Raymond immediately returned to his constituency to fight his fifth campaign. When he met Joyce at Leeds City station he couldn’t help remembering that his dumpy wife was only four years older than Kate. He kissed her on the cheek as one might a distant relative, then she drove him back to their Chapel Allerton home.
Joyce chatted away on the journey home and it became clear that the constituency was under control and that this time Fred Padgett was well prepared for a general election. “He hasn’t really stopped since the last one,” she said. As for Joyce, she was undoubtedly better organized than the agent and the secretary put together. What was more, Raymond thought, she enjoyed it. He glanced over at her and couldn’t help thinking she even looked prettier at election time.
Unlike his colleagues in rural seats, Raymond did not have to make speech after speech in little village halls. His votes were to be found in the high street where he addressed the midday shoppers through a megaphone, and walked around supermarkets, pubs, and clubs, grasping hands before repeating the whole process a few streets away.
Joyce set her husband a schedule that allowed few people in the Leeds community to escape him. Some saw him a dozen times during the three-week campaign—most of them at the football match on the Saturday afternoon before the election.
Once the game was over Raymond was back trooping round the working men’s clubs, drinking pint after pint of John Smith’s bitter. He accepted it was inevitable that he would put on half a stone during any election campaign. He dreaded what Kate’s comments would be when she saw him. Somehow he always found a few minutes in each day to steal away and phone her. She seemed so busy and full of news it only made Raymond feel downcast; she couldn’t possibly be missing him.
The local trade unionists backed Raymond to the hilt. They may have found him stuck up and distant in the past, but they knew “where his heart was,” as they confided to anyone who would listen. They banged on doors, delivered leaflets, drove cars to polling booths. They rose before he did in the morning and could still be found preaching to the converted after the pubs had thrown them out at night.
Raymond and Joyce cast their votes in the local secondary school on the Thursday of election day, looking forward to a large Labour victory. The Labour party duly gained a working majority in the House of forty-three over the Conservatives, but only three over all the parties combined. Nevertheless Harold Wilson looked set for another five years when the Queen invited him to form his fourth administration. The count in Leeds that night gave Raymond his biggest majority ever: 12,207 votes.
He spent the whole of Friday and Saturday thanking his constituents, then set out for London on the Sunday evening.
“He must invite you to join the Government this time,” said Joyce, as she walked down the platform of Leeds City station with her husband.
“I wonder,” said Raymond, kissing his wife on the other cheek. He waved at her as the train pulled out of the station. She waved back enthusiastically.
“I do like your new blue shirt, it really suits you,” were the last words he heard her say.
During the election campaign Charles had had to spend a lot of time at the bank because of a run on the pound. Fiona seemed to be everywhere in the constituency at once, assuring voters that her husband was just a few yards behind.
After the little slips were counted the swing against Charles to the Labour candidate didn’t amount to more than one percent in his 22,000 majority. When he heard the overall result he returned to London resigned to a long spell in Opposition. As he began to catch up with his colleagues in the House, he found many of them already saying openly that Heath had to go after two election defeats in a row.
Charles knew then that he would have to make up his mind once again on where he stood over the election of a new party leader, and that once again he must pick the right man.
Andrew Fraser returned to London after a grueling and unhappy campaign. The Scottish Nationalists had concentrated their attack on him, Jock McPherson sailing close to libel and slander. Sir Duncan advised his son against any legal action. “Only plays into their hands,” he warned. “Small parties always benefit from the publicity.”
Louise wanted him to inform the press that he had been offered the leadership of the SNP but Andrew felt it would serve no purpose, and might even rebound against him: and he also reminded her that he had given his word. In the last week of the campaign he spent most of his time trying—and failing—to stop Frank Boyle, a Communist, who had recently moved from Glasgow, from being elected to his General Management Committee. On polling day he scraped home by 1,656, Jock McPherson taking second place. At least he looked secure for another five years; but it didn’t help that the Scottish Nationalists had increased their overall seats in the House to eleven.
Andrew, Louise, and Robert took the plane to London on the Sunday night to find the red box awaiting them and a message that the Prime Minister wanted Andrew to continue as Minister of State at the Home Office.
Simon had a glorious campaign. He and Elizabeth had started moving into their new cottage the day the election was announced, thankful that, now she had to commute, her salary at the hospital had made it possible for them to employ a nanny. A double bed and a couple of chairs sufficed as Elizabeth cooked on an old Aga from provisions still packed in tea chests. They seemed to use the same two forks for everything. During the campaign Simon covered the 200-square-mile constituency for a second time and assured his wife that she need only take the final week off from from her duties at St. Mary’s.
The voters of Pucklebridge sent Simon Kerslake back to Parliament with a majority of 18,419, the largest in the constituency’s history. The local people had quickly come to the conclusion that they now had a member who was destined to have a Cabinet career.
Kate kept her remarks very gentle as it became obvious by the Monday night that the Prime Minister was not going to offer Raymond a job in the new administration. She cooked his favorite meal of roast beef—overdone—and Yorkshire pudding in the flat that night, but he didn’t comment on it and hardly spoke.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AFTER SIMON HAD been back at the Commons for a week he felt a sense of déjà vu, a feeling that most members returning to the House for a second or even third time often experience. The sense was heightened by finding everything unchanged, even the policeman who greeted him at the Members’ Entrance. When Edward Heath announced his Shadow team Simon was not surprised that he wasn’t included, as he never had been a known supporter of the Tory leader. He was, however, mystified but not displeased to discover Charles Seymour was not-among the names to be found in the Shadow Cabinet.
“Do you regret turning him down now the full team has been published?” asked Fiona, looking up from her copy of the Daily Mail.
“It wasn’t an easy decision but I think it’ll prove right in the long run,” replied Charles, buttering another piece of toast.
“What did he offer in the end?”
“Shadow Minister of Industry.”
“That sounds rather interesting,” said Fiona.
“Everything about it was interesting except the salary, which would have been nothing. Don’t forget the bank pays me £40,000 a year while I’m chairman.”
Fiona folded her paper. “But you’ve just appointed a full-time chief executive, so your responsibilities at the bank should be only part-time compared with when you took the chair over. So what’s your real reason?”
Charles accepted that he could rarely fool Fiona. “The truth is that I’m far from certain Ted will be leading the party at the next election.”
“Then who will if he doesn’t?” asked Fiona.
“Whoever’s got the guts to oppose him.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” said Fiona, beginning to clear away the plates.
“Everyone accepts that he has to allow his name to go forward for reelection now that he’s lost twice in a row.”
“That’s fair enough,” agreed
Fiona.
“But as he has appointed all possible contenders to the Cabinet or Shadow Cabinet over the last ten years, someone he has selected in the past will have to oppose him. No one of lesser stature would stand a chance.”
“Is there a member of the Shadow Cabinet willing to stand?” asked Fiona, returning to her seat at the end of the table.
“One or two are considering it, but the problem is that if they lose it could easily end their political career,” said Charles, folding his napkin.
“But if they win?”
“They will undoubtedly be the next Prime Minister.”
“Interesting dilemma. And what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m not supporting anyone at the moment, but I’ve got my eyes wide open,” said Charles, folding his copy of The Times and rising from the table.
“Is there a front runner?” asked Fiona, looking up at her husband.
“No, not really. Although Kerslake is trying to rally support for Margaret Thatcher, but that idea is doomed from the start.”
“A woman leading the Tory party? Your lot haven’t got the imagination to risk it,” said Elizabeth, tasting the sauce. “The day that happens I shall eat my one and only Tory hat in full view of all the delegates at the party conference.”
“Don’t be so cynical, Elizabeth. She’s the best bet we’ve got at the moment.”
“But what are the chances of Ted Heath standing down? I always thought the leader of the party stayed on until he was hit by the mythical bus. I don’t know Heath very well, but I can never imagine him resigning.”
“I agree,” said Simon. “So the 1922 Committee will have to change the rules.”
“You mean the back-benchers will put pressure on him to go?”
“No, but a lot of the committee in their present mood would be willing to volunteer as driver for that bus.”
“If that’s true, he must realize that his chances of holding on are slim?”
“I wonder if any leader ever knows that,” said Simon.
“You ought to be in Blackpool next week,” said Kate, resting her elbow on the pillow.
“Why Blackpool?” Raymond asked, staring up at the ceiling.
“Because, Carrot Top, that’s where they are holding this year’s Labour party conference.”
“What do you imagine I could hope to accomplish there?”
“You’d be seen to be alive. At present you’re just a rumor in trade union circles.”
“But if you’re not a minister or a trade union leader all you do at a party conference is spend four days eating foul food, sleeping in seedy guest houses, and applauding second-rate speeches.”
“I’ve no interest in where you put your weary head at night but I do want you to revive your contacts with the unions during the day.”
“Why?” said Raymond. “That lot can’t influence my career.”
“Not at the moment,” said Kate. “But I predict that, like my fellow Americans at their conventions, the Labour party will one day select their leader at the party conference.”
“Never,” said Raymond. “That is and will always remain the prerogative of elected members of the House of Commons.”
“That’s the sort of crass, short-sighted, pompous statement I would expect a Republican to make,” she said, before plonking a pillow over his head. Raymond feigned death, so she lifted up a corner and whispered in his ear, “Have you read any of the resolutions to be debated at this year’s conference?”
“A few,” came back Raymond’s muffled reply.
“Then it might serve you well to note Mr. Anthony Wedg-wood Benn’s contribution,” she said, removing the pillow.
“What’s he up to this year?”
“He’s calling on ‘conference,’ as he insists on describing your gathering of the brothers, to demand that the next leader be chosen by a full vote of the delegates, making up an electoral college from all the constituencies, the trade union movement, and Parliament—I suspect in that order.”
“Madness. But what do you expect? He’s married to an American.”
“Today’s extremist is tomorrow’s moderate,” said Kate blithely.
“A typical American generalization.”
“Benjamin Disraeli, actually.”
Raymond placed the pillow back over his head.
Andrew always attended the party conference, although he would never have voted for Tony Benn’s resolution on the method of selecting a leader. He feared that if the trade unions were given that sort of power a leader who was totally unacceptable to his colleagues in the House of Commons could be selected. He was relieved when the motion was defeated but he noted that the majority against was far from overwhelming.
Despite being a minister Andrew could only get a small room at Blackpool in a guest house masquerading as a hotel, and that some two miles from the conference center. Such were the problems created by 4,000 self-important people converging on a seaside resort for a week that many had to forgo the Presidential Suite.
Andrew still had to carry on his job as Minister of State, with red boxes being delivered and taken every morning and afternoon, while making his presence felt at the conference. He spent half his time on a phone in the hotel lobby putting through transfer-charge calls to the Home Office. No one in the Soviet Union would have believed it, especially if they had realized that the Minister of State for Defense, who had the room next to Andrew’s, was pacing up and down the corridor waiting for the phone to be free.
Andrew had never addressed the 3,000 delegates at a party conference. Even Cabinet ministers are only allowed a maximum of ten minutes at the rostrum unless they are members of the National Executive. Over half the Labour Cabinet had failed to be elected to this body, which consisted mainly of the leaders of the larger trade unions.
As he left the morning session Andrew was surprised to find Raymond Gould roaming around looking lost. They fell on each other like sane men locked in an asylum and decided to lunch together at the River House, Andrew’s favorite restaurant a few miles outside of Blackpool.
Although they had both been in the House for nearly ten years it was the first time they discovered how much they had in common. Andrew had never considered himself a close friend of Raymond’s but he had always admired his stand on devaluation.
“You must have been disappointed when the PM didn’t ask you to rejoin the Government,” Andrew began.
Raymond stared down at the menu. “Very,” he finally admitted, as a girl joined them in the bar to take their order.
“Nevertheless, you were wise to come to Blackpool. This is where your strength lies.”
“Come on. Everybody knows you’re the trade unions’ pinup boy, and they still have a lot of influence as to who sits in the Cabinet.”
“I haven’t noticed,” said Raymond mournfully.
“You will when they eventually choose the leader.”
“That’s funny, that’s exactly what … Joyce said last week.”
“Sensible girl, Joyce, I fear it will happen in our time as members.”
Bill Scott, the proprietor, told them their table was ready and they went through to the small dining room.
“Why fear?” asked Raymond, as he took his seat.
“Middle-of-the-road democrats like myself will end up as so many leaves on a bonfire.”
“But I’m middle-of-the-road myself, practically right wing on some issues.”
“Perhaps. But every party needs a man like you, and at this moment union leaders wouldn’t mind if you were a card-carrying Fascist; they’d still back you.”
“Then what makes you attend the conference?”
“thank God it still gives one a chance to keep in touch with the grass roots, and I live in hope that the extreme left will never be much more than an unruly child that the grown-ups have to learn to live with.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” said Raymond, “because they’re never going to grow up.” Andrew laughed as Raymond
continued in a different mood. “I still envy you your job at the Home Office. I didn’t go into politics to spend my life on the back benches.”
“There may well come a day when I sit and envy you from those same back benches,” said Andrew.
As he spoke, the chairman of the Boilermakers’ Union shouted across as he passed their table, “Good to see you, Ray.” He showed no recognition of Andrew. Raymond turned and smiled at the man and waved back as Caesar might have done to Cassius.
When they had both rejected the choice of date and walnut pudding or Pavlova, Andrew suggested a brandy.
Raymond hesitated.
“You’ll see more double brandies drunk here than you will at the Conservative party conference next week. Ask any waitress.”
“Have you decided how you’re going to vote in the leadership battle?” asked Fiona over breakfast.
“Yes,” said Charles, “and at this point in my career I can’t afford to make the wrong choice.”
“So who have you decided on?” asked Fiona.
“While there isn’t a serious contender to oppose Ted Heath it remains in my best interest to continue backing him.”
“Isn’t there one Shadow Cabinet minister who has the guts to stand against him?”
“The rumor grows that Margaret Thatcher will act as whipping girl. If she gets close enough to force a second ballot the serious contenders will then join in.”
“What if she won the first round?”
“Don’t be silly, Fiona,” said Charles, taking more interest in his scrambled egg. “The Tory party would never elect a woman to lead them. We’re far too traditional. That’s the sort of immature mistake the Labour party would make to prove how much they believe in equality.”
Simon was still pushing Margaret Thatcher to throw her hat in the ring.
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