By the end of his first term Ray was surprised to find he was far ahead of his classmates, so far in fact that the headmaster considered it prudent to put him up a form—“to stretch the lad a little,” as he explained to Ray’s parents.
By the end of that year, one spent mainly in the classroom, Ray managed to come third in the form, and top in Latin and English. Only when it came to selecting teams for any sport did Ray find he came bottom in anything. However brilliant his mind might have been, it never seemed to coordinate with his body. His single greatest academic achievement during the year, though, was to be the youngest winner of the prize essay competition in the school’s history.
Each year the winner of the essay was required to read his entry to the assembled pupils and parents on Speech Day. Even before he handed in his entry Ray rehearsed his efforts out loud several times in the privacy of his study-bedroom, fearing he would not be properly prepared if he waited until the winner was announced.
Ray’s form master had told all his pupils that the subject of the essay could be of their own choosing, but that they should try to recall some experience that had been unique to them. Thirty-seven entries arrived on his desk by nine o’clock on the closing date six weeks later. After reading Ray’s account of his grandmother’s life in the little room above the butcher’s shop the form master had no inclination to pick up another script. When he had dutifully struggled through the remainder he did not hesitate in recommending Gould’s essay for the prize. The only reservation, he admitted to its author, was the choice of title. Ray thanked him for the advice but the title remained intact.
On the morning of Speech Day the school hall was packed with 700 pupils and their parents. After the headmaster had delivered his speech and the applause had died down, he announced, “I shall now call upon the winner of the prize essay competition to deliver his entry: Ray Gould.”
Ray left his place in the hall and marched confidently up on to the stage. He stared down at the 2,000 expectant faces but showed no sign of apprehension, partly because he found it difficult to see beyond the third row. When he announced the title of his essay some of the younger children began to snigger, causing Ray to stumble through his first few lines. But by the time he had reached the last page the packed hall was still, and after he had completed the final paragraph he received the first standing ovation of his career.
Twelve-year-old Ray Gould left the stage to rejoin his parents in the body of the hall. His mother’s head was bowed but he could still see tears trickling down her cheeks. His father was trying not to look too proud. Even when Ray was seated the applause continued, so he too lowered his head to stare at the title of his prize-winning essay: “The First Changes I Will Make When I Become Prime Minister.”
Andrew Fraser attended his first political meeting in a pram. True, he was left in the corridor while his parents sat on the stage inside another drafty hall, but he quickly learned that applause signaled his mother would soon be returning. What Andrew did not know was that his father, who had made his name as Scotland’s finest scrum-half since the Great War, had delivered yet another speech to the citizens of Edinburgh Carlton in his efforts to capture a marginal seat on the City Council. At that time few believed Duncan Fraser was more than a rugby hero, and consequently he failed to win the seat for the Conservatives, if only by a few hundred votes. Three years later Andrew, a sturdy four-year-old, was allowed to sit at the back of several sparsely filled halls as once again he and his mother trailed round the city to support their candidate. This time Duncan Fraser’s speeches were almost as impressive as his long pass, and he won his place on the City Council by 207 votes.
Hard work and consistent results on behalf of his constituents ensured that the marginal seat remained in the hands of Councillor Fraser for the next nine years. By the age of thirteen, Andrew, a stocky wee lad with straight black hair and a grin that no one seemed to be able to remove from his face, had learned enough about local politics to help his father organize a fifth campaign, by which time neither party considered Edinburgh Carlton a marginal seat.
At the Edinburgh Academy it came as
no surprise to his fellow pupils that Andrew was chosen to captain the school debating society; however, they were impressed when under his leadership the team went on to win the Scottish Schools debating trophy. Although Andrew was destined to be no taller than five-foot-nine it was also widely accepted that he was the most complete scrum-half the Academy had produced since his father had captained the school side in 1919.
On matriculating from the Academy Andrew took up a place at Edinburgh University to read Politics, and by his third year he had been elected President of the Union and captain of rugby.
When Duncan Fraser became Lord Provost of Edinburgh he made one of his rare visits to London, to receive a knighthood from the Queen. Andrew had just completed his final exams and, along with his mother, attended the investiture at Buckingham Palace. After the ceremony Sir Duncan traveled on to the House of Commons to fulfill an engagement with his local member, Ainslie Munro. Over lunch Munro informed Sir Duncan that he had contested the Edinburgh Carlton seat for the last time, so they had better start looking for a new candidate. Sir Duncan’s eyes lit up as he savored the thought of his son succeeding Munro as his Member of Parliament.
After Andrew had been awarded an honors degree at Edinburgh, he remained at the university to complete a thesis entitled “The history of the Conservative party in Scotland.” He planned to wait for his father to complete the statutory three years as Lord Provost before he informed him of the most significant outcome the research for his doctorate had produced. But when Ainslie Munro announced officially that he would not be contesting the next election Andrew knew he could no longer hide his true feelings if he wanted to be considered for the seat.
“Like father, like son,” read the headline in the center-page of the Edinburgh Evening News, who considered that Andrew Fraser was the obvious candidate if the Conservatives hoped to hold on to the marginal seat. Sir Duncan, fearing the local burghers would consider Andrew too young, reminded them at the first selection meeting that eight Scots had been Prime Ministers and every one had been in the House before the age of thirty. He was pleased to find members nodding their agreement. When Sir Duncan returned home that night he phoned his son and suggested that they should have lunch at the New Club the following day to discuss a plan of campaign.
“Think of it,” said Sir Duncan, after he had ordered a second whisky. “Father and son representing the same constituency. It will be a great day for the Edinburgh Conservative party.”
“Not to mention the Labour party,” said Andrew, looking his father in the eye.
“I am not sure I take your meaning,” said the Lord Provost.
“Precisely that, Father. I do not intend to contest the seat as a Conservative. I hope to be selected as the Labour candidate—if they’ll adopt me.”
Sir Duncan looked disbelieving. “But you’ve been a Conservative all your life,” he declared, his voice rising with every word.
“No, Father,” replied Andrew quietly. “It’s you who have been a Conservative all my life.”
BOOK ONE
1964-1966 THE BACK BENCHES
CHAPTER ONE
THURSDAY 10 DECEMBER 1964
MR. SPEAKER ROSE and surveyed the Commons. He tugged at his long black silk gown, then nervously tweaked the full-bottomed wig that covered his balding head. The House had almost got out of control during a particularly rowdy session of Prime Minister’s questions, and he was delighted to see the clock reach three-thirty. Time to pass on to the next business of the day.
He stood shifting from foot to foot waiting for the 500-odd members present to settle down before he intoned solemnly, “Members desiring to take the oath.” The packed assembly switched its gaze from the Speaker to the far end of the Chamber, like a crowd watching a tennis match. There, standing at the bar of the Commons, was the victor of the first by-election since the Labour party had taken office some two months before.
The new member, flanked by his proposer and seconder, took four paces forward. Like well-drilled guardsmen, they stopped and bowed. The stranger stood at six-foot-four. He looked like a man born with the Tory party in mind, his patrician head set on an aristocratic frame, a mane of fair hair combed meticulously into place. Dressed in a dark gray, double-breasted suit and wearing a Guards’ tie of maroon and blue, he advanced once again toward the long table that stood in front of the Speakers chair between the two front benches which faced each other a mere sword’s length apart.
Leaving his sponsors in his wake, he passed down the Government side, stepping over the legs of the Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary before being handed the oath by the Clerk of the House.
He held the little card in his right hand and pronounced the words as firmly as if they had been his marriage vows.