“I would like to start the meeting,” said the Prime Minister, “by welcoming David Owen as Foreign Secretary and Raymond Gould as Secretary of State for Trade.” The other nineteen Cabinet members murmured, “Hear, hear” in a discreetly conservative way. David Owen smiled slightly while Raymond could feel himself going red.
“The first item we must discuss in detail is the proposed pact with the Liberals …”
Raymond sat back and decided that today he would only listen.
Andrew sat in the small office and listened carefully to the specialist’s opinion. Louise was restored to almost perfect health in every way except for her speech. She was reading regularly and had even begun to write short messages in reply to Andrew’s questions. The specialist now felt that she needed some other outside interest to take her mind off Robert. Over a year had passed and she could still spend hours simply staring at his photograph.
“I managed to reach Dr. Kerslake at home,” the specialist said, “and I must concur with her opinion that it would be unwise for your wife to contemplate another pregnancy. But Dr. Kerslake does accept my judgment that you should both consider adoption.”
“I’ve already given the idea a lot of thought, even discussed it with my father,” Andrew replied. “But both of us felt that Louise would never agree to it.”
“It’s a calculated risk in the circumstances,” said the specialist. “We mustn’t forget it’s been a whole year. We know to our cost that Mrs. Fraser loves children, and if she is set against such a course she is now well capable of letting you know.”
“If Louise shows any response I’d be only too willing to give it a try. But in the end it will all depend on her.”
“Good. Find out how she feels,” said the specialist, “and if you both decide to go ahead I’ll arrange a meeting with the local authority.” He rose from behind his desk. “I’m sure it won’t be hard to find you a suitable child.”
“If it were possible for him to come from a Scottish orphans’ home, I would appreciate it.”
The specialist nodded. “I’ll be in touch with you as soon as I have any news.”
When Charles returned home he knew at once Fiona had left. He felt an immediate relief. After a week at his club, he was glad the charade was over, a clean, irrevocable break. He strolled into the drawing room and stopped: something was wrong. It took him a few moments before he realized what she had done.
Fiona had removed every one of the family paintings.
No Wellington above the fireplace, no Victoria behind the sofa. Where the two Landseers and the Constable had hung there was nothing more than thin dusty outlines indicating the size of each picture she had removed. He walked to the library: the Van Dyck, the Murillo, and the two small Rembrandts were also missing. Charles ran down the hall. It couldn’t be possible, he thought, as he threw open the dining room door. It was. He stared at the blank wall where only the previous week the Holbein portrait of the first Earl of Bridgwater had hung.
Charles scrabbled in the back of his pocket diary for the number and dialed it frantically. Mr. Cruddick listened to the story in silence.
“Remembering how sensitive you are about publicity, Mr. Seymour, there are two avenues of approach,” he began in his normal level tone and sounding unperturbed. “You can grin and bear it, or the alternative is one I have used often in the past.”
Because of the demands of his new job Raymond saw less of Kate and almost nothing of Joyce apart from his fortnightly visits to Leeds. He worked from eight in the morning until he fell asleep at night.
“And you love every minute of it,” Kate reminded him whenever he complained. Raymond had also become aware of the subtle changes that had taken place in his life since he had become a member of the Cabinet, the way he was treated by other people, how quickly his slightest whim was granted, how flattery fell from almost every tongue. He began to enjoy the change in status although Kate reminded him that only the Queen could afford to get used to it.
At the Labour party conference that year he allowed his name to be put forward for a place on the National Executive. Although he failed to be elected he managed to finish ahead of several other Cabinet ministers and polled only a few votes less than Neil Kinnock, the darling of the constituency section.
Andrew Fraser, who now looked upon Raymond as someone he could confide in, joined Raymond for what was becoming their traditional conference lunch together on the third day. Andrew told him of his distress at the party’s continued drift to the left.
“If some of those resolutions on defense are passed my life will be made impossible,” he said, trying to cut into a very tough steak.
“The hotheads always put up resolutions that are never allowed more than a token discussion.”
‘Token discussion be damned. Some of their mad ideas are beginning to gain credence which, translated, could become party policy.”
“Any particular resolution worrying you?” asked Raymond.
“Yes, Tony Benn’s latest proposal that members must be re-selected before every election. His idea of democracy and accountability.”
“Why should you fear that?”
“If your management committee is taken over by half a dozen Trots they can reverse a decision 50,000 voters have previously agreed on.”
“You’re overreacting, Andrew.”
“Raymond, if we lose the next election I can see a split in the party that will be so great we may never recover.”
“They’ve been saying that in the Labour party since the day it was founded.”
“I hope you’re right, but I fear times have changed,” said Andrew. “Not so long ago it was you who envied me.”
“That can change again.” Raymond abandoned the steak, waved his hand, and asked the waitress to bring two large brandies.
Charles picked up the phone and dialed a number he had not needed to look up. The new young Portuguese maid answered.
“Is Lady Fiona at home?”
“Lady no home, sir.”
“Do you know where she is?” asked Charles, speaking slowly and clearly.
“Go down to country, expect back six o’clock. Take message please?”
“No, thank you,” said Charles. “I’ll call this evening.” He replaced the receiver.
As always the reliable Mr. Cruddick was proved right about his wife’s movements. Charles called him immediately. They agreed to meet as planned in twenty minutes.
He drove into the Boltons, parked on the far side of the road a few yards from his father-in-law’s house, and settled down to wait.
A few minutes later a large anonymous pantechnicon van came round the corner and stopped outside No. 24. Mr. Cruddick jumped out from the driver’s seat. He was dressed in long brown overalls and a flat cap. He was joined by a young assistant who unlocked the back of the van. Mr. Cruddick nodded to Charles before proceeding up the steps to the front door.
The Portuguese maid answered when he pressed the bell.
“We have come to collect the goods for Lady Seymour.”
“No understand,” said the maid.
Mr. Cruddick removed from an inside pocket a long typewritten letter on Lady Seymour’s personal stationery. The Portuguese maid was unable to read the words of a letter her mistress had addressed to Hurlingham Croquet Club agreeing to be their Ladies’ President, but she immediately recognized the letterhead and the signature. She nodded and opened the door wider. All Mr. Cruddick’s carefully laid plans were falling into place.
Mr. Cruddick tipped his hat, the sign for Mr. Seymour to join them. Charles got out of the car cautiously, checking both ways before he crossed the road. He felt uncomfortable in brown overalls and hated the cap with which Mr. Cruddick had supplied him. It was. a little small and Charles was acutely conscious how strange he must look but the Portuguese maid apparently didn’t notice the incongruity between his aristocratic mien and the working overalls. It did not take long to discover the whereabouts of most of the pictures.
Many were just stacked up in the hall, and only one or two had already been hung.
Forty minutes later the three men had located and loaded into the van all but one of them. The Holbein of the first Earl of Bridgwater was nowhere to be found.
“We ought to be on our way,” suggested Mr. Cruddick a little nervously, but Charles refused to give up the search. For another thirty-five minutes Mr. Cruddick sat tapping the wheel of the van before Charles finally conceded that the painting must have been taken elsewhere. Mr. Cruddick tipped his hat to the maid while his partner locked up the back of the van.
“A valuable picture, Mr. Seymours?” he inquired.
“A family heirloom that would fetch two million at auction,” said Charles matter-of-factly before returning to his car.
“Silly question, Albert Cruddick,” said Mr. Cruddick to himself as he pulled out from the curb and drove toward Eaton Square. When they arrived the locksmith had replaced all three locks on the front door and was waiting on the top step impatiently.
“Strictly cash, guv’nor. No receipt. Makes it possible for the missus and me to go to Ibiza each year, tax free.”
By the time Fiona had returned to the Boltons from her trip to Sussex every picture was back in its place at Eaton Square with the exception of Holbein’s first Earl of Bridgwater. Mr. Cruddick was left clutching a large check and uttering the unpalatable view that Mr. Seymour would probably have to grin and bear it.
“I’m delighted,” said Simon, when he heard the news. “And at Pucklebridge General Hospital?”
“Yes, I answered an advertisement in The Lancet for the post of general consultant in the maternity section.”
“But your name must have helped there?”
“Certainly not,” said Elizabeth vehemently.
“How come?”
“I didn’t apply as Dr. Kerslake. I filled out the application form in my maiden name of Drummond.”
Simon was momentarily silenced. “But they would have recognized you,” he protested.
“I had the full frontal treatment from Estée Lauder to ensure they didn’t. The final effect fooled even you.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” said Simon.
“I walked straight past you in Pucklebridge High Street, and said ‘Good morning,’ and you returned the greeting.”
Simon stared at her in disbelief. “But what will happen when they find out?”
“They already have,” replied Elizabeth sheepishly. “As soon as they offered me the post I went down to see the senior consultant and told him the truth. He hasn’t stopped telling everyone since.”
“He wasn’t cross?”
“Far from it. In fact he said I nearly failed to be offered the post because he felt I wouldn’t be safe let loose on the unmarried doctors.”
Andrew held Louise’s hand as they approached the door of Grunechan Children’s Home on the outskirts of Edinburgh. The matron was waiting on the freshly scrubbed doorstep to greet them.
“Good morning, Minister,” she said. “We are honored that you have chosen our little home.”
Andrew and Louise smiled.
“Will you be kind enough to follow me?” She led them down a dimly lit corridor to her room, her starched blue uniform crackling as she walked.
“All the children are in the playground at the moment but you will be able to see them from my window.” Andrew had already gone over all the orphans’ histories and photographs; he couldn’t help noticing how one of them bore a striking resemblance to Robert.
They both looked out of the window for several minutes but Louise showed no interest in any of the children. When the boy who resembled Robert ran toward the window, she turned away and took a seat in the corner.
Andrew shook his head. The matron’s lips turned down at the corners.
Coffee and biscuits arrived and while they were eating them Andrew tried once more. “Did you want Matron to bring anyone in to meet you, darling?” Louise shook her head. Andrew cursed himself as he feared the experience might only have done her more harm.
“Have we seen everyone?” he asked, looking for an excuse to leave quickly.
“Yes, sir,” said the matron, putting down her cup of coffee. “Well,” she hesitated, “there was one girl we didn’t bother you with.”
“Why not?” asked Andrew out of curiosity.
“Well, you see, she’s black.”
Andrew stiffened.
“And what’s more,” continued the matron, “we have absolutely no idea who her parents were. She was left on the doorstep. Not at all the sort of girl to be brought up in a minister’s home.”
Andrew was so incensed that he quite forgot about consulting Louise who was still resting silently in the corner.
“I should like to see her,” he said.
“If you insist,” said the matron, a little taken aback. “I’m afraid she hasn’t got her best clothes on,” she added before she left the room.
Andrew paced up and down, conscious that if Louise hadn’t been there he might well have lost his temper with the woman. The matron returned a few moments later with a little girl aged four, perhaps five, and so thin that her dress hung on her like a coathanger. Andrew couldn’t see her face because she kept her head bowed.
“Look up, child,” commanded the matron. The girl raised her head slowly. She had the most perfect oval face and olive skin, piercing black eyes, and a smile that immediately captivated Andrew.
“What’s your name?” he asked quietly.
“Clarissa,” she said, and dropped her head again. He wanted to help her so much, and it made him feel guilty that he had put the poor child through such a pointless ordeal.
The matron still looked affronted and with a sniff she said, “You can leave us now, child.” Clarissa turned and walked toward the door. Looking at Louise the matron added, “I am sure you agree with me, Mrs. Fraser, the girl’s not at all suitable.”
They both turned to Louise. Her face was alight, her eyes shining in a way Andrew had not seen since Robert’s death. She stood up, walked quickly toward the child before she could reach the door, and stared into her black eyes.
“I think you’re beautiful,” Louise said, “and I do hope you will want to come and live with us.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“ORDER, ORDER” HAD meant nothing to the British electorate until 1978 when the House passed a resolution allowing the proceedings in the Commons to be broadcast on radio. Simon had supported the motion on broadcasting, putting forward the argument that radio was a further extension of democracy as it showed the House at work and allowed the voters to know exactly what their elected representatives were up to. Simon listened carefully to a number of his supplementaries, and realized for the first time that he spoke a little too quickly when he had a minister on the run.
Raymond, on the other hand, did not support the motion as he feared that the cries of “Hear, hear” or “Shame” and the heckling of the Prime Minister would sound to listeners like schoolchildren in a playground squabble. Overhearing the words with only one’s imagination to set the scene would, he believed, create a false impression about the many aspects of a member’s daily duties. When one evening Raymond heard a parliamentary debate in which he had taken part he was delighted to discover his arguments carried so much conviction.
When Andrew heard his own voice on Radio Four one morning answering questions on defense issues he was suddenly aware that what he had always considered was a faint trace of a Scottish accent was in fact—when he was angry or excited—quite pronounced.
Charles found the morning program an excellent way of catching up with any proceedings he had missed the previous day. As he now woke each morning alone, “Yesterday in Parliament” became his constant companion. He hadn’t been aware of how upper class he sounded until the occasion on which he followed Tom Carson. He had no intention of changing his voice for the radio.
When the Queen opened the new underground extension to Heathrow airp
ort on 16 December 1977 Raymond was the minister commanded to be present. Joyce made one of her rare trips down to London as they were invited to join the Queen for lunch after the ceremony. When Joyce selected her new dress from Harvey Nichols, she stood in the little cubicle behind a drawn curtain to make sure it was possible for her to curtsy properly. “Good morning, Your Majesty,” she practiced with a slight wobble, to the bemusement of the shop assistant waiting patiently outside.
By the time she had returned to the flat Joyce was confident that she could carry out her part in the proceedings as well as any courtier. As she prepared for Raymond’s return from the morning Cabinet meeting she hoped he would be pleased with her efforts. She had long given up hope of being a mother, but still liked to believe she could be a good wife. Raymond had forewarned her that he would have to change as soon as he arrived at the flat to be sure of being at Green Park before the Queen arrived. After they had accompanied an entourage to Heathrow on the new extension, a journey that would take thirty minutes, they were to return to Buckingham Palace for lunch. Raymond had already come in contact with his monarch on several occasions in his official capacity as a Cabinet minister, but for Joyce it was to be the first time she had been presented.
Once she had had her bath and dressed—she knew Raymond would never forgive her if she were the reason he was late—she began to lay out his clothes. Tail coat, gray pin-striped trousers, white shirt, stiff collar, and a silver-gray tie, all hired that morning from Moss Bros. All that he still needed was a clean white handkerchief for his top pocket, just showing in a straight line, as the Duke of Edinburgh always wore his.
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