First Among Equals

week-old copy of the New Statesman. He stared impassively as several of his colleagues went over to Andrew to congratulate him. His own maiden speech the previous week had not been as well received and he knew it. He believed just as passionately about war widows’ pensions as Andrew did about the future of Scotland but reading from a prepared manuscript he had been unable to make members hang on his every word. He consoled himself with the thought that Andrew would have to choose the subject for his next speech very carefully as the Opposition would no longer treat him with kid gloves.

Andrew was not concerning himself with such thoughts as he slipped into one of the many internal telephone booths and after checking in his diary dialed a London number. Alison was at home, washing her hair.

“Will it be dry by the time I arrive?”

“It’s very long,” she reminded him.

“Then I’ll have to drive slowly.”

When Andrew appeared on the Chelsea doorstep he was greeted by Alison in a housecoat, her newly dry hair falling down well below shoulder level.

“The victor come to claim his spoils?”

“No, only last night’s coffee,” he said.

“But won’t that keep you awake?”

“I certainly hope so.”

By the time Andrew left Alison’s home at eight the next morning he had already decided he wanted to see a lot more of Hugh McKenzie’s daughter. He returned to his own flat in Cheyne Walk, showered, and changed before making breakfast for himself and going over his mail. There were several more messages of congratulations including one from the Secretary of State for Scotland, while The Times and the Guardian carried brief but favorable comments.

Before leaving for the Commons Andrew checked over an amendment he wanted to move in committee that morning. When he had reworded his efforts several times he picked up his papers and headed off toward Westminster.

Arriving a little early for the ten-thirty committee meeting, Andrew found time to collect his mail from the Members’ Post Office just off the Central Lobby. He set off, head down, along the corridor toward the library, flicking through the envelopes to see if he recognized any familiar hand or official-looking missive that demanded to be opened immediately.

As he turned the corner he was surprised to find the House ticker-tape machine surrounded by Conservative members, including the man who had agreed to be his “pair” for voting purposes.

Andrew stared up at the tall figure of Charles Seymour, who, although standing on the fringe of the crowd, still found it possible to read the tapped-out message on the telex machine.

“What’s causing so much interest?” he asked, prodding Seymour’s elbow.

“Sir Alec has just announced the timetable that’ll be followed when we select the new Tory leader.”

“We all await with baited breath,” said Andrew.

“As well you might,” said Charles, ignoring the sarcasm, “since the next announcement will undoubtedly be his resignation. Then the real politics will begin.”

“Be sure you back the winner,” said Andrew, grinning.

Charles Seymour smiled knowingly but made no comment.

CHAPTER THREE

CHARLES SEYMOUR DROVE his Daimler from the Commons to his father’s bank in the City. He still thought of Seymour’s of Cheapside as his father’s bank although for two generations the family had been only minority shareholders, with Charles himself in possession of a mere two percent of the stock. Nevertheless as his brother Rupert showed no desire in representing the family interests the two percent guaranteed Charles a place on the board and an income sufficient to ensure that his paltry parliamentary salary of £1,750 a year was adequately supplemented.

From the day Charles had first taken his place on the board of Seymour’s he had no doubt that the new chairman, Derek Spencer, considered him a dangerous rival. Spencer had lobbied to have Rupert replace his father on retirement and only because of Charles’s insistence had Spencer failed to move the old earl to his way of thinking.

When Charles went on to take his seat in Parliament Spencer at once raised the problem of his burdensome responsibilities at the House preventing him from carrying out his day-to-day duties for the board. However, Charles was able to convince a majority of his fellow directors of the advantages of having someone on the board at Westminster, although he knew that would cease if he was ever invited to be a minister.

As Charles left the Daimler in Seymour’s courtyard it amused him to consider that his parking space was worth twenty times the value of the car. The area at the front of Seymour’s was a relic of his great-grandfather’s day. The twelfth Earl of Bridgwater had insisted on an entrance large enough to allow a complete sweep for his coach and four. That conveyance had long disappeared, to be replaced by twelve car spaces for Seymour directors. The bank’s new management-conscious chairman, despite all his grammar school virtues, had never suggested the land be used for any other purpose.

The young girl seated at the reception desk abruptly stopped polishing her nails in time to say “Good morning, Mr. Charles,” as he came through the revolving doors and disappeared into a waiting lift. A few moments later Charles was seated behind a desk in his small oak-paneled office, a clean white memo pad in front of him. He pressed a button on the intercom and told his secretary that he did not want to be disturbed during the next hour.

Sixty minutes later the white pad had twelve names penciled on it, but ten already had lines drawn through them. Only the names of Reginald Maudling and Edward Heath remained.

Charles tore off the piece of paper and the indented sheet underneath and put them both through the shredder by the side of his desk. He tried to summon up some interest in the agenda for the bank’s weekly board meeting; only one item, item seven, seemed to be of any importance. Just before eleven, he gathered up his papers and headed toward the boardroom. Most of his colleagues were already seated when Derek Spencer called item number one as the boardroom clock chimed the hour.

During the ensuing predictable discussion on bank rates, the movement in metal prices, Eurobonds, and client investment policy Charles’s mind kept wandering back to the forthcoming leadership election and the importance of backing the winner if he were to be quickly promoted from the back benches.