“Is it not a tradition of this House, sir,” began the elder statesman rather ponderously, “for a front-bench spokesman to have the courtesy to remain in his seat during the debate in order that he may ascertain views other than his own?”
“That is not a point of order,” replied the Speaker above the cries of “Hear, hear” from the Conservative benches. Andrew scribbled a quick note and hurriedly passed it over to Simon. On it was written a single sentence.
“I accept the point my Right Honorable friend makes,” Simon began, “and would have complained myself had I not known that the Honorable Gentleman, the member for Edinburgh Carlton, has spent most of the afternoon in hospital.” Simon paused to let the effect sink in. “Where his wife was in labor. I am not given to accepting as necessarily accurate all the Opposition tells me,” he continued, “but I am able to confirm this statement because it was my wife who delivered the baby.” The House began to laugh. “I can assure my Honorable friend that my wife has spent her entire afternoon indoctrinating the infant in the value of Conservative policies as understood by his grandfather, which is why the Honorable Gentleman has found it necessary to be absent himself from so much of the debate.” Simon waited for the laughter to subside. “For those members of the House who thrive on statistics, it’s a boy and he weighs four pounds three ounces.”
There are times in the House when affection is displayed on both sides, thought Andrew, who considered it was ironic that during an Irish debate an Englishman had demonstrated such affection for a Scotsman.
There was no challenge when the Speaker “collected the voices” at ten o’clock so the matter was decided “on the nod” and Simon joined Andrew behind the Speaker’s chair.
“Just over four pounds doesn’t sound very big to me. I thought I’d take a second opinion from the Minister of Health.”
“I agree,” said Andrew, “the little blighter is stuck in an incubator, but your wife is doing everything she can to fatten him up. I’m off to watch him now.”
“Good luck,” said Simon.
Andrew sat by the incubator all night, hating the drip, drip, drip of the little plastic tube that passed up the child’s nose and down into his stomach. He feared that when he woke his son would be dead and continually went to the washbasin and put a damp, cold cloth over his eyes to ensure he remained awake. He finally lost the battle and dozed off in a “dad’s bed” in the corner.
When his father woke, Robert Bruce Fraser was very much alive. The crumpled father rose from his bed to admire his “crumpled offspring, who was receiving milk down the plastic tube from a night nurse.
Andrew stared down at the crinkly face. The boy had inherited his square jaw, but he had his mother’s nose and hair coloring. Andrew chuckled at the time Louise had wasted over girls’ names. Robert it would be.
Robert Bruce Fraser traveled to Cheyne Walk with his mother and father three weeks later, having topped the scales earlier that morning at five pounds ten ounces.
Elizabeth Kerslake had told them to be thankful: the postnatal examination had shown that it would not be possible for Louise to bear another child.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE CHIEF WHIP looked round at his colleagues, wondering which of them would volunteer for such a thankless task.
A hand went up, and he was pleasantly surprised.
“Thank you, Charles.”
Charles had already warned Fiona that he was going to volunteer to be the Whip responsible for the issue that had most dominated the last election: Britain’s entry into the EEC. Everyone in that room realized that it would be the most demanding marathon of the entire Parliament, and there was an audible sigh of relief when Charles volunteered.
“Not a job for anyone with a rocky marriage,” he heard one Whip whisper. At least that’s something I don’t have to worry about, thought Charles, but he made a note to take home some flowers that night.
“Why was it the bill everyone wanted to avoid?” asked Fiona as she arranged the daffodils.
“Because many of our side don’t necessarily back Edward Heath in his lifelong ambition to take Britain into Europe, while quite a few of the Opposition do,” said Charles, accepting a large brandy. “Added to that, we have the problem of presenting a bill to curb the trade unions at the same time which may well influence many members of the Labour party from voting with us on Europe. Because of this problem, the Prime Minister requires a regular ‘state of play’ assessment on Europe even though legislation may not be presented on the floor of the Commons for at least another year. He’ll want to know periodically how many of our side are still against entry, and how many from the Opposition we can rely on to break ranks when the crucial vote is taken.”
“Perhaps I should become Member of Parliament and then at least I could spend a little more time with you.”
“Especially on the European issue if you were a ‘don’t know.’”
The “Great Debate” was discussed by the media to the point of boredom. Members were nevertheless conscious that they were playing a part in history. And, because of the unusual spectacle of the Whips not being in absolute control of the voting procedure, the Commons sprang to life, and excitement began to build up over the weeks and months of debate.
Charles retained his normal task of watching over fifty members on all normal Government bills, but because of the priority given to the issue of entry into Europe he had been released from all other duties. He knew that this was
his chance to atone for his disastrous winding-up speech on the economy which he sensed his colleagues had still not completely forgotten.
“I’m gambling everything on this one,” he told Fiona. “And if we lose the final vote I will be sentenced to the back benches for life.”
“And if we win?”
“It will be hard to keep me off the front bench,” replied Charles.
Robert Fraser was one of those noisy children who after only a few weeks sounded as if he was on the front bench.