famous Holbein picture of the first Earl of Bridgwater. But the story which will cause the most interest is the one in which the real father of young Harry Seymour is revealed because his dad’s life story was serialized in the People a couple of years ago, and that seems to be one episode they missed out.”

“You bitch. You know Harry is my son,” said Charles, advancing toward her. But Amanda stood her ground.

“And perhaps I should include a chapter on how you assault your wife behind the closed doors of your peaceful Eaton Square mansion.”

Charles came to a halt. “What’s the deal?”

“I keep quiet for the rest of my life and you present me with £50,000 now and a further £50,000 when you become leader.”

“You’ve gone mad.”

“Not me, Charlie, I’ve always been sane. You see, I don’t have a paranoia to work out on dear harmless brother Rupert. The News of the World will love that part now that he’s the fifteenth Earl. I can just see the picture of him wearing his coronet and decked out in his ermine robes.”

“They wouldn’t print it.”

“They would when they learn that he’s as queer as a two-pound note, and therefore our only son will collect the earldom when he’s not entitled to it.”

“No one would believe it, and by the time they print the story it will be too late, said Charles.

“Not a bit,” said Amanda. “I am assured by my agent that the true reason behind the resignation of the leader of the Conservative party would be an even bigger scoop than that of a one-time contestant.”

Charles sank down in the nearest armchair.

“Twenty-five thousand,” he said.

“Fifty thousand,” replied his wife. “It’s only fair. After all, it’s a double deal: no story to the press and you become leader of the Conservative party.”

“All right,” whispered Charles, rising to leave the room.

“Wait a minute, Charlie. Don’t forget I’ve dealt with you in the past.”

“What else are you hoping for?” said Charles, swinging round.

“Just the autograph of the next Tory leader,” she replied producing a check.

“Where the hell did you get hold of that?” asked Charles, pointing to the slip of paper.

“From your checkbook,” said Amanda innocently.

“Don’t play games with me.”

“From the top drawer of your desk.”

Charles snatched it from her and nearly changed his mind. Then he thought of his brother in the House of Lords, his only son not inheriting the title, and having to give up the leadership. He took out his pen and scribbled his name on the check before leaving his wife in the drawing room holding £50,000. She was checking the date and the signature carefully.

Simon and Elizabeth spent a quiet weekend in their country cottage while the photographers pitched camp in Eaton Square. They had received a leak from an “authoritative” source that Pimkin would come out in support of his old school chum.

“A brilliant move,” said Elizabeth over breakfast on the Sunday morning admiring the picture on the front page of the Observer.

“Another photo of Seymour telling us what he will do when he’s Prime Minister?” said Simon, not looking up from the Sunday Times.

“No,” said Elizabeth, and passed her paper across the table. Simon stared at the Holbein portrait of the first Earl of Bridgwater under the headline “A gift to the nation.”

“Good God,” said Simon. Are there no depths he will not sink to, to win this election?”

“My dear, by any standards you have delivered the coup de grace,” said Pimkin to Fiona over lunch that Sunday.

“I thought you would appreciate it,” said Fiona, pouring him another glass of his own wine.

“I certainly did and I particularly enjoyed the director of the National Gallery’s comments — ‘that Charles’s gesture of presenting the priceless painting to the nation was the act of a selfless man.’”

“Of course, once the story had been leaked to the press Charles was left with no choice,” said Alexander Dalglish.

“I realize that,” said Pimkin, leaning back, “and I would have given a dozen bottles of my finest claret to have seen Charles’s face the moment he realized the first Earl of Bridgwater had escaped his clutches forever. If he had denied giving the earl to the nation the publicity that would have followed would have certainly ensured defeat in the election on Tuesday.”

“Win or lose next week, he daren’t then suggest it was all done without his approval,” said Alexander.

“I love it, I love it,” said Pimkin. “I am told that Princess Diana will be unveiling the portrait on behalf of the nation — and rest assured that when she performs the official ceremony, I shall be there to bear witness.”

“Ah, but will Charles?” asked Fiona.

On Monday morning Charles’s brother phoned from Somerset to ask why he had not been consulted about donating the Holbein to the nation.

“It was my picture to dispose of as I pleased,” Charles reminded him and slammed down the phone.

By nine o’clock on Tuesday morning, when the voting took place for the last time, the two contestants had spoken to nearly every member twice. Charles joined his colleagues in the Members’ Dining Room for lunch while Simon took Elizabeth to Locketts in Marsham Street. She showed him some colored brochures of a holiday on the Orient Express which would be the most perfect way to see Venice. She hoped that they wouldn’t have time to go on the trip. Simon hardly mentioned the vote that was simultaneously taking place in the Commons but it never was far from either of their minds.

The voting ended at three-fifty but once again the Chief Whip did not remove the black box until four o’clock. By four-fifteen he knew the winner but did not reveal his name until the 1922 Committee had assembled at five o’clock. He informed their chairman at one minute to five.

Once again, Sir Cranley Onslow stood on the small raised platform in the committee room fourteen to declare the result. There was no need to ask if the people at the back could hear.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his words echoing round the room, “the result of the second ballot for the leadership of the Tory Party is as follows:

Charles Seymour 130

Simon Kerslake 158.”

Just over half the members present rose and cheered while Bill Travers ran all the way to Simon’s room to be the first to report the news. When he arrived Simon swung round and faced the open door.

“You look and sound as though you’d run a marathon.”

“Like Pheidippides, I bring great news of victory.”

“I hope that doesn’t mean you’re going to drop down dead,” said Simon, grinning.

The new leader of the Conservative party said nothing more for a few moments. It was obvious that Pimkin had come out in favor of him. Later that night, one or two other members also admitted that they had changed their minds during the second week because they hadn’t liked the blatant opportunism of Charles presenting a priceless portrait to the nation only a few days before the final vote.

The following morning Fiona phoned Pimkin to ask him why he had acted as he did. “My dear Fiona,” he replied, “like Sidney Carton I considered it would be good to go to my grave knowing I had done one honorable thing in my life.”

It took only a week for Simon’s little house in Beaufort Street to be transformed. He could not as much as turn his head without facing a camera. Everywhere he went he was followed by a platoon of press men. He was surprised how quickly the experience became part of his daily routine, although Elizabeth never found it an edifying experience. She was, however, as booked up as Simon and once again they seemed only to meet in the evenings. He spent his first two weeks selecting the Shadow Cabinet he wanted to take into the next general election. He was able to announce the composition of his new team to the press fourteen days after his election as leader of the Conservative party. He made one sentimental appointment: that of Bill Travers as Shadow Minister of Agriculture.

When asked at a press conference why his defeated rival would not be serving in the team Simon explained that he had offered Charles Seymour the deputy leadership and any portfolio of his choice, but Charles had turned the offer down, saying he preferred to return to the back benches for the present time.

Charles had left for Scotland the same morning for a few days’ rest by the river Spey, taking his son with him. Although he spent much of their short holiday feeling depressed about the final outcome of the leadership struggle, Harry’s original efforts at fishing helped deaden some of the pain. Harry even ended up with the biggest fish.

Amanda, on the other hand, realizing how slim her chances were of coaxing any more cash out of her husband, reopened negotiations over her life story with the News of the World.

When Nick Lloyd, the editor, read through Amanda’s notes he decided on two things. She would require a ghostwriter and the paper would have to halve their original offer.

“Why?” demanded Amanda.

“Because we daren’t print the better half of your story.”

“Why not?”

“No one would believe it.”

“But every word is true,” she insisted.

“I’m not doubting the veracity of the facts,” said Lloyd, “only readers’ ability to swallow them.”

“They accepted that a man climbed the walls of Buckingham Palace and found his way into the Queen’s bedroom.”

“Agreed,” replied Lloyd, “but only after the Queen had confirmed the story. I’m not so sure that Charles Seymour will be quite as cooperative.”

Amanda remained silent long enough for her agent to close the deal.

The watered-down version of “My Life with Charles Seymour” appeared a few months later to coincide with Charles’s much-publicized divorce, but it made no more than a faint ripple in political circles. Now that Charles had no prospect of leading his party it was very much yesterday’s news.

Amanda came out of the divorce settlement with another £50,000 but lost custody of Harry, which was all Charles really cared about. He prayed her irresponsible remarks reported in the papers concerning the boy’s claim to the title had been quickly forgotten.

Then Rupert phoned from Somerset and asked to see him privately.

A week later they sat facing each other in Charles’s drawing room at Eaton Square.

“I am sorry to broach such an embarrassing subject,” said Rupert, “but I feel it is my duty to do so.”

“Duty, poppycock,” said Charles, stubbing out his cigarette. “I tell you Harry is my son, and as such will inherit the title. He’s the spitting image of great-grandfather and that ought to be enough proof for anyone.”

“In normal circumstances I would agree with you, but the recent publicity in the News of the World has been brought to my notice and I feel...”

“That sensationalist tabloid,” said Charles sarcastically, his voice rising. “Surely you don’t take their word before mine?”

“Certainly not,” said Rupert, “but if Amanda is to be believed Harry is not your son.”

“How am I meant to prove he is?” asked Charles, trying to control his temper. “I didn’t keep a diary of the dates when I slept with my wife.”

“But it seems Amanda did so I have had to take legal advice on the matter,” continued Rupert, “and am informed that a blood test is all that will prove necessary to verify Harry’s claim to the title. We both share a rare blood group as did our father and grandfather, and if Harry is of that group I shall never mention the subject again. If not, then the title will eventually be inherited by our second cousin in Australia.”

“And if I don’t agree to put my son through this ridiculous test?”

“Then the matter must be placed in the hands of our family solicitors,” said Rupert, sounding unusually in control. “And they must take whatever course they consider fit.”

Chapter thirty-three

Simon’s first year as leader was one of unbounded energy and ideas which bore fruit as the Conservatives picked up three seats at by-elections and whittled away the Government’s majority. The press were already predicting that the Socialists wouldn’t be able to complete their full five-year term, which moved Simon to goad Central Office into a perpetual state of readiness for an election.

Raymond continued to gain respect at the Treasury as his policies began to show results. He had to cut back on some of the more ambitious projects as his gloomy predictions about American interest rates and the drop in the production of North Sea oil proved daily more accurate. After his second budget the financial press felt he had done all that was possible, given the world situation. When unemployment fell below two million and strikes to their lowest level since the Second World War some members hailed Raymond as the unions’ Messiah, while others noted that he had been shrewd enough to steal some of the Opposition’s co-inflation clothes in the absence of Charles Seymour.

As Raymond entered his third year as Chancellor the opinion polls showed the two main parties neck and neck again, with a surprising proportion of people saying that they would vote for the Alliance for the first time.

The Liberals still held sixteen seats in the Commons but, as in the past three elections, they had decided to fight under the collective banner as the Social Democrats during the general election campaign.

As the time for election drew near both small parties knew they would have to declare their choice for overall leader if a combination of Liberals and Social Democrats ever held the balance of power in Parliament. When the pollsters dug a little deeper it transpired that Andrew Fraser had become the most popular political leader in the country despite the fact he only led forty-two members in the Commons.

Andrew spent a lot of his time addressing meetings all over the country trying to convince the voters that at the next election the political balance would change. He said it so often he began to believe it himself, and two good by-election victories early in 1990 helped his supporters feel it was possible, too. The press began to take such claims seriously when at the local election in May the Alliance captured 102 council seats at the expense of both the major parties.

“Daddy, Daddy, open my school report.”

Charles left the morning mail unopened as he held Harry in his arms. He knew nothing could ever part them now but he dreaded Harry finding out that he might not be his real father.

“Please open it,” pleaded Harry, wriggling free.

The school doctor had been asked to take a sample of Harry’s blood along with six other boys from his form so that he would not consider the request unusual. Even the doctor hadn’t been told the full significance of the action.

Harry extracted the envelope from the pile by Charles’s side — the one with the school crest in the top left-hand corner — and held it out for his father to open. He looked excited and seemed hardly able to contain himself. Charles had promised he would phone his brother as soon as the result of the blood test was confirmed. He had wanted to phone the doctor a hundred times during the past week but had always stopped himself, knowing it would only add to the man’s curiosity.

“Come on, Dad, read the report and you’ll see it’s true.”

Charles tore open the letter and removed the little book which would reveal the result of all Harry’s efforts during the term. He flicked through the pages — Latin, English, History, Geography, Art, Divinity, Games, Form master, Headmaster. He reached the last page, a small yellow sheet headed: “Term medical report.” It started: Harry Seymour, age eleven, height four feet nine inches — he’s suddenly sprung up, thought Charles — weight five stone four pounds. He glanced up at Harry who looked as if he was about to burst.

“it is true, Dad, isn’t it?”

Charles read on without answering the boy’s question. At the foot of the page was a typewritten note signed by the school doctor. Charles read it twice before he understood its full significance and then a third time. “As requested I took a sample of Harry’s blood and analyzed it. The result shows that Harry shares a rare blood group...”

“Is it true, Dad?” asked Harry yet again.

“Yes, my son, it’s true.”

“I told you, Dad — I knew I’d be top in the class. That means I’ll be captain of the school next term. Just like you.”

“Just like me,” said his father, as he picked up the phone by his side and began to dial his brother’s number in Somerset.

When the Prime Minister went into hospital for a minor operation the press immediately started to speculate on his resignation. Ten days later when he walked out looking better than ever the rumors ceased immediately. In the Prime Minister’s absence as deputy leader Raymond chaired Cabinet meetings and stood in for him during questions in the Commons. This gave the lobby correspondents a chance to proclaim, like Caesarian soothsayers plucking at entrails, that Raymond was Primus inter pares.

Raymond enjoyed presiding over the Cabinet, but was surprised that the civil servants expected him to spend his entire Tuesday and Thursday mornings preparing for Prime Minister’s questions.

Both Simon Kerslake and Andrew Fraser had gained formidable reputations during Prime Minister’s questions, and Raymond found the fifteen-minute encounter more demanding than a full winding-up speech in a major debate; in retrospect, he was relieved that he had prepared so thoroughly. The lobby correspondents seemed to be in agreement that Raymond had held his own on both occasions and that, if anything, Simon Kerslake had underestimated him.

The Prime Minister returned to Downing Street the following week and assured Raymond that the operation had been a success and the likelihood of any recurrence of the trouble was, in the surgeon’s opinion, minimal. He admitted to Raymond that he hoped to lead the party to a second victory at the polls, by which time he would be within a few years of his seventieth birthday and ready to bow out quietly. He told Raymond bluntly that he hoped he would be his successor. But Raymond couldn’t help remembering that Neil Kinnock was eight years younger than he was.

Raymond returned to the Treasury to prepare for what looked like his final budget before the general election. His stewardship had made it possible to loosen the reins slightly with an election in mind. He described the loosening to the Cabinet as no more than a percentage point or two; he had no intention, he assured them, of letting three years’ hard work be sacrificed at the altar of vote-catching. Some of his colleagues round the Cabinet table wished he were not quite so unbending at times.

Whenever Raymond spoke around the country more and more people approached him about standing for the leadership. He always thanked them courteously but maintained his loyalty to the Prime Minister, which loyalty, he added, would remain constant until he chose to resign.

Simon and Andrew also spent every weekend in planes, cars, or trains fulfilling speaking engagements right up until the party conferences in October.

Andrew, in his summing-up speech to the SDP conference at Weston-super-Mare, told the delegates that they should expect to hold the balance of power between the two major parties after the next election. For the first time, he told them, they would have the chance to participate in a national Government. He sent the delegates home warning them to prepare for an election within the coming twelve months, by which time they would be able to welcome SDP Members of Parliament who would already be playing a major role in the running of the nation. Andrew’s supporters left the West Country keyed up for battle.

The Labour party conference followed a week later at Brighton and Raymond delivered a keynote speech on the state of the nation’s finances. He pressed the unions to continue supporting their Government by keeping the twin evils of inflation and unemployment at acceptable levels. “Let us not pass on three years of achievement to be squandered by a Conservative Government,” he told the cheering delegates. “Brothers, I look forward to presenting five more Labour budgets that will make it impossible for the Tories to imagine a future victory at the polls.”

Raymond received one of the rare standing ovations to be given to any Cabinet minister at a Labour party conference. The delegates had never doubted his ability, but over the years they had grown to respect his sincerity as well as his judgment.

Seven more days passed before Simon addressed the Tory faithful at the Conservative party conference. in Blackpool. By tradition, the leader always receives a four-to-six-minute standing ovation after he completes his speech on the final day. “He’d still get four minutes,” said Pimkin to a colleague, “if he read them Das Kapital.”

Simon had spent six weeks preparing for the occasion since, like Andrew, he was convinced this would be the last conference before the election. He was pleasantly surprised to find Charles Seymour coming forward with new ideas on tax reform which he hoped might be considered for inclusion in the leader’s speech to the conference.

Charles had recently been making useful contributions in the House during finance debates, and Simon hoped that it would not be long before he would be willing to return to the front bench. His main preoccupation in the House had been as a member of the Chairmen’s Panel from which committee chairmen were recruited for each bill. Charles had mellowed considerably during his time on the back benches and many of his friends feared he had lost his ambition for high office and might not even stand at the next election. Simon hoped this wasn’t the case as he desperately needed someone of Charles’s ability to counter Raymond Gould at the Treasury. Simon included Charles’s suggestions in the final draft of his speech and dropped him a handwritten note of thanks.

On that Friday morning in Blackpool, in front of 2,000 delegates and millions more watching on television, Simon presented a complete and detailed plan of what he hoped to achieve when the Conservatives were returned to Government.

“Power is what we want and power is what we seek,” he told a mesmerized audience. “For without power we cannot serve.”

After the peroration the delegates duly rose for a genuine six-minute ovation. When the noise had died down Pimkin was heard to remark, “I think I made the right decision.”

The conference season over, members made their way back from the three seasides to Westminster. Sadness overcame the House in their first week back when the aging Mr. Speaker Weatherill suffered a minor heart attack and retired to the Lords. The Government’s overall majority was only two at the time and the Labour party Chief Whip feared that if they supplied the new Speaker from their own ranks and the Conservatives were to retain the old Speaker’s safe seat the Government majority would cease to exist.

Simon reluctantly agreed that the Speaker should come from his own benches and asked his Chief Whip to suggest a suitable candidate.

When Charles Seymour asked to be granted a private interview with the leader Simon agreed immediately.

Charles arrived at the Opposition leader’s office the following morning. It was the first time they had talked alone since the leadership battle. A head of white hair had grown from the roots of Charles’s once Odyssean locks, and the deeper lines in Charles’s face gave him a more gentle look. Simon couldn’t help noticing a slight stoop had replaced his ramrod bearing. Looking at them now no one would have suggested they were contemporaries. Charles’s request came as a shock to Simon for he had never once considered his great rival as a candidate for that particular job.

“But I want you to return to the front bench and be my Chancellor,” said Simon. “You must know I would be delighted to have you back in the team.”

“That’s considerate of you,” said Charles. “But I would prefer the more restful life of being an arbitrator rather than an antagonist. I’ve lost that desire always to be on the attack. For over twenty years you’ve had the advantage of Elizabeth and two sons to keep your feet on the ground. It’s only quite recently that Harry has done the same for me.”

All men are thought to have one great moment in their careers in the House, and for Alec Pimkin it was to be that day. The election of a Speaker in the Commons is a quaint affair. By ancient tradition no one must appear to want the honor, and it is rare for more than one person to be proposed for the post. During Henry Vl’s reign three Speakers were beheaded within a year, although in modern times it has been more the heavy burden of duties that has often led to an early grave. This tradition of reluctance has carried on through the ages, and for that reason a future Speaker frequently does not know who has sponsored him. Dressed in a smart blue suit, sporting a red carnation and his favorite pink-spotted bow tie, Alec Pimkin rose from his seat on the back benches to move that “the Right Honorable Charles Seymour does take the chair of this House as Speaker.” His speech was serious yet witty, informed but personal. Pimkin held the House in his grasp for nine minutes and never once let it go. “He’s done his old friend proud,” one member muttered to another across the gangway when Pimkin sat down, and indeed the look on Charles’s face left no doubt that he felt the same way, whatever had taken place in the past.

After Charles had been seconded the tradition of dragging the Speaker-elect to the chair was observed. This normally humorous affair, usually greeted with hoots of laughter and cheering, became even more of a farce with the sight of the small, portly Pimkin and his Labour seconder dragging the six-foot-four former Guards’ officer from the third row of the back benches all the way to the chair.

Charles surveyed the Commons from his new vantage point. He began by expressing his grateful thanks for the high honor the House had bestowed on him. From the moment he rose and stood his full height, every member knew they had selected the right man to guide them through the parliamentary calendar. The sharpness of his tongue may have gone but there remained a firm delivery and natural authority that left none of his colleagues in any doubt that Mr. Speaker Seymour intended to keep “order” for many years to come.

The Conservatives held the Croydon North-East seat comfortably at the by-election, and captured a marginal six weeks later. The press pointed out that it only needed the Tories and the SDP/Liberal Alliance to join together for the Government and Opposition to be in equal numbers, leaving the seventeen Irish members to decide the fate of the Parliament. Raymond was determined that the Government should hold on for another few weeks so that he could deliver his third budget, which he was convinced would act as a launching pad on which to fight the election.

Andrew had realized that Raymond’s next budget might help Labour’s chances at the polls, and he sought an official meeting with the leader of the Opposition to discuss the possibility of a “no confidence” motion.

Simon agreed with Andrew’s suggestion and thought that they should time the debate for the end of March. If they won that would ensure an election before the budget.

Raymond had accepted an invitation to address a large Labour rally in Cardiff the weekend before the vote of “no confidence.” He boarded the train at Paddington, settled into his compartment, and began to check over his speech. As the train pulled into Swindon a railway official stepped on board and, having discovered where the Chancellor of the Exchequer was seated, asked if he could speak to him privately for a few minutes. Raymond listened carefully to what the man had to say, replaced the speech in his brief case, got off the train, crossed the platform, and returned by the first available train to London.

On the journey back he tried to work out all the consequences of the news he had just been told. As soon as he arrived at Paddington he made his way through the waiting photographers and journalists, answering no questions. A car took him straight to Westminster Hospital. Raymond was shown into a private room, to find the Prime Minister sitting upright in bed.

“Now don’t panic,” he said before Raymond could speak. “I’m in fine shape considering I’m over sixty and with all the pressure we’ve been under this last year.”

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Raymond, taking a chair next to the bed.

“Recurrence of the old trouble, only this time they say it will take major surgery. I’ll be out of this place in a month, six weeks at the most, and then I’ll live as long as Harold Macmillan, they tell me. Now, to more important matters. I want you to take over for me again, which will mean you will have to speak in my place during the ‘no confidence’ debate on Wednesday. If we lose the vote, I shall resign as leader.”

Raymond tried to protest as he had already worked out the implications the moment he had heard his leader was ill again. The Prime Minister held up his hand and continued talking. “No party can fight an election with its leader laid up in bed for six weeks, however well he might be when they release him. If there is to be an election, the voters have the right to know who is going to lead the party in Parliament, and of course in such an emergency under standing order number five (four) of the Labour party’s constitution,” continued the Prime Minister, “the National Executive would meet and automatically select you to take over as party leader.”

Raymond raised his head. “Yes. The importance of that particular standing order has already been pointed out to me.”

The Prime Minister smiled. “Joyce, no doubt.”

“Her name was Kate, actually.”

The Prime Minister looked puzzled and then continued. “I think you must get used to the idea, Raymond, that you may well be running for Prime Minister in three weeks’ time. Because if we lose the ‘no confidence’ vote on Wednesday I am given no choice but to advise the Queen to call an immediate general election.”

Raymond remained silent.

“I can assure you,” continued the Prime Minister, “the National Executive will not want an internal bloodbath three weeks before a general election. Nothing could be more certain to guarantee a Tory victory. If, however, we do win the ’no confidence vote then it’s a different matter altogether because I’ll be back and running the ship long before the Easter recess is over. That will give us enough time to call the election after you’ve delivered your third budget. So make sure you win on Wednesday.”

“I am unable to express how much we will all miss your leadership,” said Raymond, without guile.

“As every member of the House except the Irish will know which lobby they’ll be voting in long before the debate begins, my leadership may turn out to be less important than any single vote. And don’t forget it will be the first occasion at which they’ve allowed television on the floor of the Commons, so make sure Joyce picks out one of those smart shirts you sometimes wear.”

Raymond spent the final few days before the “no confidence” vote preparing his speech. He canceled all the engagements in his diary except for the Speaker’s dinner to celebrate the Queen’s sixty-fifth birthday, at which he would be standing in for the Prime Minister.

The Government and Opposition Whips spent Monday and Tuesday checking that every member would be present in the House by ten o’clock on Wednesday night. The political journalists pointed out that, if the vote were a tie, Mr. Speaker Seymour had already made it clear that he would abide by the ancient tradition of giving his casting vote to the Government of the day. Charles was armed with precedents from Speaker Addington in the eighteenth century to Speaker Denison in the nineteenth. Charles pointed out that, in line with the principle, he must vote in such a manner as not to make the decision of the chair final.

Simon was to open the debate for the Opposition while Andrew was being allowed to wind up, the only concession Simon had granted the SDP/Liberal Alliance for ensuring their support in the lobbies. Neil Kinnock was to open for the Government with Raymond winding up.

When Raymond read his speech out to Joyce on the Tuesday night the entire rehearsal took only twenty-four minutes, but he explained to her that with the noise and interruptions that would occur in the Chamber he would be on his feet the full thirty minutes. In fact he might have to cut short some lines on the night.

The following day members began arriving hours before the debate was due to begin. The Strangers’ Gallery had been booked days in advance, with many senior ambassadors and even some Privy Councillors unable to be guaranteed a seat. The Press Gallery was filled and editors were sitting at the feet of their political journalists’ desks. The Commons itself was like a stand at a cup final where twice as many tickets had been sold as there were seats. The only difference from a Budget Day was that the House was taken up with lighting equipment that had been tested a dozen times that morning.

Between two-thirty and three-thirty Mr. Speaker Seymour had been unable to stop members chattering during questions to Mr. Meacher, the Secretary of State for Education, but at three-thirty he duly shouted for “Order” and did not have to wait long for silence before calling: “The leader of the Opposition.”

Simon rose from his place on the front bench to be greeted with cheers from his own side. He was momentarily surprised by the brightness of the arc lights which he had been assured he would hardly notice, but soon he was into his stride. Without a note in front of him he addressed the House for fifty minutes, tearing into the Government one moment, then switching to the policies he would implement the next. He ended his peroration by describing the Labour party as “the party of wasted opportunity” then added — jabbing his finger at Raymond — “but you will be replaced by a party of ideas and ideals.”

He sat down to the cheers of his back-benchers who thought they had already won the vote — if not the next election as well. The noise continued for some time before Charles could bring the House back to order and call the next speaker.

Neil Kinnock had always reveled in his Welsh ancestry and had often been compared by older members to Aneurin Bevan. The bête noire of the Tories set in to the Opposition leader with a vengeance, expounding his beliefs and rousing his own side to cheers when he said that the Tories would be routed and would regret this no confidence “trick” for a decade. “The Right Honorable Gentleman,” he said, pointing at Simon, “has the nerve to call us the party of wasted opportunities. For the past two years it is he who has led the party of opportunists, and who will be the leader of the Opposition until it is time for him to be replaced.” When Kinnock sat down the television producers couldn’t be blamed for thinking that they were covering a lions v. Christians slaughter. Again it took the Speaker several minutes to bring the House back to order.

The back-benchers also rose to the occasion with speeches from past ministers quoting precedent and from young turks demanding change, which helped confirm old and established new reputations. The House remained packed that night right up until nine o’clock when the Speaker called Andrew Fraser to wind up for the Opposition.

Andrew delivered a “plague on both your houses” speech and shouted above the protests from the two main parties, “When the time comes you will both need to call on an honest broker.” At nine-thirty when he resumed his seat Andrew was cheered as loudly as forty-two members in unison could manage.

When it came to Raymond’s turn to wind up, members wondered how he would make himself heard above the noise that greeted him. He rose to the dispatch box and, looking grave, with head bowed, almost whispered his first words, “Mr. Speaker, I know the whole House would wish me to open my speech by saying how sad we all are that the Prime Minister is unable to be present tonight. I am sure all Honorable members will want to join me in sending him, his wife, and family our best wishes as he prepares for his operation.”

Suddenly the House was silent and, having caught its mood Raymond raised his head and delivered for the eleventh time the speech he had prepared so assiduously. When he had seen Simon give his apparently impromptu speech Raymond had torn up his notes. He spelled out the achievements of the Government during the past two and a half years and assured the House that he was only halfway through his time as Chancellor. “I have not been able to achieve equality in three years, but of one thing I am certain: I look forward to delivering my next budget whatever the outcome of the vote tonight. We shall not see the opportunist Government of the Conservatives or the Alliance’s so-called ‘honest broker.’ Indeed, looking at the Alliance I can say there is no one less honest and no one more broke. We, Mr. Speaker, will see the return of a Labour Government for another full Parliament.” Raymond sat down as the clock reached ten. He found, like the speakers before him, that he was drenched in sweat from the heat sent out by the powerful arc lights.

The Speaker rose and his first words were lost as he put the question:

“This House has no confidence in Her Majesty’s Government. As many as are of that opinion say Aye, to the contrary, No. I think the Ayes have it.”

“No,” hollered back the voices from the Government benches.

“Clear the lobbies,” called the Speaker above the cheers for Raymond Gould. Members departed to the lobbies to cast their votes. The Irish members surprised no one by dividing among themselves. Fourteen minutes later the tellers returned to a noisy Chamber to give the result of the division to the clerk at the table who then entered the figures on a division paper. The four tellers lined up and advanced toward the table from the bar of the House. They came to a halt and bowed for a third time. One of the Opposition Whips read out: “Ayes to the right 323, Noes to the left 322” and passed the piece of paper to the Speaker who tried to repeat it above the bedlam. Few members heard him say:

“The Ayes have it, the Ayes have it.”

Raymond sat on the front bench and watched the delighted Tories bobbing up and down like children on a carousel. He reflected that if the Prime Minister had been present to register his vote the Government would have saved the day.

Her Majesty the Queen visited her Prime Minister in hospital twenty-four hours after his successful operation. He advised the monarch to dissolve Parliament immediately and asked that the general election be set for 9 May. He explained to the Queen that he intended to resign as leader of his party that morning and would relinquish the office of Prime Minister as soon as the outcome of the election was clear.

Before she left the Westminster Hospital the Queen spent some time discussing a private constitutional issue with the Prime Minister. He suggested that when the Labour party had confirmed their new leader he must be the man to offer her advice on such a personal matter.

The National Executive of the Labour party met behind the closed doors of Transport House in Smith Square at ten o’clock the following morning to select their new leader.

Three hours and twenty minutes later the committee issued a one-line press statement: “Mr. Raymond Could has been invited to lead the party at the forthcoming general election.”

Although no one was in any doubt about the fierce arguments that must have taken place during the meeting the press were met by a unified voice once the committee finally broke up.

As Lord Broadstairs, the former Prime Minister, wrote in the center page of the Sunday Express that weekend, “The Labour party in selecting their leader resembled nothing less than the old-fashioned magic circle of Lord Rosebery in their determination to prove unity.” The only leak he had managed to gather from the meeting was that Raymond Gould’s acceptance speech had impressed every one present.

But Lord Broadstairs went on to point out that if the Labour party should lose the general election Raymond Gould could be the shortest serving leader in the Labour party’s history, as under standing order five (four) of the constitution his appointment had to be confirmed by the delegates at the next party conference in October.

It had been two hours before Raymond was able to leave Transport House and escape the press. When he eventually got away he went straight to Westminster Hospital to visit the Prime Minister. The operation had visibly aged him. He was in good spirits, but admitted that he was glad not to be facing a grueling election campaign. After he had congratulated Raymond on his new post he went on to say: “You’re dining with the Queen tonight?”

“Yes, to celebrate her sixty-fifth birthday,” said Raymond.

“There’s more to it than that,” said the Prime Minister gravely and he then revealed the private conversation that he had had with the monarch the previous day.

“And will her decision depend on the four people in that room?”

“I suspect it will.”

“And what’s your attitude?”

“That’s no longer relevant because I shall resign as Prime Minister the day after the election, so it’s more important the new Prime Minister considers what is best for the country.”

For the first time Raymond felt like the leader of the party.

Chapter thirty-four

Elizabeth straightened Simon’s white tie and took a pace back to look at him.

“Well, at least you look like a Prime Minister,” she said, smiling.

Her husband checked his watch. Still a few minutes to spare before he needed to be at the Speaker’s private apartments — not that he was willing to risk being late for this particular birthday celebration. Elizabeth helped him on with his overcoat and after a search realized he had lost another pair of gloves.

“I do hope you can take care of the nation’s belongings a little better than you do your own.” She sighed.

“I’m sure I’ll find it hard to lose a whole country,” said Simon.

“Do remember that Raymond Gould will be trying to help you,” said Elizabeth.

“Yes, that’s true. I only wish I was fighting Kinnock.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because Could was born into the wrong party,” said Simon as he kissed his wife and walked toward the front door, “and a lot of the electorate have already reached the same conclusion.”

The policeman on the gates of New Palace Yard saluted as Simon was driven into the courtyard and dropped at the Members’ Entrance. He glanced at his watch again: ten minutes to spare. He never could resist checking how many people were in the Chamber or what the latest news was on the ticker-tape machine.

He put his head round the door of the smoking room. A few members were scattered around, mainly from safe seats they felt did not need nursing. Pimkin, surrounded by his usual cronies, hailed him. His face lit up when he saw Simon formally dressed. “I say, waiter, mine’s a double gin and tonic.” His companions duly laughed. Simon responded by asking the barman to give Mr. Pimkin a large gin and tonic and to charge it to his account.

He spent a few minutes moving from group to group chatting to members about how the election might go in their constituencies. Pimkin assured Simon that the Tories would return in triumph. “I wish everyone was as confident as you are,” Simon told him before leaving for the Speaker’s private apartments as Pimkin ordered another gin.

He strolled along the library corridor, lined from floor to ceiling with venerable old journals of the House, until he reached the Speaker’s office, which is the route members take to the Speaker’s private rooms. When Simon reached the Grand Stairway dominated by Speaker Addington’s portrait he was met by the Speaker’s train-bearer clad in white tie and black tails.

“Good evening, Mr. Kerslake,” he said and led Simon down the corridor into the antechamber where a relaxed Charles Seymour stood ready to receive his guests. Charles shook Simon’s hand warmly. Simon thought how well his colleague looked compared with their meeting of a few months before.

Andrew Fraser had already arrived and soon the three men were deep into a discussion about the course the election would take when another guest walked in.

“The Right Honorable Raymond Gould,” announced the train-bearer. Charles went over to greet his guest.

“Many congratulations on your election as leader,” were his first words. “You’ve had one hell of a week; you must be exhausted.”

“Exhilarated, to be honest,” replied Raymond.

He moved toward Simon, who in turn offered his congratulations. The two men shook hands and for a moment resembled medieval knights who had lowered their visors before the final joust. The unnatural silence that followed was broken by Andrew.

“Well, I hope it’s going to be a clean fight,” he said. Both men laughed.

The train-bearer came to the Speaker’s side to inform him that Her Majesty had left Buckingham Palace a few moments earlier.

Charles excused himself while the three leaders continued their conversation.

“Has either of you been told the real reason why we are bidden here this evening?” asked Raymond.

“Isn’t the Queen’s sixty-fifth birthday enough?” said Simon.

“No, that’s just an excuse for us to meet without suspicion. I think it might be helpful for you both to know that Her Majesty has a highly sensitive question to put to us.”

Simon and Andrew listened as Raymond revealed the substance of his discussion with the Prime Minister.

Charles waited in the entrance of the courtyard of the Speaker’s House to welcome the Queen.

It was only a few minutes before he spotted two police outriders entering the gates of New Palace Yard followed by the familiar maroon Rolls-Royce, which displayed no number-plate. A tiny white light on the center of the roof blinked in the evening dusk. As soon as the car had come to a halt a footman leaped down and opened the back door.

The Queen stepped out, to be greeted by the commoner history had judged to be the monarch’s man. She was dressed in a simple cocktail dress. The only jewelry she wore was a string of pearls and a small diamond brooch. Charles bowed before shaking hands and taking his guest up the carpeted staircase to his private apartments. Her three party leaders stood in line waiting to greet her. She shook hands first with the new leader of the Labour party and congratulated him on his election that afternoon before inquiring how the Prime Minister was faring. Then she shook hands with her leader of the Opposition and asked how his wife was coping at Pucklebridge General Hospital after the new National Health cutbacks. Simon was always amazed by how much the Queen could recall from her past conversations, few of which could ever last more than a few moments. She then moved on to Andrew whom she teased about his father’s recent speech in Edinburgh on the Social Democrats’ greatest weakness being their lack of leadership.

“He’s very old, ma’am,” insisted Andrew.

“Not as old as Gladstone when he formed his last administration,” she replied.

She removed the gin and tonic offered to her on a silver tray and looked around the magnificent room. “My husband and I are great admirers of the Gothic revival in architecture, though being infrequent visitors to Westminster we are, however, usually forced to view the better examples from the outside of railway stations or from the inside of cathedrals.”

The four men smiled and a few minutes later Charles suggested they adjourn to the State dining room where five places were set out round an oval table covered with silver which glittered in the candlelight. The four men waited until the Queen was seated at the head of the table.

Charles.had placed Raymond on the Queen’s right and Simon on her left while he and Andrew filled the other two places.

When the champagne was served Charles and his colleagues rose and toasted the Queen’s health. She reminded them that her birthday was not for another two weeks and remarked that she had twenty-four official birthday engagements during the month, which didn’t include the family’s private celebrations. “I would happily weaken but the Queen Mother attended more functions for her ninetieth birthday last year than I have planned for my sixty-fifth. I can’t imagine where she gets the energy.”

“Perhaps she would like to take my place in the election campaign,” said Raymond.

“Don’t suggest it,” the Queen replied. “She would leap at the opportunity without a second thought.”

The chef had prepared a simple dinner of smoked salmon followed by lamb in red wine and aspic. His only flamboyant gesture was a birthday cake in the shape of a crown resting on a portcullis of sponge. No candles were evident.

After the meal had been cleared away and the cognac served the servants left them alone. The four men remained in a light mood until the Queen without warning put to them a delicate question that surprised only Charles. She waited for an answer.

No one spoke.

“Perhaps I should ask you first,” said the Queen, turning to Raymond, “as you are standing in for the Prime Minister.”

Raymond didn’t hesitate. “I am in favor, ma’am,” he said quietly.

She next turned to Simon.

“I would also support such a decision, Your Majesty,” he replied.

“Thank you,” said the Queen, and turned to Andrew.

“At heart I am a traditionalist, Your Majesty, but I confess to having given the subject a great deal of thought over the last few years and I have come round to supporting what I think is described as the ‘modern approach.’”

“Thank you,” she repeated, her eyes finally resting on Charles Seymour.

“Against, ma’am,” he said without hesitation, “but then I have never been a modern man.”

“Mat is no bad thing in Mr. Speaker,” she said, and paused before adding: “Some years ago I asked a former Lord Chancellor to draw up the necessary papers. He assured me then that if none of my parliamentary leaders was against the principle the legislation could be carried through while both Houses were still in session.”

“That is correct, ma’am,” said Charles. “It would require two or three days at most if all the preparations have already been completed. It’s only a matter of proclamation to both Houses of Parliament: your decision requires no vote.”

“Excellent, Mr. Speaker. Then the matter is settled.”