First Among Equals

by Jeffrey Archer

  Joyce rummaged around in Raymond’s chest of drawers, admiring the new shirts as she searched for a handkerchief. When she first saw the scribbled note peeking out underneath the collar of a pink shirt lying near the bottom of the pile, she assumed it must be an old laundry bill. Then she spotted the word “Darling.” She felt suddenly sick as she looked more closely.

  Darling Carrot Top,

  If you ever wear this one I might even agree to marry you.

  Kate.

  Joyce sank on the end of the bed as the tears trickled down her face. Her perfect day was shattered. She knew at once what course of action she must take. She replaced the unworn shirt and closed the drawer, after first removing the note, and then sat alone in the drawing room waiting for Raymond to return.

  He arrived back at the flat with only a few minutes to spare and was delighted to find his wife changed and ready.

  “I’m running it a bit close,” he said, going straight into the bedroom.

  Joyce followed and watched him don his morning dress suit. When he had straightened his tie in the mirror, she faced him.

  “What do you think?” he asked, not noticing the slight paleness in her cheeks.

  She hesitated. “You look fantastic, Raymond. Now come along or we’ll be late, and that would never do.”

  When Ronnie Nethercote invited him to lunch at the Ritz, Simon knew things must be looking up again. After a drink in the lounge they were ushered to a corner table overlooking the park in the most palatial dining room in London. Scattered around the other tables were men who were household names in Ronnie’s world as well as in Simon’s.

  When the head waiter offered them menus Ronnie waved his hand and said, “Order the country vegetable soup, followed by beef off the trolley, take my word for it.”

  “Sounds like a safe bet,” said Simon.

  “Unlike our last little venture,” Ronnie grunted. “How much are you still in hock because of the collapse of Nethercote and Company?”

  “Fourteen thousand three hundred pounds when I last looked but I’m making inroads slowly. It’s paying the interest before you can cut down on the capital that really hurts.”

  “How do you imagine I felt when we were overdrawn seven mill and then the bank decided to pull the rug from under my feet without any warning?”

  “As two of the buttons on your waistcoat can no longer reach the holes they were originally tailored for, Ronnie, I must assume those problems are now a thing of the past.”

  “You’re right.” He laughed. “Which is why I invited you to lunch. The only person who ended up losing money on that deal was you. If you’d stayed on as the other directors did, at five grand a year, the company would still owe you £ 11,100 of earned income.”

  Simon groaned.

  The carver wheeled the trolley of beef up to their table.

  “Wait a moment, my boy, I haven’t even begun. Morgan Grenfell want me to change the structure of the new company and will be injecting a large amount of cash. At the moment Whitechapel Properties—I hope you approve of the name—is still a one-hundred-pound off-the-shelf company. I own sixty percent and the bank’s got forty. Now before the new agreement is signed, I’m going to offer you—”

  “Would you like it well done, as usual, Mr. Nethercote?”

  “Yes, Sam,” said Ronnie, slipping the carver a pound note.

  “I am going to offer you—”

  “And your guest, sir?” the carver said, glancing at Simon.

  “Medium, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I am going to offer you one percent of the new company, in other words one share.”

  Simon didn’t comment, feeling confident Ronnie still hadn’t finished.

  “Aren’t you going to ask?” said Ronnie.

  “Ask what?” said Simon.

  “You politicians get dumber by the minute. If I am going to offer you a one-pound share, how much do you think I am going to demand in return?”

  “Well, I can’t believe it’s going to be one pound,” said Simon, grinning.

  “Wrong,” said Ronnie. “One percent of the company is yours for one pound.”

  “Will that be sufficient, sir?” said the carver, putting a plate of beef in front of Simon.

  “Hold it, Sam,” said Ronnie before Simon could reply. “I repeat I’m offering you one percent of the company for one. pound; now ask your question again, Sam.”

  “Will that be sufficient, sir?” repeated the carver.

  “It’s most generous,” said Simon.

  “Did you hear that, Sam?”

  “I certainly did, sir.”

  “Right, Simon, you owe me a pound.”

  Simon laughed, removed his wallet from his inside pocket, took out a pound note, and handed it over.

  “Now the purpose of that little exercise,” said Ronnie, turning back to the carver and pocketing the note, “was to prove that Sam here isn’t the only person who could make a quid for himself this afternoon.” Sam smiled, having no idea what Mr. Nethercote was talking about, and placed a large plate of well-done beef in front of him.

  Ronnie took out an envelope from his inside pocket and passed it to Simon.

  “Do I open it now?” asked Simon.

  “Yes—I want to see your reaction.”

  Simon opened the envelope and studied its contents. A certificate for one share in the new company with a true value of over £10,000.

  “Well, well, what do you say?” said Ronnie.

  “I’m speechless,” said Simon.

  “First politician I’ve known who’s ever suffered from that problem.”

  Simon laughed. “Thank you, Ronnie. It’s an incredibly generous gesture.”

  “No it’s not. You were loyal to the old company, so why shouldn’t you prosper with the new one?”

  “That reminds me, does the name ‘Archie Millburn’ mean anything to you?” asked Simon.

  Ronnie hesitated. “No, no, should it?”

  “Only that I thought he might be the man who convinced Morgan Grenfell that you were worth bailing out.”

  “No, that name doesn’t ring any bells. Mind you, Morgan Grenfell have never admitted where they obtained their information from but they knew every last detail about the old company. But if I come across the name Millburn I’ll let you know. Enough of business. Fill me in on what’s happening in your world. How’s your lady wife?”

  “Deceiving me.”

  “Deceiving you?”

  “Yes, she’s been putting on wigs and dressing up in strange clothes.”

  Clarissa wet her bed every night for the first month at Pelham Crescent but Louise never complained. Day by day Andrew watched as mother and daughter grew in mutual confidence. Clarissa assumed from her first meeting with Louise that she could talk as normally as any grown-up and chatted away to her night and day. Half the time Louise didn’t reply, only because she couldn’t get a word in.

  Just when Andrew felt everything was getting back on a normal footing at home trouble erupted in Edinburgh. His General Management Committee, which now included five members of Militant Tendency, tabled a motion of no confidence in their member. Their leader, Frank Boyle, had been building up a power base with the sole intention, Andrew suspected, of ousting the member and taking over himself. He didn’t discuss the problem with Louise, as the specialist had advised him to avoid any undue stress while Clarissa was settling in.

  The five men who wanted Andrew removed had chosen the following Thursday to hold the meeting because they knew the annual Defense Review was due for a full debate in the House that day. If Andrew was unable to attend their meeting Frank Boyle knew they would have a better chance of winning their motion. If he did turn up to defend himself they were also aware that an embarrassing explanation would have to be made for his absence during the debate. When the Prime Minister was informed of the dilemma by the Chief Whip he had no hesitation in telling Andrew to forget the defense debate and go to Edinburgh. />
  Andrew took the shuttle up on Thursday afternoon and was met at the airport by his chairman, Hamish Ramsey.

  “I apologize about you being put through this ordeal, Andrew,” he said at once. “I can assure you it’s none of my doing, but I must also warn you it’s not the same Labour party that I joined over twenty years ago.”

  “How do you think the vote will go tonight?” asked Andrew.

  “You’ll win this time. The votes have been decided before the meeting takes place. There’s only one waverer and he’s so gutless that your very presence will stop him siding with the Trotskies.”

  When Andrew arrived at his Edinburgh headquarters he was left alone outside the committee room in a cold corridor for over an hour. He knew his opponents were holding things up in the hope he would become frustrated before he eventually had to face them. At last they invited him to join them and he immediately sensed what the Spanish Inquisition must have felt like: question after question from sour-faced men who had never helped him win the seat in the first place and were now alleging that he had shown scant interest in the constituency. Andrew stood his ground and became angry only when Frank Boyle referred to him as “that son of a Tory.”

  “When did you last see your father?” flashed through his mind.

  “My father has done more for this city than you could ever hope to do in your lifetime,” he told Boyle.

  “Then why don’t you join his party?” came back Boyle’s retort.

  Andrew was about to answer when Hamish Ramsey banged the table with his gavel and said, “Enough, enough. It’s time to stop this squabbling and vote.”

  Andrew felt a stab of anxiety as the little slips were passed up to the chairman to be counted. The outcome was five-all and Hamish Ramsey immediately cast his vote in favor of Andrew.

  “At least you’ll be safe for the coming election, laddie,” said Hamish as they drove to the Airport Hotel. “But I wouldn’t like to account for much beyond that.”

  When Andrew arrived back in Pelham Crescent the next morning Louise greeted him at the door.

  “Everything all right in Edinburgh?” she asked.

  “Fine,” said Andrew, taking her in his arms.

  “Do you want to hear the good news?”

  “Yes,” said Andrew, smiling.

  “Clarissa didn’t wet her bed last night. Perhaps you should stay away more often.”

  Finally Charles knew he had to discuss what could be done about the stolen Holbein with his solicitor, Sir David Napley. Sir David instructed leading counsel and six weeks later Charles was told that if he sued the Holbein might eventually be returned but not before the story had been on the front page of every national paper. Charles had Albert Cruddick’s opinion confirmed: “Grin and bear it.”

  Fiona had been out of touch for well over a year when the letter came. Charles immediately recognized her handwriting and ripped open the envelope. Only one glance at the writing was enough to make him tear up the missive and deposit the little pieces in the wastepaper basket by his desk. He left for the Commons in a rage.

  All through the day he thought of the one word he had taken in from the scrawled hand. Holbein. When he returned from the Commons after the ten o’clock division Charles searched for the remains of the letter, which the daily had conscientiously deposited in the dustbin. After rummaging among potato peelings, eggshells, and empty tins Charles spent over an hour Sellotaping the little pieces of paper together. Then he read the letter carefully.

  24 The Boltons,

  London, SW 10

  11 October 1978

  Dear Charles,

  Enough time has now passed for us to try and treat each other in a civilized way. Alexander and I wish to marry and Veronica Dalglish has agreed to an immediate divorce and has not insisted we wait the necessary two years to establish separation.

  “You’ll have to wait every day of the two years, you bitch,” he said out loud. Then he came to the one sentence for which he was searching.

  I realize this might not immediately appeal to you but if you felt able to fall in with our plans I would be happy to return the Holbein immediately.

  Yours ever,

  Fiona.

  He crumpled up the paper in the ball of his hand before dropping it on the fire.

  Charles remained awake into the early hours considering his reply.

  At a Thursday morning Cabinet meeting James Callaghan informed his colleagues that the Liberal leader, David Steel, was not willing to continue the Lib/Lab pact after the end of the current session.

  “That can only mean one thing,” the Prime Minister continued. “We must all be prepared for a general election at any time from now on. I am confident we can hold out until Christmas, but not for much longer after that.”

  Raymond was saddened by the news. He felt after two years in the Cabinet that he was just beginning to be of some use to the Department of Trade: the changes he was implementing were starting to take effect. But he knew he needed considerably more time if he hoped to leave a permanent impression on his ministry.

  Kate’s enthusiasm spurred him on to work even longer hours and to push through as many of his innovations before the next election as possible.

  “I’m trying my damnedest,” he told her. “But do remember that the speed of the bureaucratic machine makes British Rail look like Concorde.”

  The Labour Government struggled on through a session dubbed by the press as “the winter of discontent”: trying to push bills through the House, losing a clause here and a clause there, Raymond was only too delighted to have reached the recess in one piece.

  Raymond spent a cold Christmas in Leeds with Joyce. He returned to London early in the New Year aware it could not be long before the Conservatives felt assured enough to put down a motion of no confidence. When it eventually was tabled no one in Parliament was surprised.

  The debate caused a day of intense excitement, not least because a strike had caused the Commons bars to run dry and thirsty members were huddled together in the lobbies, the tea room, the smoking room, and the dining rooms. Harassed Whips rushed hither and thither checking lists, ringing up hospitals, boardrooms, and even great-aunts in their efforts to track down the last few elusive members.

  When Mrs. Thatcher rose on 6 April to address a packed House the tension was so electric that the Speaker had considerable difficulty keeping control of the overcharged conductors. She addressed the House in firm, strident tones which brought her own side to their feet when she resumed her place. The atmosphere was no different when it was the turn of the Prime Minister to reply. Both leaders made a gallant effort to rise above the petulance of their adversaries but it was the Speaker who had the last word:

  “The Ayes to the right 311,

  The Noes to the left 310.

  The Ayes have it, the Ayes have it.”

  Pandemonium broke out. Opposition members waved their order papers in triumph, knowing the Prime Minister would now have to call a general election. James Callaghan immediately announced the dissolution of Parliament and after an audience with the Queen election day was set for 3 May 1979.

  At the end of that momentous week those few members left at Westminster were stunned by an explosion in the Members’ Car Park. Airey Neave, the Shadow spokesman on Northern Ireland, had been blown up by Irish terrorists as he was driving up the exit ramp to leave the Commons. He died on his way to hospital.

  Members hurried back to their constituencies. Both Raymond and Andrew found it hard to escape from their departments at such short notice, but Charles and Simon were out in their respective high streets shaking hands with the voters by the morning following the Queen’s proclamation.

  For three weeks the arguments about who was competent to govern went back and forth, but on 3 May the British people elected their first woman Prime Minister and gave her party a majority of forty-three in the Commons.

  Andrew’s sixth election turned out to be his most unpleasant to date and he was on
ly glad that he had left Louise and Clarissa in London. Jock McPherson, still the SNP candidate, called him every name under the sun and added one or two new ones in the evening, while the Trotskyites who had voted against him on the committee proved no help when it came to gathering in the votes on election day. But the citizens of Edinburgh, knowing nothing of the committee’s opinions, sent Andrew back to Parliament with a majority of 3,738. The Scottish Nationalist vote crumbled, leaving only two members in the House—and Jock McPherson back in Scotland.

  Raymond’s vote in Leeds was slightly reduced, while Joyce won the office pool for predicting most accurately what her husband’s majority would be. He was beginning to accept that she knew more about the constituency than he ever would.

  A few days later when Raymond returned to London Kate had never seen him so depressed and decided to hold off telling him her own news when he said, “God knows how many years it will be before I can be of some use again.”

  “You can spend your time in Opposition making sure the Government doesn’t dismantle all your achievements.”

  “With a majority of forty-three they could dismantle me if they wanted to,” he told her. He placed the red leather box marked “Secretary of State for Trade” in the corner, next to the ones marked “Minister of State at the Department of Trade” and “Parliamentary Under-Secretary at the Department of Employment.”

  “They’re only your first three,” Kate tried to reassure him.

  Simon increased his majority at Pucklebridge to 19,461, notching up another record after which he and Elizabeth spent the weekend in their cottage with the boys waiting for Mrs. Thatcher to select her team.