First Among Equals

Raymond immediately returned to his constituency to fight his fifth campaign. When he met Joyce at Leeds City station he couldn’t help remembering that his dumpy wife was only four years older than Kate. He kissed her on the cheek as one might a distant relative, then she drove him back to their Chapel Allerton home.

Joyce chatted away on the journey home and it became clear that the constituency was under control and that this time Fred Padgett was well prepared for a general election. “He hasn’t really stopped since the last one,” she said. As for Joyce, she was undoubtedly better organized than the agent and the secretary put together. What was more, Raymond thought, she enjoyed it. He glanced over at her and couldn’t help thinking she even looked prettier at election time.

Unlike his colleagues in rural seats, Raymond did not have to make speech after speech in little village halls. His votes were to be found in the high street where he addressed the midday shoppers through a megaphone, and walked around supermarkets, pubs, and clubs, grasping hands before repeating the whole process a few streets away.

Joyce set her husband a schedule that allowed few people in the Leeds community to escape him. Some saw him a dozen times during the three-week campaign—most of them at the football match on the Saturday afternoon before the election.

Once the game was over Raymond was back trooping round the working men’s clubs, drinking pint after pint of John Smith’s bitter. He accepted it was inevitable that he would put on half a stone during any election campaign. He dreaded what Kate’s comments would be when she saw him. Somehow he always found a few minutes in each day to steal away and phone her. She seemed so busy and full of news it only made Raymond feel downcast; she couldn’t possibly be missing him.

The local trade unionists backed Raymond to the hilt. They may have found him stuck up and distant in the past, but they knew “where his heart was,” as they confided to anyone who would listen. They banged on doors, delivered leaflets, drove cars to polling booths. They rose before he did in the morning and could still be found preaching to the converted after the pubs had thrown them out at night.

Raymond and Joyce cast their votes in the local secondary school on the Thursday of election day, looking forward to a large Labour victory. The Labour party duly gained a working majority in the House of forty-three over the Conservatives, but only three over all the parties combined. Nevertheless Harold Wilson looked set for another five years when the Queen invited him to form his fourth administration. The count in Leeds that night gave Raymond his biggest majority ever: 12,207 votes.

He spent the whole of Friday and Saturday thanking his constituents, then set out for London on the Sunday evening.

“He must invite you to join the Government this time,” said Joyce, as she walked down the platform of Leeds City station with her husband.

“I wonder,” said Raymond, kissing his wife on the other cheek. He waved at her as the train pulled out of the station. She waved back enthusiastically.

“I do like your new blue shirt, it really suits you,” were the last words he heard her say.

During the election campaign Charles had had to spend a lot of time at the bank because of a run on the pound. Fiona seemed to be everywhere in the constituency at once, assuring voters that her husband was just a few yards behind.

After the little slips were counted the swing against Charles to the Labour candidate didn’t amount to more than one percent in his 22,000 majority. When he heard the overall result he returned to London resigned to a long spell in Opposition. As he began to catch up with his colleagues in the House, he found many of them already saying openly that Heath had to go after two election defeats in a row.

Charles knew then that he would have to make up his mind once again on where he stood over the election of a new party leader, and that once again he must pick the right man.

Andrew Fraser returned to London after a grueling and unhappy campaign. The Scottish Nationalists had concentrated their attack on him, Jock McPherson sailing close to libel and slander. Sir Duncan advised his son against any legal action. “Only plays into their hands,” he warned. “Small parties always benefit from the publicity.”

Louise wanted him to inform the press that he had been offered the leadership of the SNP but Andrew felt it would serve no purpose, and might even rebound against him: and he also reminded her that he had given his word. In the last week of the campaign he spent most of his time trying—and failing—to stop Frank Boyle, a Communist, who had recently moved from Glasgow, from being elected to his General Management Committee. On polling day he scraped home by 1,656, Jock McPherson taking second place. At least he looked secure for another five years; but it didn’t help that the Scottish Nationalists had increased their overall seats in the House to eleven.

Andrew, Louise, and Robert took the plane to London on the Sunday night to find the red box awaiting them and a message that the Prime Minister wanted Andrew to continue as Minister of State at the Home Office.

Simon had a glorious campaign. He and Elizabeth had started moving into their new cottage the day the election was announced, thankful that, now she had to commute, her salary at the hospital had made it possible for them to employ a nanny. A double bed and a couple of chairs sufficed as Elizabeth cooked on an old Aga from provisions still packed in tea chests. They seemed to use the same two forks for everything. During the campaign Simon covered the 200-square-mile constituency for a second time and assured his wife that she need only take the final week off from from her duties at St. Mary’s.

The voters of Pucklebridge sent Simon Kerslake back to Parliament with a majority of 18,419, the largest in the constituency’s history. The local people had quickly come to the conclusion that they now had a member who was destined to have a Cabinet career.

Kate kept her remarks very gentle as it became obvious by the Monday night that the Prime Minister was not going to offer Raymond a job in the new administration. She cooked his favorite meal of roast beef—overdone—and Yorkshire pudding in the flat that night, but he didn’t comment on it and hardly spoke.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

AFTER SIMON HAD been back at the Commons for a week he felt a sense of déjà vu, a feeling that most members returning to the House for a second or even third time often experience. The sense was heightened by finding everything unchanged, even the policeman who greeted him at the Members’ Entrance. When Edward Heath announced his Shadow team Simon was not surprised that he wasn’t included, as he never had been a known supporter of the Tory leader. He was, however, mystified but not displeased to discover Charles Seymour was not-among the names to be found in the Shadow Cabinet.

“Do you regret turning him down now the full team has been published?” asked Fiona, looking up from her copy of the Daily Mail.

“It wasn’t an easy decision but I think it’ll prove right in the long run,” replied Charles, buttering another piece of toast.

“What did he offer in the end?”

“Shadow Minister of Industry.”

“That sounds rather interesting,” said Fiona.

“Everything about it was interesting except the salary, which would have been nothing. Don’t forget the bank pays me £40,000 a year while I’m chairman.”

Fiona folded her paper. “But you’ve just appointed a full-time chief executive, so your responsibilities at the bank should be only part-time compared with when you took the chair over. So what’s your real reason?”

Charles accepted that he could rarely fool Fiona. “The truth is that I’m far from certain Ted will be leading the party at the next election.”