Charles always considered the State opening of Parliament a special occasion for members of both Houses. As a Whip he watched the members take their seats in the Commons and await the arrival of Black Rod. Once the Queen was seated on the throne the Lord Great Chamberlain commanded the Gentleman Usher of Black Rod to inform the Commons that: “It is Her Majesty’s pleasure they attend her immediately in this House.” Black Rod, wearing his black topcoat, black waistcoat, black knee-breeches, black stockings, and black shoes, resembled the devil’s advocate rather than the Queen’s messenger. He marched alone across the great tiled floor joining the two Chambers until he reached the doors of the House of Commons which were slammed in his face when he was just two paces away from them.
He struck the door three times with the silver tip of his long thin black rod. In response a little window in the door was flicked back to check on who it was—not unlike a sleazy nightclub, Charles’s father had once observed. Black Rod was then allowed admittance to the Lower House. He advanced toward the table and made three obeisances to the chair before saying, “Mr. Speaker, the Queen commands this Honorable House to attend Her Majesty immediately in the House of Peers.”
With that, the Serjeant-at-Arms, bearing the mace, led Mr. Speaker, in full court dress, a gold embroidered gown of black satin damask, back toward the Lords. They were followed by the Clerk of the House and the Speaker’s chaplain, behind whom came the Prime Minister, accompanied by the leader of the Opposition, then Government ministers with their opposite numbers, and finally as many backbenchers as could squeeze into the rear of the Lords’ Chamber.
The Lords themselves were waiting in the Upper House, dressed in red capes with ermine collars, looking somewhat like benevolent Draculas, accompanied by peeresses glittering in diamond tiaras and wearing long evening dresses. The Queen was seated on the throne, in her full Monarchical robes, the Imperial State Crown on her head originally made for George IV. She waited until the procession had filled the Chamber and all was still.
The Lord Chancellor shuffled forward and, bending down on one knee, presented her with a printed document. It was the speech, written by the Government of the day, and although she had read over a copy of the script earlier that morning she had made no personal contribution to its contents, as her role on this occasion was only ceremonial. She looked up at her subjects and began to read.
Charles stood at the back of the cramped gathering, but with his height he had no trouble in following the entire proceedings. Their lordships were all in their places for the Queen’s speech, with the law lords seated in their privileged position in the center of the Chamber, an honor bestowed upon them by an Act of 1539. The Lord Chancellor stood to one side of the Woolsack, which was stuffed with wool from the days when it was the staple commodity of England. When the Lords are in session he acts much as the Speaker does for the Commons.
Charles could spot his elderly father, the Earl of Bridgwater, nodding off during the Queen’s speech, which promised that Britain would make a determined effort to become a full member of the EEC. “My Government also intends to bring in a bill to enact trade union reform,” she declared. Charles, along with everyone else from the Commons, was counting the likely number of bills that would be presented during the coming months and soon worked out that the Whips’ office were going to be in for a busy session.
As the Queen finished her speech Charles took one more look at his father, now sound asleep. How Charles dreaded the moment when he would be standing there watching his brother Rupert in ermine. The only compensation would be if he could produce a son who would one day inherit the title, as it was now obvious Rupert would never marry.
It was not as if he and Fiona had not tried. He was beginning to wonder if the time had not come to suggest that she visit a specialist. He dreaded finding out she was unable to bear a child.
The speech delivered, the Sovereign left the Upper House followed by Prince Philip and Prince Charles to a fanfare of trumpets. At the other end of the Chamber the procession of MPs, led again by the Speaker, made their way back in pairs from the red benches of the Lords to the green of the Commons.
The leader of the Opposition, having formed his own team, invited Andrew to cover the Home Office brief as number two. Andrew was delighted by the challenge of this new responsibility, especially when he discovered Simon Kerslake was to be his opposite number in Government.
Louise once again became very large in a short period, but Andrew tried to keep his mind off the pregnancy, as he dreaded her going through that amount of pain and sorrow for a third time. He telephoned Elizabeth Kerslake and they agreed to meet privately.
“That’s a hard question to answer without ifs and buts,” she told Andrew over coffee in her room the following day.
“But what would your advice be if Louise were to lose the third child?”
Elizabeth took a long time considering her reply. “If that happened I cannot believe it would be wise to put her through the same ordeal again,” she said flatly. “The psychological repercussions alone might affect her for the rest of her life.”
Andrew sat staring in front of him.
“Enough of this morbid talk,” Elizabeth added. “I checked Louise last week and I can see no reason why this shouldn’t turn out to be a routine birth.”
As the first weeks of the new Tory administration took shape, Simon and Andrew became locked in battle over several issues and were soon known as “the mongoose and the rattlesnake.” When either of the names “Kerslake” or “Fraser” was cranked up on the old-fashioned wall machines indicating one of them had risen to speak, members drifted back into the Chamber. Andrew found himself a constant visitor to the table office, a tiny room in the corridor behind the Speaker’s chair where members tabled their questions, usually scribbled on yellow sheets, but still acceptable to the omniscient clerks had they been written on postage stamps.
The clerks often helped Andrew reword a question so that it would be acceptable to the chair, a function they carried out for any member, even Tom Carson, who had once accused them of political bias when they suggested one of his questions was out of order. When Carson was finally referred to the Speaker, he was called for and reprimanded, and his question deposited in one of the
mock-Gothic wastepaper baskets in the Order office.
Once behind the Speaker’s chair, Simon and Andrew would good-humoredly discuss the issues on which they were crossing swords. The opportunity to be out of sight of the Press Gallery above them was often taken by the two opposing members, but once they had both returned to the dispatch box they would tear into each other, looking for any weakness in the other’s argument.
On one subject they found themselves in total accord. Ever since August 1969, when the troops had first been sent in, Parliament had been having another of its periodic bouts of trouble with Northern Ireland. In October 1970 the House devoted a full day’s business to listen to members’ opinions in the never-ending effort to find a solution to the growing clash between the Protestant extremists and the IRA. The motion before the House was to allow emergency powers to be renewed in the province.
Andrew rose from his seat on the front bench to deliver the opening speech for the Opposition. He said he took no side in this unhappy affair, but he felt sure the House was united in condemning violence. Yet however hard he searched for the answer he found neither faction willing to give an inch. “Goodwill” and “trust” were words that might as well have been left out of any dictionary printed in Ulster. It was not long before Andrew came to the conclusion that Gladstone was right when he had said, “Every time I find the solution to the Irish question, they change the question.”
When Andrew had finished he surprised members by leaving the Chamber and not returning for several minutes.
Simon had been selected to wind up for the Government and had prepared his speech with meticulous care. Although both sides appeared in agreement on the main issue, the mood as always could change in a moment if an unfortunate view was expressed by a Government minister.
During the debate, much to everyone’s surprise, Andrew Fraser kept leaving the Chamber. Simon left only twice between three-thirty and the ten o’clock division, once to take a call from his wife, and then again at seven-thirty for a quick supper.
When Simon came back Andrew was still absent from the Chamber, and he had not returned by the time the Shadow Home Secretary began to sum up. Andrew did eventually take his seat on the front bench but Simon had already begun his speech.
As Andrew entered the Chamber and took his place on the front bench, an elderly Conservative rose from his seat.
“On a point of order, Mr. Speaker.”
Simon sat down immediately and turned his head to listen to the point his colleague wanted to make.