First Among Equals

Simon listened intently to Ronnie’s report at the monthly board meeting. Two tenants had not paid their quarterly rent, and another quarter date was fast approaching. Ronnie’s solicitors had sent firm reminders, followed a month later by writs, but this action had also failed to elicit any money.

“It only proves what I feared most,” said Ronnie.

“What’s that?” asked Simon.

“They just haven’t got the cash.”

“So we will have to replace them with new tenants.”

“Simon, when you next travel from Beaufort Street to Whitechapel start counting the To Let’ signs on office blocks along the way. When you’ve passed a hundred you’ll find you still haven’t reached the City.”

“So what do you think we should do about it?”

“Try and sell one of our larger properties to secure cash flow. We can at least be thankful that even at these prices they are still worth a lot more than our borrowings. It’s the companies who are the other way around that have to call in the receiver.”

Simon thought about his overdraft, now approaching £100,000, and was beginning to wish he had accepted Ronnie’s generous offer to buy back his shares. He accepted reluctantly that the opportunity had now passed.

When the board meeting was over he drove to St. Mary’s to pick up Elizabeth. It was to be one of their three-times-a-week journeys to Pucklebridge as Simon tried to get round all the villages before Wilson called an election.

Archie Millburn was turning out to be a conscientious chairman who had accompanied them on nearly every trip.

“He’s been very kind to us,” said Elizabeth, on their way down.

“He certainly has,” said Simon. “Remember he also has to run Millburn Electronics. But, as he reminds us so often, once he’s introduced us to every village chairman we’ll be on our own.”

“Have you ever discovered why he and Charles Seymour didn’t see eye to eye?”

“No, he hasn’t mentioned his name since that night. All I know for certain is that they were at school together.”

“So what do you intend to do about Seymour?”

“Not a lot I can do,” said Simon. “Except keep my eyes very wide open.”

“The man who has deserted Edinburgh once too often”—Andrew read the Scottish Nationalist leaflet that had been sent to him that morning by his father. It was full of half-truths and innuendos.

“Andrew Fraser, the man who has forgotten Edinburgh, should no longer be allowed to represent a Scottish seat.” It went on to declare: “He now lives far away from the problems of his constituents in a smart apartment building in fashionable Chelsea among his Tory friends. He visits the City of Edinburgh only a few times a year to make well-publicized appearances … Has being a minister gone to his head?”

“How dare they?” cried Louise in a rage. Andrew had never seen his wife so angry. “How dare they come to my home, offer you the leadership of their dreadful little party, and then write such a pack of lies? And did you read this?” she added, pointing to the last paragraph, “‘His wife Louise, née Forsyth’,” she read out aloud, “‘comes from one of the wealthiest families in Scotland. She is a close relation of the owners of Forsyth’s in Princes Street.’ I’m a second cousin once removed, and they don’t even give me a discount in the main store.”

Andrew started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

He took her in his arms. “I always su

ffered under the illusion that you would inherit the Forsyth empire and I would never have to work again,” he mocked. “Now we shall have to live off Robert’s earnings as a star football player.”

“Don’t joke, Andrew. It won’t seem funny when the election comes round.”

“I’m far more concerned about the extreme left trying to infiltrate my General Management Committee,” he said, his voice changing, “than I am by Jock McPherson’s band of mad little islanders. But at this moment of time my red box is too full to worry about either of them.”

Raymond made such a penetrating speech during the second reading of the new Trade Union Bill that the Whips put him on the standing committee, the perfect medium for him to display his skills as the committee debated each clause, point by point. He was able to show his colleagues where the legal pitfalls were and how to find a way round them. The rest of the committee soon learned from Raymond the meaning of “mastering a brief,” and it was not long before trade union leaders were calling him at the House and even at his flat to learn his views on how their members should react to a host of different legal problems. Raymond showed patience with each of them and, more important, gave them excellent professional advice for the price of a phone call. He found it ironic how quickly they chose to forget that he was the author of Full Employement at Any Cost? Snippets began to appear in the national press, ranging from laudatory comments from those involved with the bill to a pointed suggestion in the Guardian that, whatever had happened in the past, it would be insupportable if Raymond Gould were not made a member of the Government in the near future.

“If they were to offer you a job, would it make any difference to our relationship?” Kate asked.

“Certainly,” said Raymond. “I shall have found the perfect excuse not to wear your blue shirts.”

Harold Wilson held the crumbling edifice together for a further six months before finally having to call a general election. He chose 10 October 1974.