“Your daughter died forty minutes ago when her heart stopped beating. Believe me, we tried everything.”
Andrew collapsed on the bench in the corridor and didn’t speak for several moments. “How’s Louise?” was all he could eventually manage.
“She hasn’t been told yet. She’s still under sedation. Be thankful she never saw the baby.”
Andrew thumped his leg until it was numb. He stopped suddenly. “I’ll tell her myself,” he said quietly and remained on the bench, tears coursing down his cheeks. Elizabeth sat down beside him but didn’t speak. When she left it was only to check that Mrs. Fraser was ready to see her husband.
Louise knew the moment Andrew walked in. It was over an hour before she managed to speak.
“I bet Alison McKenzie would have given you a dozen sons,” she said, trying to make him smile.
“No doubt about that,” said Andrew, “but they would have all been ugly and stupid.”
“I agree with you,” said Louise. “But that wouldn’t have been her fault.”
They both tried to laugh.
Andrew returned to Cheyne Walk a little after four o’clock, but he didn’t sleep again that night.
The great orator lain Macleod once remarked that it was the first two minutes of a speech that decided one’s fate. One either grasps the House and commands it or dithers, and loses it, and once the House is lost it can rarely be brought to heel. When Charles Seymour was invited to present the winding-up speech for the Opposition during the Economic debate, he felt he had prepared himself well, and although he knew he could not expect to convert Government back-benchers to his argument he hoped the press would acknowledge the following day that he had won the argument and embarrassed the Government. The Administration was already rocking over daily rumors of devaluation and economic trouble, and Charles was confident that this was the chance to make his name.
Full parliamentary debates usually start at three-thirty, after question time, but can be delayed if there are ministerial statements to be made. The senior minister in the department concerned makes the opening speech for approximately thirty minutes and then the Opposition spokesman addresses the House for the same period of time. Between four-thirty and nine the debate is thrown open to the floor and the Speaker tries to be scrupulously fair in calling a cross-section of back-benchers who have demonstrated an interest in the subject, as well as preserving a party and regional balance. These back-bencher speeches are frowned on if they last for more than fifteen minutes. Some of the most memorable speeches delivered in the House have lasted eight or nine minutes, some of the worst over thirty.
At nine o’clock the Opposition spokesman makes his final comments, and at nine-thirty a Government minister winds up.
When Charles rose and stood at the dispatch box he intended to press home the Tory case on the Government’s economic record, the fatal consequences of devaluation, the record inflation, coupled with record borrowing and a lack of confidence in Britain unknown in any member’s lifetime.
He stood his full height and stared down belligerently at the Government benches.
“Mr. Speaker,” he began, “I can’t think
“Then don’t bother to speak,” someone shouted from the Labour benches. Laughter broke out as Charles tried to compose himself, cursing his initial over-confidence. He began again.
“I can’t imagine …”
“No imagination either,” came another voice. “Typical Tory.”
“ … why this motion was ever put before the House.”
“Certainly not for you to give us a lesson in public speaking.”
“Order,” growled the Speaker, but it was too late.
The House was lost and Charles stumbled through thirty minutes of embarrassment until no one but the Speaker was listening to a word he said. Several members of his own front bench had their feet up on the table and their eyes closed. Back-benchers on either side sat chattering amongst themselves waiting for the ten o’clock division: the ultimate humiliation the House affords to its worst debaters. The Speaker had to call for order several times during Charles’s speech, once rising to rebuke noisy members, “The House does its reputation no service by behaving in this way.” But his plea fell on deaf ears as the conversations continued. At nine-thirty Charles sat down in a cold sweat. A few of his own back-benchers managed to raise an unconvincing “Hear, hear.”
When the Government minister opened his speech by describing Charles’s offering as among the most pathetic he had heard in a long political career he may well have been exaggerating, but from the expressions on the Tory front benches not many Opposition members were going to disagree with him.
CHAPTER NINE
THE DECISION WAS finally made by the inner Cabinet of twelve on Thursday, 16 November 1967. By Friday every bank clerk in Tokyo was privy to the inner Cabinet’s closest secret, and by the time the Prime Minister made the announcement official on Saturday afternoon the Bank of England had lost 600 million dollars of reserves on the foreign exchange market.
At the time of the Prime Minister’s statement Raymond was in Leeds conducting one of his fortnightly constituency “surgeries.” He was in the process of explaining the new housing bill to a young married couple when Fred Padgett, his agent, burst into the room.
“Raymond, sorry to interrupt you, but I thought you’d want to know immediately. No. 10 have just announced that the pound has been devalued from two dollars eighty to two dollars forty.” The sitting member was momentarily stunned, the local housing problem driven from his mind. He stared blankly across the table at the two constituents who had come to seek his advice.
“Will you please excuse me for a moment, Mr. Higginbottom,” Raymond asked courteously, “but I must make a phone call.” The moment turned out to be fifteen minutes, in which time Raymond had made contact with a senior civil servant from the Treasury and had all the details confirmed. He called Joyce and told her not to answer the phone until he arrived back home. It was several minutes before he felt composed enough to put his head round the office door.
“How many people are still waiting to see me, Fred?” he asked.
“After the Higginbottoms there’s only the mad major, still convinced that Martians are about to land on the roof of Leeds town hall.”
“Why would they want to come to Leeds first?” asked Raymond, trying to hide his anxiety with false humor.
“Once they’ve captured Yorkshire, the rest would be easy.”
“Hard to find fault with that argument. Nevertheless, tell the major I’m deeply concerned but I need to study his claim in more detail and to seek further advice from the Ministry of Defense. Make an appointment for him to see me at the next surgery and by then I should have a strategic plan ready for him.”
Fred Padgett grinned. “That will give him something to tell his friends about for at least two weeks.”
Raymond returned to Mr. and Mrs. Higginbottom and assured them he would have their housing problem sorted out within a few days. He made a note on his file to ring the Leeds Council Housing Officer.
“What an afternoon,” exclaimed Raymond after the door had closed behind them. “One wife-beating, one electricity turned off by the YEB with four children under ten in the house, one pollution of the Aire river, and one appalling housing problem—never forgetting the mad major and his itinerant Martians. And on top of all of that the devaluation news.”
“How can you remain so calm?” asked Fred Padgett.
“Because I can’t afford to let anyone know how I really feel.”
After his surgery Raymond would normally have gone round to the local pub for a pint and an obligatory natter with the locals. This always gave him the chance to catch up on what had been happening in Leeds during the past fortnight. But on this occasion he bypassed the pub and returned quickly to his parents’ home.
Joyce told him that the phone had rung so often that she had finally taken it off the hook, without letting his mother kno
w the real reason.
“Very sensible,” said Raymond.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I shall resign, of course.”
“Why do that, Raymond? It will only harm your career.”
“You may turn out to be right, but that won’t stop me going.”
“But you’re only just beginning to get on top of your work.”
“Joyce, without trying to sound pompous, I know I have many failings but I’m not a coward and I’m certainly not so self-seeking as totally to desert any principles I might have.”
“You know, you just sounded like a man who is destined to become Prime Minister.”
“A moment ago you said it would harm my chances. Make up your mind.”
“I have,” she said.
Raymond smiled wanly before retreating to his study to write a short handwritten letter.
Saturday, 18 November 1967
Dear Prime Minister,
After your announcement this afternoon on devaluation and the stand I have continually taken on the issue I am left with no choice but to resign my position as Under-Secretary of State at the Department of Employment.
I would like to thank you for having given me the opportunity to serve in your administration. Be assured that I shall continue to support the Government on all other issues from the back benches.
Yours,
Raymond Could.
When the red box arrived at the house that Saturday night Raymond instructed the messenger to deliver the letter to No. 10 immediately. As he opened the box for the last time he reflected that his department was answering questions on employment in the House that Monday. He wondered who would take his place.
Because of the paraphernalia surrounding devaluation, the Prime Minister did not get round to reading Raymond’s letter until late Sunday morning. The Coulds’ phone was still off the hook when an anxious Fred Padgett was heard knocking on the front door later that day.
“Don’t answer it,” said Raymond. “It’s bound to be another journalist.”
“No, it’s not, it’s only Fred,” said Joyce, peeping through an opening in the curtain.
She opened the door. “Where the hell’s Raymond?” were Fred’s first words.
“Right here,” said Raymond, appearing from the kitchen holding the Sunday newspapers.
“The Prime Minister has been trying to contact you all morning.” Raymond turned round and replaced the phone on the hook, picked it up a few seconds later, and checked the tone before dialing London WHI 4433. The Prime Minister was on the line in moments. He sounded calm enough, thought Raymond.
“Have you issued any statement to the press, Ray?”
“No, I wanted to be sure you had received my letter first.”
“Good. Please don’t mention your resignation to anyone until we’ve met. Could you be at Downing Street by eight o’clock?”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
“Remember, not a word to the press.”
Raymond heard the phone click.
Within the hour he was on his way to London, and arrived at his house in Lansdowne Road a little after seven. The phone was ringing again. He wanted to ignore the insistent burr-burr but thought it might be Downing Street.
He picked the phone up. “Hello.”
“Is that Raymond Gould?” said a voice.
“Who’s speaking?” asked Raymond.
“Walter Terry, Daily Mail.”
“I am not going to say anything,” said Raymond.
“Do you feel the Prime Minister was right to devalue?”
“I said nothing, Walter.”
“Does that mean you are going to resign?”
“Walter, nothing.”
“Is it true you have already handed in your resignation?”
Raymond hesitated.
“I thought so,” said Terry.
“I said nothing,” spluttered Raymond and slammed down the phone—before lifting it back off the hook.
He quickly washed and changed his shirt before leaving the house. He nearly missed the note that was lying on the doormat, and he wouldn’t have stopped to open it had the envelope not been embossed with large black letters across the left-hand corner—“Prime Minister.” Raymond ripped it open. The handwritten note from a secretary asked him on his arrival to come by the rear entrance of Downing Street and not the front door. A small map was enclosed. Raymond was becoming weary of the whole exercise.
Two more journalists were waiting by the gate and followed him to his car.
“Have you resigned, Minister?” asked the first.
“No comment.”
“Are you on your way to see the Prime Minister?”
Raymond did not reply and leaped into his car. He drove off so quickly that the pursuing journalists were left with no chance of catching him.
Twelve minutes later, at five to eight, he was seated in the anteroom of No. 10 Downing Street. As eight struck he was taken through to Harold Wilson’s study. He was surprised to find the Secretary of State for Employment seated in the corner of the room.
“Ray,” said the Prime Minister. “How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you, Prime Minister.”
“I was sorry to receive your letter and thoroughly understand the position you are in, but I hope perhaps we can work something out.”
“Work something out?” Raymond repeated, puzzled.
“Well, we all realize devaluation is a problem for you after Full Employment at Any Cost? but I felt perhaps a move to the Foreign Office as Minister of State might be a palatable way out of the dilemma. It’s a promotion you’ve well earned.”
Raymond hesitated. The Prime Minister continued. “It may interest you to know that the Chancellor of the Exchequer has also resigned, but will be moving to the Home Office.”
“I am surprised,” said Raymond.
“What with the problems we are about to tackle in Rhodesia and Europe your legal skills would come in very useful.”
Raymond remained silent as he listened to the Prime Minister; he knew what decision he must now make.
Monday usually gets off to a quiet start in the Commons. The Whips never plan for any contentious business to be debated, remembering that members are still arriving back from their constituencies all over the country. The House is seldom full before the early evening. But the knowledge that the Chancellor of the Exchequer would be making a statement on devaluation at three-thirty ensured that the Commons would be packed long before that hour.
The green benches, accommodating just 427 members, had deliberately been restored as they were after the Germans had bombed the Palace of Westminster on 10 May 1941. The intimate theatrical atmosphere of the House had remained intact. Sir Giles Gilbert Scott could not resist highlighting some of the Gothic decor of Barry, but he concurred with Churchill’s view that to enlarge the Chamber would only destroy the packed atmosphere of great occasions.
The Commons filled up quickly, and by two-forty-five there was not a seat to be found. Members huddled up on the steps by the Speaker’s canopied chair and around the legs of the chairs of the clerks at the table. One or two even perched like unfed sparrows on the empty petition bag behind the Speaker’s chair. The galleries to the side and above the Chamber, which normally resembled empty benches at the Oval on a rainy day, had taken on the look of a crucial last Test match against Australia.
The chief doorkeeper checked his supply of snuff that it had been his office to keep since those days when “unpleasant odors” wafted through London.
Raymond Gould rose to answer question number seven on the order paper, an innocent enough inquiry concerning supplementary benefits for women. As soon as he reached the dispatch box the first cries of “Resign” came from the Tory benches. Raymond couldn’t hide his embarrassment. Even those seated on the back benches could see he had gone scarlet. It didn’t help that he hadn’t slept the previous night following the agreement he had come to with the Prim
e Minister. He answered the question, but the calls for his resignation did not subside. The Opposition fell silent as he sat down, only waiting for him to rise for a further question. The next question on the order paper for Raymond to answer was from Simon Kerslake; it came a few minutes after three. “What analysis has been made by his department of the special factors contributing to increasing unemployment in the Midlands?”
Raymond checked his brief before replying. “The closure of two large factories in the area, one in the Honorable member’s constituency, has exacerbated local unemployment. Both of these factories specialized in car components which have suffered from the Leyland strike.”
Simon Kerslake rose slowly from his place to put his supplementary. The Opposition benches waited in eager anticipation. “But surely the minister remembers informing the House, in reply to my adjournment debate last April, that devaluation would drastically increase unemployment in the Midlands, indeed in the whole country. If the Honorable Gentleman’s words are to carry any conviction, why hasn’t he resigned?” Simon sat down as the Tory benches demanded, “Why, why, why?”
“My speech to the House on that occasion is being quoted out of context, and the circumstances have since changed.”
“They certainly have,” shouted a number of Conservatives and the benches opposite Raymond exploded with demands that he give up his office.
“Order, order,” shouted the Speaker into the tide of noise.
Simon rose again, while everyone on the Conservative benches remained seated to ensure no one else was called. They were now hunting as a pack. Everyone’s eyes switched back and forth between the two men, watching the dark, assured figure of Kerslake once again jabbing his forefinger at the bowed head of Raymond Gould who was now only praying for the clock to reach three-thirty.
“Mr. Speaker, during the debate, which he now seems happy to orphan, the Honorable Gentleman was only echoing the views he so lucidly expressed in his book Full Employment at Any Cost? Can those views have altered so radically in three years, or is his desire to remain a minister so great that he now realizes that his employment can be retained at any cost?”
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