First Among Equals

She parted his lips and their tongues touched: he found it a peculiar sensation, an arousing one; his eyes remained closed as she gently led him through each new experience, until he was unable to stop himself committing what he felt sure his mother had once described as a mortal sin.

“It will be easier next time,” she said shyly, maneuvering herself from the narrow bed to sort out the crumpled clothes spread across the floor. She was right: he wanted her again in less than an hour, and this time his eyes remained wide open.

It was another six months before Joyce talked about their future and by then Raymond was bored with her and had his sights set on a bright little mathematician in her final year. The mathematician hailed from Surrey.

Just at the time Raymond was summoning up enough courage to let her know the affair was over Joyce told him she was pregnant. His father would have taken a meat ax to him had he suggested an illegal abortion. His mother was only relieved that she was a Yorkshire girl; like the county cricket selection committee, Mrs. Gould did not approve of outsiders.

Raymond and Joyce were married at St. Mary’s in Bradford during the long vacation. When the wedding photos were developed Raymond looked so distressed and Joyce so happy they resembled father and daughter rather than husband and wife. After a reception given at the church hall the newly married couple traveled down to Dover to catch the night ferry. Their first night as Mr. and Mrs. Could was a disaster. Raymond turned out to be a particularly bad sailor. Joyce only hoped that Paris would prove to be memorable—and it was. She had a miscarriage on the second night of their honeymoon.

“Probably caused by all the excitement,” his mother said on their return. “Still, you can always have another, can’t you? And this time folk won’t be able to call it a little …”

She checked herself.

Raymond showed no interest in having another. Ten years had passed since that memorable honeymoon; he had escaped to London and become a barrister, but had long since accepted that he was tethered to her for life. Although Joyce was only thirty-two she already needed to cover those once-slim legs that had first so attracted him. How could he be so punished for such a pathetic mistake? Raymond wanted to ask the gods. How mature he had thought he was: how immature he had turned out to be. Divorce made sense, but it would have meant the end of his political ambitions: Yorkshire folk would not have considered selecting a divorced man. To be fair, it hadn’t all been a disaster: he had to admit that the locals adored her, and his parents seemed every bit as proud of Joyce as they did of their son. She mixed with the trade unionists and their frightful wives far better than he ever managed. He also had to acknowledge that Joyce had been a major factor in his winning the seat by over 10,000 votes. He wondered how she could sound so sincere the whole time: it never occurred to him that it was natural.

“Why don’t you buy yourself a new dress for Downing Street?” Raymond said as they rose from the breakfast table. She smiled: he had not volunteered such a suggestion for as long as she could remember. Joyce had been left with no illusions about her husband and his feelings for her, but hoped that eventually he would realize she could help him achieve his unspoken ambition.

On the night of the reception at Downing Street Joyce made every effort to look her best. She had spent the morning at Harvey Nichols searching for an outfit appropriate for the occasion, finally returning to a suit she had liked the moment she had walked in to the store. It was not the perfect fit but the sales assistant assured Joyce that “Modom looked quite sensational in it.” She only hoped that Raymond’s remarks would be half as flattering. By the time she reached home she realized she had nothing to match the unusual color.

Raymond was late returning from the Commons and was pleased to find Joyce ready when he leaped out of the bath. He bit back a remark about the incongruity of her shoes and new suit. As they drove toward Westminster he rehearsed the names of every member of the Cabinet with her, making Joyce repeat them as if she were a child.

The air was cool and crisp that night so Raymond parked his Sunbeam in New Palace Yard and they strolled across Whitehall together to No. 10. A solitary policeman stood guard at the door. Seeing Raymond approach, the officer banged the brass knocker once and the door was opened for the young member and his wife.

Raymond and Joyce stood awkwardly in the hall as if they were waiting outside a headmaster’s study. Eventually they were directed to the first floor. They walked slowly up the staircase, which turned out to be less grand than Raymond had anticipated, passing photographs of former Prime Ministers. “Too many Tories,” muttered Raymond as he passed Chamberlain, Churchill, Eden, Macmillan, and Home, with Attlee the only framed compensation.

At the top of the stairs stood Harold Wilson, pipe in mouth, waiting to welcome his guests. Raymond was about to introduce his wife when the Prime Minister said, “How are you, Joyce? I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Make it? I’ve been looking forward to the occasion all week.” Her frankness made Raymond wince; he failed to notice that it made Wilson chuckle.

Raymond chatted to the Prime Minister’s wife about the difficulty of getting poetry published until she turned away to greet the next guest. He then moved off into the drawing room and was soon talking to Cabinet ministers, trade union leaders, and their wives, always keeping a wary eye on Joyce, who seemed engrossed in conversation with the General Secretary of the Trades Union Congress.

Raymond moved on to the American Ambassador, who was telling Andrew Fraser how much he had e

njoyed the Edinburgh Festival that summer. Raymond envied Fraser his relaxed clubbable manner and had already worked out that the Scotsman would be a formidable rival among his contemporaries.

“Good evening, Raymond,” said Andrew. “Do you know David Bruce?” he asked, as if they were old friends.

“No,” Raymond replied, rubbing his palm on his trousers before shaking hands. “Good evening, Your Excellency,” he said, glad to see Andrew slipping away. “I was interested to read Johnson’s latest communiqué on Vietnam and I must confess the escalation …”

Andrew had spotted the Minister of State for Scotland arriving and went over to chat to him.

“How are you, Andrew?” Hugh McKenzie asked.

“Never better.”

“And your father?”

“In great form.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said the minister, grinning. “He’s giving me a lot of trouble over the Highlands and Islands Development Board.”

“He’s a sound chap basically,” said Andrew, “even if his views are a little misguided.” They both laughed as a slight, attractive woman with long brown hair came up to the minister’s side. She wore a white silk blouse and a McKenzie tartan skirt.

“Do you know my daughter Alison?”

“No,” Andrew said, holding out his hand. “I’ve not had that pleasure.”

“I know who you are,” she said, in a slight lowland accent, her eyes flashing. “Andrew Fraser, the man who makes Campbells look trustworthy. The Tories’ secret mole.”