“Come on in, Charles. Can I offer you a drink?”
“No, thank you,” replied Charles, not wanting to delay the news any longer.
The Chief Whip poured himself a gin and tonic before sitting down.
“I hope what I’m about to tell you will be looked upon as good news.” The Chief Whip paused and took a gulp of his drink. “The leader thinks you might benefit from a spell in the Whips’ office, and I must say I would be delighted if you felt able to join us …”
Charles wanted to protest but checked himself. “And give up my Housing and Local Government post?”
“Oh yes, and more of course, because Mr. Heath expects all Whips to forgo outside commitments. Working in this office is not a part-time occupation.”
Charles needed a moment to compose his thoughts. “And if I turn it down, will I keep my post at Housing and Local Government?”
“That’s not for me to decide,” said the Chief Whip, “but it is no secret that Ted Heath is planning several changes in the run-up to the election.”
&n
bsp; “How long do I have to consider the offer?”
“Perhaps you could let me know your decision by question time tomorrow.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you,” said Charles. He left the Chief Whip’s office and drove to Eaton Square.
Simon arrived at two-twenty-five, five minutes before his meeting with the party leader. He had tried not to speculate as to why Heath wanted to see him, in case the meeting only resulted in disappointment. Douglas Hurd, the head of the private office, ushered him straight through to the Conservative leader.
“Simon, how would you like to join the Housing and Local Government team in the run-up to the election?” It was typical of Heath not to waste any time on small talk and the suddenness of the offer stunned Simon. He recovered quickly.
“Thank you very much,” he said. “I mean er … yes … thank you.”
“Good, let’s see you put your back into it, and be sure the results at the dispatch box are as effective as they have been from the back benches.”
The door was opened once again by the private secretary; the interview was clearly over. Simon found himself back in the corridor at two-thirty-three. It was several moments before the offer sank in. Then he suddenly felt elated and made a dash for the nearest phone. He dialed the St. Mary’s switchboard and asked if he could be put through to Dr. Kerslake. As he spoke, his voice was almost drowned by the sound of the division bells, signaling the start of the day’s business at two-thirty-five following prayers. A woman’s voice came on the line.
“Is that you, darling?” asked Simon above the din.
“No, sir. It’s the switchboard operator. Dr. Kerslake’s in the operating theater.”
“Is there any hope of getting her out?”
“Not unless you’re expecting a baby, sir.”
“What brings you home so early?” asked Fiona as Charles came charging through the front door.
“I need to talk to someone.” Fiona could never be sure if she ought to be flattered, but she didn’t express any opinion as it was all too rare these days to have his company at all.
Charles repeated to his wife as nearly verbatim as possible his conversation with the Chief Whip. Fiona remained silent when Charles had come to the end of his monologue. “Well, what’s your opinion?” he asked anxiously.
“All because of one bad speech from the dispatch box,” Fiona commented wryly.
“I agree,” said Charles, “but nothing can be gained by tramping over that ground again.”
“We’ll miss the salary you earn as a director of the bank,” said Fiona. “The tax on my private income has made the amount I now receive derisory.”
“I know, but if I turn it down, and we win the next election …?”
“You’ll be left out in the cold.”
“More to the point, stranded on the back benches.”