Emma’s first call was not to Giles to congratulate him on retaining his seat in the Cabinet, but to Margaret Thatcher at her home in Flood Street, Chelsea.
“You have to stand for the leadership of the party, Margaret.”
“There isn’t a vacancy,” Mrs. Thatcher reminded her, “and there’s no suggestion that Ted is considering giving up the post.”
“Then kick him into touch,” said Emma firmly. “Perhaps it’s time to remind him he’s lost us three elections out of four.”
“True,” said Thatcher, “but the Tories are not known for ditching their leaders, as you’ll discover when you talk to the party faithful at your next area committee meeting. By the way, Ted has spent the last week calling every constituency chairman one by one.”
“It’s not the constituency chairmen who will choose the next leader of the party,” said Emma, “but your colleagues in the House. They’re the only ones who have a vote. So perhaps you should be calling them one by one.”
* * *
Emma watched from a distance as speculation over the party leadership became more and more rife. She’d never read so many newspapers, listened to so many radio discussions or watched so many television debates, often late into the night.
Apparently oblivious to what was going on around him, Ted Heath, like Nero, went on playing his fiddle. But then, in an attempt to stamp his authority on the party, he called a leadership election for February 4, 1975.
Over the next few days Emma tried repeatedly to call Margaret Thatcher, but her line was constantly engaged.
When she finally got through, Emma didn’t bother with pleasantries. “You’ll never have a better chance of leading the party than now,” she said. “Not least because Heath’s old cabinet chums aren’t willing to stand against him.”
“You may be right,” said Margaret, “which is why some of my colleagues in the Commons are trying to gauge my chances, should I decide to throw my hat into the ring.”
“You have to make your move now, while the men still think they’re part of an old boys’ club that would never allow a woman to become a member.”
“I know you’re right, Emma, but I only have a few cards to play and must be careful about which ones I select and when to show them. One mistake, and I could be on the back benches for the rest of my political career. But please keep in touch. You know how much I value your opinion as someone who’s not holed up in the Westminster village, only thinking about what’s in it for them.”
Emma turned out to be right about the “old boys’ club,” because all the big beasts in the party remained loyal to Heath, along with the Telegraph and Mail. Only the Spectator kept pressing Mrs. Thatcher to stand. And when, to Emma’s delight, she finally did allow her name to go forward, the announcement was met by Heath’s inner circle with ridicule and contempt, while the press refused to take her challenge seriously. In fact, Heath told anyone who would listen that she was no more than a stalking horse.
“He’s about to discover that she’s a Thoroughbred,” was all Emma had to say on the subject.
* * *
On the day of the vote, Giles invited his sister to join him for lunch in the House of Lords so she would be among the first to learn the result. Emma found the atmosphere in the corridors of power electric, and understood for the first time why so many otherwise rational human beings couldn’t resist the roar of the political jungle.
She accompanied Giles up to the first floor so she could watch the Tory members as they entered committee room 7 to cast their votes. There was no sign of any of the five candidates, just their acolytes swarming around, trying to persuade last-minute waverers that their candidate was certain to win.
At six o’clock, the door to committee room 7 slammed shut so the chairman of the 1922 Committee could preside over the count. Fifteen minutes later, even before Edward du Cann had a chance to announce the result, a loud cheer went up from inside the committee room. Everyone standing in the corridor fell silent as they waited for the news.
“She’s won!” went up the cry, and like falling dominoes, the words were repeated again and again until they reached the crowds on the street outside.
Emma was invited to join the victor for a celebratory drink in her room.
“I haven’t won yet,” said Thatcher after Airey Neave had raised a glass to the new Leader of the Opposition. “Let’s not forget that was only the first round, and someone else is bound to stand against me. Not until then will we discover if a woman can not only lead the Tory party, but become prime minister. Let’s get back to work,” she added, not allowing her glass to be refilled.
It wasn’t until later, much later, that Emma called Harry to explain why she’d missed the last train to Bristol.
* * *
On the journey back to the West Country the following morning, Emma began to think about her priorities and the allocation of her time. She had already decided to resign as area chairman of the Conservative Association if Ted Heath had been reelected as leader, but she accepted that, having trumpeted Margaret Thatcher’s cause, she would now have to remain in her post until after the next general election. But how would she juggle being chairman of Barrington’s and deputy chairman of the hospital’s trustees, along with her responsibilities to the party, when there were only twenty-four hours in each day? She was still wrestling with the problem when she got off the train at Temple Meads and joined the taxi queue. She was no nearer solving it by the time the cabbie dropped her outside the Manor House.
As she opened the front door, she was surprised to see Harry come rushing out of his study during a writing session.
“What is it, darling?” she asked, worried that it could only be bad news.
“Nick Croft has called three times and asked if you’d ring him the moment you got back.”
Emma picked up the phone in the hall and dialed the number Harry had written down on the pad next to the phone. Her call was answered after only one ring.
“It’s Emma.” She listened carefully to what the chairman had to say. “I’m so very sorry, Nick,” she said eventually. “And of course I understand why you feel you have to resign.”
SEBASTIAN CLIFTON
1975
29
“THERE’S A DR. WOLFE on line one for you,” said Rachel.
Although Sebastian hadn’t spoken to the lady for some time, it wasn’t a name he was likely to forget.
“Mr. Clifton, I’m calling because I thought you’d like to know that Jessica has several paintings in the school’s end-of-term exhibition that prove she’s been well worthy of your scholarship. There is one piece that I consider quite exceptional, called My Father.”
“When does the exhibition take place?”
“This weekend. It opens on Friday evening and runs through Sunday. I appreciate that it would be a long way to travel just to see half a dozen pictures so I’ve put a catalogue in the post.”
“Thank you. Are any of Jessica’s pictures for sale?”
“All the works are for sale, and this year the children have chosen to give the proceeds to the American Red Cross.”
“Then I’ll buy all of them,” said Sebastian.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr. Clifton. Other parents would rightly complain if any of the pictures were sold before the show opens, and that is a rule I’m not willing to break.”
“What time does the show open?”
“Five o’clock on Friday.”
Seb flicked open his diary and looked down at what he had planned for the weekend. Victor had invited him to White Hart Lane to see Spurs play Liverpool, and Uncle Giles was holding a drinks party at the Lords. Not a difficult decision. “I’ll fly over on Friday morning. But I don’t want Jessica or her mother to know I’m in town while her husband is still alive.”
There was a long pause before Dr. Wolfe said, “But Mr. Brewer died over a year ago, Mr. Clifton. I’m so sorry, I assumed you knew.”
Sebastian col
lapsed back into his chair as if he’d been floored by a heavyweight boxer. He tried to catch his breath while he took in her words.
“I apologize, but—”
“You have nothing to apologize for, Dr. Wolfe. But I’d still prefer them not to know I’m coming over.”
“As you wish, Mr. Clifton.”
Sebastian looked up to see his secretary standing in the doorway waving frantically at him.
“I have to leave you, Dr. Wolfe, something’s come up. Thank you for calling, and I look forward to seeing you at the weekend,” he said before putting the phone down. “Rachel, I’m flying to Washington on Friday morning, probably returning Sunday. I’ll need a first-class return, fifteen hundred dollars in cash, and please book me into the Mayflower.” Seb paused. “You have that exasperated look on your face, Rachel.”
“Mr. Hardcastle arrived fifteen minutes ago and they’re all waiting for you in the chairman’s office so the documents can be signed.”
“Of course, the signing ceremony. How could I have forgotten?” Seb ran out of the room and down the corridor. He burst into the chairman’s office to find Hakim Bishara, Victor Kaufman and Arnold Hardcastle poring over the merger documents.
“I apologize, chairman. An unexpected call from the States.”
“No problem, Seb,” said Hakim. “By the way, have you ever been to jail?”
“Is that a trick question?” asked Seb, grinning.
“No, it certainly is not,” said Arnold Hardcastle. “Although it’s only a formality in your case, it’s one of the questions the Bank of England asks whenever an application for a new banking license is submitted.”
“No, I have never been to jail,” said Seb, hoping he sounded suitably chastised.
“Good,” said Arnold. “Now all that’s required is for Mr. Bishara and Mr. Kaufman to sign all three documents, with Mr. Clifton acting as a witness.”
It amused Seb that Arnold Hardcastle would never have considered addressing him by his Christian name while they were in the chairman’s office, although they were old family friends and Arnold had been the firm’s legal advisor for as long as Seb could remember. How like his late father he was, thought Seb, whom he had never once called Cedric.
“Before I part with my mess of pottage,” said Victor, “perhaps Mr. Hardcastle would be kind enough to explain once again the implications of my signing this document. Something my father always insisted on.”
“And quite rightly so,” said Arnold. “When your father died, he owned fifty-one percent of the shares in Kaufman’s Bank, which he bequeathed to you, thus giving you a majority shareholding. That was the position when Mr. Clifton, on behalf of Farthings Bank, approached you to suggest that the two banks should merge. Following a long period of negotiation, it was agreed that you would become a twenty-five percent shareholder of the new bank, Farthings Kaufman, and a full board director, while retaining your position as head of the foreign exchange department—a post you’ve held at Kaufman’s for the past eight years. It was also agreed that Mr. Bishara would remain as chairman, with Mr. Clifton continuing as chief executive.”
“Is there anything I should be worrying about?” asked Victor.
“Not that I’m aware of,” said Hardcastle. “Once all three of you have signed the merger document, all that’s left is for you to await the Bank of England’s approval, which I’m assured by the bank’s compliance officer is a mere formality. He expects the paperwork to be completed within a month.”
“My father would have been delighted to see our two banks merge,” said Victor. “Where do I sign?”
Hakim Bishara, on behalf of Farthings, and Victor Kaufman on behalf of Kaufman’s, signed all three documents, with Sebastian adding his name as a witness. Once Arnold had gathered up all the documents, Hakim walked across to the drinks cabinet, opened a small fridge and took out a bottle of champagne. He popped the cork and poured three glasses.
“To Farthings Kaufman,” he said. “Possibly not the biggest bank on the block, but unquestionably the latest.” The three laughed and raised their glasses. “To Farthings Kaufman.”
“Right, let’s get back to work,” said the chairman. “What’s next on my schedule?”
“Clive Bingham has an appointment to see you in half an hour, chairman,” said Hardcastle, “to discuss a press statement he’s working on. I know everyone in the Square Mile considers it’s a done deal, but I’d still like to see the merger well covered by the financial press. Clive tells me that both the FT and Economist have requested to do profiles on you.”
“And to think it’s less than a decade ago that the Bank of England refused to grant me a secondary banking license.”
“We’ve all come a long way since then,” said Seb.
“We have indeed,” said Hakim. “And the merging of our two banks is just the next stage of what I have planned.”
“Amen to that,” said Victor, raising his glass a second time.
“Seb,” said the chairman when he failed to raise his glass, “you seem a little preoccupied.”
“It’s nothing, chairman. But I should let you know that I’ll be flying to Washington on Friday morning. I expect to be back in the office by Monday.”
“A deal I ought to know about?” asked Hakim, raising an eyebrow.
“No. I’m thinking of buying some pictures.”
“Sounds interesting,” said Hakim, but Seb didn’t rise to the bait. “I’m off to Lagos tomorrow,” Hakim added, “for a meeting with the oil minister. The government wants to build a larger port to handle the demand for so many foreign oil tankers following the discovery of several new oil fields off the Nigerian coast. They’ve invited Farthings—sorry, Farthings Kaufman—to act as their financial advisors. Like you, Seb, I hope to be back at my desk by Monday at the latest, as I have another heavy week ahead of me. So, Victor, we’ll leave the shop in your hands while we’re away. Just be sure there are no surprises when we return.”
* * *
“Quite a coup,” said Desmond Mellor once he’d read the press statement. “I’m not sure there’s much we can do about it.”
“How large is our holding in Farthings Kaufman?” asked Jim Knowles.
“We own six percent of Farthings,” said Adrian Sloane. “But that will be reduced to three percent of the new bank when the merger goes through, which wouldn’t entitle us to a place on the board.”
“And although Mellor Travel has had another good year,” said Desmond, “I just don’t have the financial clout to take on Bishara.”
“One of my contacts at the Bank of England,” said Knowles, “tells me he expects the merger to be ratified within the next couple of weeks.”
“Unless the Bank of England felt unable to ratify it,” said Sloane.
“What reason would they have not to?” asked Mellor.
“If a director didn’t fulfil one of the Bank’s statutory regulations.”
“Which regulation do you have in mind, Adrian?”
“That he’d been to jail.”
30
SEBASTIAN WALKED OUT of Dulles airport and joined the short queue for a yellow cab.
“The Mayflower Hotel, please,” he said to the driver. Seb always enjoyed the drive from Dulles into the capital. A long, winding road that stretched between wooded forests before crossing the Potomac and passing the magnificent marble monuments of past presidents that dominated the landscape like Roman temples. Lincoln, Jefferson and finally Washington, before the cab drew up outside the hotel.
Sebastian was impressed when the clerk on the front desk said, “Welcome back, Mr. Clifton,” as he’d only stayed at the Mayflower once before. “Is there anything I can do to assist you?”
“How long will it take me to get to Jefferson School?”
“Fifteen minutes, twenty at most. Shall I book you a cab?”
Seb checked his watch. Just after 2 p.m. “Yes, let’s make it for four twenty?”
“Four twenty it is, sir. I’ll call your
room the moment the car arrives.”
Seb made his way to the ninth floor and, as he looked across at the White House, he realized they’d even given him the same room as before. He unpacked his small suitcase and placed a thousand dollars in the wall safe, which he assumed would be more than enough to buy all of Jessica’s pictures. He undressed, took a shower, lay down on the bed and put his head on the pillow.
The phone was ringing. Seb opened his eyes and tried to remember where he was. He picked up the receiver.
“Your cab is waiting at the front entrance, sir.”
Seb checked his watch: 4:15 p.m. He must have fallen asleep. Damn jet lag. “Thank you, I’ll be right down.” He quickly put on some clean clothes before making his way downstairs. “Can you get me there before five?” he asked the driver.
“Kinda depends where ‘there’ is.”
“Sorry, Jefferson School.”
“No sweat.” The cab moved off to join the early evening traffic.
Seb had already worked on two plans. If, when he arrived at the school, he spotted either Samantha or Jessica, he would wait until they’d left before going into the exhibition. But if they weren’t there, he would take a quick look at his daughter’s work, select the pictures he wanted and be on his way back to the Mayflower before they even realized he’d been there.
The cab pulled up outside the school entrance a few minutes before five. Seb remained in the backseat and watched as a couple of parents, accompanied by a child, made their way up the path and into the building. He then paid the fare and tentatively followed them, searching all the time for two people he didn’t want to see. When he entered the building, he was greeted by a large red arrow with the words ART EXHIBITION pointing down the corridor.
He kept looking in every direction but there was no sign of them. In the exhibition hall there must have been over a hundred pictures filling the walls with bold splashes of color, but so far there were only about half a dozen parents, who were clearly interested only in their own offspring’s efforts. Seb stuck to plan A and walked quickly around the room. It wasn’t difficult to pick out Jessica’s work; to quote one of his father’s favorite expressions when describing his old school friend Mr. Deakins, she was “in a different class.”
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