“Not the paper they are written on at the moment,” said Reynolds, watching his chairman carefully.
This time the chief executive couldn’t miss the chairman’s smile as Charles thought of Simon Kerslake and his overdraft of £108,000 now backed by worthless shares. Pucklebridge would soon be looking for a new member.
At the end of a month during which no bank came to his rescue Ronnie Nethercote caved in and agreed to call in the receiver and file a bankruptcy notice. He still hoped that he could pay off all his creditors even if the shares he and his fellow directors held remained worthless. He felt as worried for Simon and his career as he did for himself, but he knew there was nothing the receiver would allow him to do to help one individual.
When Simon told Elizabeth she didn’t complain. She had always feared this could be the eventual outcome of her husband joining the board of Nethercote.
“Can’t Ronnie help?” she asked. “After all, you’ve supported him enough in the past.”
“No, he can’t,” replied Simon, avoiding telling her where the real responsibility for his downfall lay.
“But do bankrupts automatically have to leave Parliament?” was Elizabeth’s next question.
“No, but I shall because I could never be considered for further promotion—I’d always be rightly tainted with ‘lack of judgment.’”
“It seems so unfair when you weren’t personally to blame.”
“There are different rules for those who wish to live in the spotlight,” Simon said simply.
“But in time, surely—” began Elizabeth.
“I’m not willing to remain on the back benches for another twenty years only to hear whispered in the corner of the smoking room—Would have made the Cabinet if it hadn’t been for …”
“Does that mean the children will have to be taken away from school?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Simon, his hands shaking. “As a bankrupt I can hardly expect the receiver to view the fees for my sons’ education as a dire necessity even if I could find the money.”
“So we’ll have to get rid of the nanny, too?”
“Not necessarily, but we may both have to make sacrifices in order that she can be part-time.”
“But my work at the hospital …” began Elizabeth but didn’t complete the sentence. “What happens next?”
“I’ll have to tell Archie Millburn tonight. I’ve already written my letter of resignation to hand to him. I shall make an appointment to see the Chief Whip on Monday to explain why I am going to apply for the Chiltern Hundreds.”
“What does that mean?”
“lt’s one of the only ways of leaving the House in mid-session—other than dying. Officially it’s a nominal office under the Crown which therefore debars you from membership of the House.”
“It all sounds rather formal to me.”
“I’m afraid it will cause an embarrassing by-election in Pucklebridge,” Simon admitted.
“Can nobody help?”
“There aren’t a lot of people around who have a spare £108,000 for a worthless bunch of shares.”
“Would you like me to come with you when you go to see Archie?” Elizabeth asked, rising from her seat.
“No, darling. It’s kind of you to ask, but I’m the one who made such a fool of myself.”
Elizabeth leaned over and pushed back the hair that had fallen over his forehead. She couldn’t help noticing some gray strands that must have appeared in the last few weeks. “We’ll just have to live off my salary while you look for a job.”
Simon drove slowly down to Pucklebridge to keep his impromptu appointment with the chairman. Archie Millburn, standing hands on hips in his garden, listened to the tale with a sad face. “It’s been happening to a lot of good people in the City lately, but what I can’t understand is: if the company owns such prime properties, why has no one made a takeover bid? Sounds as if it’s an asset-stripper’s dream.”
“It appears to be a matter of confidence,” said Simon.
“A sacred word in the City,” agreed Archie, while he continued to prune his Roosevelts and Red Mistresses.
Simon handed him the prepared letter of resignation, which Millburn read over and reluctantly accepted.
“I won’t mention this to anyone until you’ve seen the Chief Whip on Monday. I’ll call a special meeting of the full committee on Tuesday evening and inform them of your decision then. You had better be prepared for an unfriendly barrage from the press on Tuesday night.”
The two men shook hands. “Your misfortune is our misfortune,” said Archie. “In a very short time you’ve gained the respect and the affection of the local people. You’ll be missed.”
Simon drove back to London and, although the car radio was on low, he did not take in the news flash that they kept repeating every thirty minutes.
CHAPTER TWENTY
RAYMOND WAS AMONG the first to hear the announcement, and was stunned by it. Harold Wilson was going to resign less than halfway through the five-year Parliament, and for no apparent reason other than that he had just passed his sixtieth birthday. He proposed to remain Prime Minister only so long as the Labour party took to select its new leader. Raymond and Kate sat glued to the television, picking up every scrap of information they could. They discussed the implications far into the night.
“Well, Carrot Top, could this mean rehabilitation for our forgotten hero?”
“Who can say?”
“Well, if you can’t, who can?”
“The next leader,” said Raymond.
The fight for the leadership was a straight battle between the left and right wings of the party, James Callaghan on the right and Michael Foot on the left. Andrew and Raymond both wanted the same man and it was with some relief that they saw Callaghan, despite losing the first ballot, come through to be elected leader. The Queen duly called for Callaghan and asked him to form a new administration.
As tradition demands Andrew sent his resignation to Downing Street, as did every other member of the Government, to allow the new Prime Minister to select his own team.
Raymond was in court listening to the judge’s summing up when his junior passed him a note: “Please call 10 Downing Street as soon as possible.” The judge took a further thirty minutes, meticulously explaining to the jury the legal definition of manslaughter, before Raymond could escape. He ran down the corridor and stopped at one of the clerks’ private boxes to make the call. The plastic dial rotating back into place after each number seemed to take forever.
After he had been passed through three people a voice said, “Good afternoon, Ray”—the unmistakable gravelly tones of the new Prime Minister. “I think it’s time you rejoined the Government”—Raymond held his breath—“as Minister of State at the Department of Trade.” Minister of State: only one place away from the Cabinet.
“You still there, Ray?”
“Yes, Prime Minister, and I’d be delighted to accept.”
He put the phone down, immediately picked it up again, and dialed the City office of the Chase Manhattan Bank. They put him through to the Euro Bond manager.
Andrew had left his desk at the Home Office and returned to Cheyne Walk. He stayed away from the House of Commons where the lobby correspondents were hanging about like hyenas, scampering off to phone their papers with even the rumor of a rumor. The new Cabinet had been selected, and now it was the turn of the Ministers of State. All Andrew knew for certain was that his old job at the Home Office had been given to someone else.
“Why don’t you go and play football with Robert?” Louise suggested. “And stop moping around under my feet?”
“Yes, Dad, yes, Dad, yes, Dad,” demanded his son, running upstairs to reappear a few minutes later dressed in the Liverpool kit that he had bought himself from eleven weeks’ hard-saved pocket money.
“Go on, Andrew. I can always call you if the phone goes.”
Andrew smiled, took off his jacket, and put on the pair of old gym shoes Robert was
holding out for him. He followed his five-year-old son into the garden to find him already dribbling up and down the thin strip between the flower beds. The little goal he had bought for Robert—or was it for himsetf?—at Christmas was already set up at the far end of the grass and they took turns defending it. Andrew always had to start in goal. He rubbed his hands together to keep warm as Robert dribbled toward him. He came out of the goal ready to stifle a shot, but Robert kicked the ball to the right and ran to the left, leaving his father spread-eagled on the ground before he pushed the ball gently into the goal. “That’s called a feint,” he shouted triumphantly, as he ran back past his prostrate father.
Andrew picked himself up. “l know what it’s called,” he said, laughing. “You seem to have forgotten who taught you the feint in the first place. Let’s see if you can do it twice running,” he added, returning to defend the goal.
Robert dribbled away from his father until he reached the end of the garden, then turned to face him again. He had begun advancing toward the goal for a second time when there was the sound of the phone ringing. Andrew looked toward the house just as Robert kicked the ball, which rising sharply, struck him in the face. He and the ball fell back into the goal mouth.
Louise opened the kitchen window and shouted, “It’s only my mother.”
“Wake up, Dad,” demanded Robert simultaneously.
Andrew’s face was still stinging from the blow. “I’m going to get you for that,” he said. “Your turn to defend the goal.”
Robert rushed forward to take his place between the posts, jumping up and down trying to touch the crossbar with the tips of his fingers. Andrew took his time as he moved toward his son. When he was about a yard in front of Robert he feinted to the right and ran to the left but Robert had seen the move coming and leaped on the ball shouting, “No goal.”
Once again Andrew returned to the end of the garden, thinking over what move he could try next. He suddenly ran straight at Robert and kicked the ball firmly toward the right-hand corner of the goal mouth. But again Robert anticipated the move and caught the ball above his head before pulling it to his chest and shouting, “No goal, Dad, no goal!” He tossed the ball confidently back along the ground to his father’s feet.
“Right, the fooling around is over,” said Andrew, not quite convinced. He kicked the ball from one foot to the other, trying to look skillful.
“Come on, Dad,” Robert complained.
This time Andrew advanced with a look of determination on his face. He tried a change of pace to make his son leave the goal mouth too early. Robert duly came out of the goal; Andrew kicked the ball a little harder and higher than his previous attempt. As he did so he heard the phone ring again and turned his head toward the house. He didn’t see his shot cannon against the left-hand corner of the goal post and bounce away.
“It’s the Prime Minister,” shouted Louise from the window. Andrew turned to walk quickly back toward the house. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the ball bounce on to the path, on its way toward the gate and into the road.
Robert was already running toward the open gate. “I’ll save it, Dad, I’ll save it.”
“No,” screamed Andrew at the top of his voice and turned back to run as fast as he could after his son.
Louise froze as she stared out of the window, still holding on to the phone with her rubber gloves. She watched as Andrew turned his back and tore toward the pavement until he was only a yard behind his son. The ball bounced on into the road and Robert dived for it a split second before his father threw himself on his son.
Louise was the only one who saw the driver of the massive Shell tanker slam on its brakes and swerve—too late—to avoid them. Andrew and Robert collided with the corner of the wide metal mudguard and were thrown back together before rolling over and over several times, ending up in the gutter.
“Are you there, Andrew?” asked the Prime Minister.
Louise dropped the phone and ran out of the kitchen toward the open gate. Her husband lay motionless beside the curb with their son in his arms, the ball still clutched against his chest. She tried to hold on to both of them as Andrew’s blood poured down over Robert’s red shirt and on to her rubber gloves.
She fell on to her knees by the curbside. “Let them live, let them live,” was all she said.
Robert was crying softly as he held firmly on to the ball and stared at his unconscious father. She had to lean over to hear him repeating, “No goal, Dad, no goal.”
When the complete list of ministers was published in The Times two days later the only unfilled post left was that of Minister of State for Defense. The Times’s political editor, David Wood, surmised that the position was being held open for Mr. Andrew Fraser, who was expected to be out of hospital by the end of the week. Wood’s final paragraph read:
Politicians from all parties joined forces in praising Mr. Fraser’s remarkable courage in diving in front of a moving lorry to rescue his only son, Robert, who was chasing a football. Both father and son were rushed to St. Thomas’s Hospital with internal injuries, where surgeons operated through the night to save Mr. Fraser’s life.
As was reported in the final edition of yesterday’s paper, his five-year-old son Robert died during the night before Mr. Fraser regained consciousness.
“My God,” exclaimed Elizabeth, “how dreadful.”
“What’s dreadful?” asked Simon, as he took his seat at the breakfast table. She passed the paper to her husband and pointed to the picture of Robert.
“Poor kid,” said Simon before he had finished the article.
“Certainly puts our own problems into perspective. If Peter or Michael were killed we really would have something to worry about.”
Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Then Elizabeth asked, “Are you dreading it?”
“Yes, (I am,” said Simon. “I feel like a condemned man eating his last breakfast, and the worst part of it is that I have to drive myself to the gallows.”
“I wonder if we will ever laugh about today?”
“No doubt—when I collect my parliamentary pension.”
“Can we live off that?”
“Hardly. I don’t get the first payment until I’m sixty-five, so we have a twenty-five-year wait to find out.” He got up. “Can I give you a lift to the hospital?”
“No thanks. I intend to savor the joys of being a two-car family for at least another week. Just let’s hope the new Marina holds its price as well as Sir Michael Edwardes claimed it would.”
Simon laughed, kissed his wife, and left for his appointment with the Chief Whip at the House of Commons. As he started the car Elizabeth rushed out. “I forgot to tell you, Ronnie phoned while you were in the bath.”
“I’ll call him as soon as I reach the House.”
Simon made his way to the Commons. He felt sick as he passed Cheyne Walk and thought of Andrew Fraser and all he must be going through. He made a mental note to write to him immediately. At the Commons the policeman on the gate saluted as he drove in. “Good morning, sir,” he said.
“Good morning,” said Simon. He parked his car on the second level of the new underground car park and took the escalator up to the Members’ Entrance. He couldn’t help reflecting that ten years ago he would have taken the stairs. He continued through the Members’ Cloakroom, up the marble staircase to the Members’ Lobby. Habit made him turn left into the little post office to check whether he had any mail.
“Mr. Kerslake,” the man behind the counter called into an intercom, and a few seconds later a parcel and a packet of letters held together by a thick elastic band thudded into an office basket. Simon left the parcel marked “London School of Economics” and the letters on the desk in his room and checked his watch: over forty minutes before his appointment with the Chief Whip. He went to the nearest phone and dialed Nethercote and Company. Ronnie answered the phone himself.
“Sacked the telephone operator last Friday,” he explained. “Only me and my secreta
ry left.”
“You called, Ronnie,” a millimeter of hope in Simon’s voice.
“Yes, I wanted to express how I felt. I tried to write you a letter over the weekend but I’m not very good with words.” He paused. “Nor it seems with figures. I just wanted to say how desperately sorry I am. Elizabeth told me you were going to see the Chief Whip this morning. I’ll be thinking of you.”
“That’s kind, Ronnie, but I went into it with my eyes wide open. As an advocate of free enterprise, I can hardly complain when I turn out to be one of its victims.”
“A very philosophical attitude for this time of the morning.”
“How are things your end?”
“The receiver’s checking the books. I still believe we can get out with all our creditors fully paid. At least that way I’ll avoid the stigma of bankruptcy.” There was a longer pause. “Oh Christ, that was tactless.”
“Don’t worry about it, Ronnie, the overdraft was my decision.”
Simon already wished he had been as frank with his wife.
“Let’s have lunch one day next week.”
“It will have to be somewhere that takes luncheon vouchers,” said Simon wryly.
“Good luck, mate,” said Ronnie.
Simon decided to fill up the remaining thirty minutes at the House by going to the library and glancing over the rest of the morning press. He settled himself in a corner of the “B” Room, next to the fireplace over which hung a notice reminding members not to have overloud or prolonged conversations. He leafed through the papers, which all carried photographs of Andrew Fraser and his wife and son. The same portrait of five-year-old Robert appeared on almost every front page. Elizabeth was right: in so many respects they were lucky.
The story of the probable break-up of Nethercote and Company was detailed on the financial pages. They quoted approvingly Ronnie’s view that all creditors ought to be paid in full. Not one of the articles mentioned Simon’s name, but he could already anticipate the headlines in tomorrow’s paper with another picture of a young MP and his happy family. The Rise and Fall of Simon Kerslake.” Over ten years’ work quickly forgotten: he would be old news within a week.
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