“Why?” said Raymond. “That lot can’t influence my career.”
“Not at the moment,” said Kate. “But I predict that, like my fellow Americans at their conventions, the Labour party will one day select their leader at the party conference.”
“Never,” said Raymond. “That is and will always remain the prerogative of elected members of the House of Commons.”
“That’s the sort of crass, short-sighted, pompous statement I would expect a Republican to make,” she said, before plonking a pillow over his head. Raymond feigned death, so she lifted up a corner and whispered in his ear, “Have you read any of the resolutions to be debated at this year’s conference?”
“A few,” came back Raymond’s muffled reply.
“Then it might serve you well to note Mr. Anthony Wedg-wood Benn’s contribution,” she said, removing the pillow.
“What’s he up to this year?”
“He’s calling on ‘conference,’ as he insists on describing your gathering of the brothers, to demand that the next leader be chosen by a full vote of the delegates, making up an electoral college from all the constituencies, the trade union movement, and Parliament—I suspect in that order.”
“Madness. But what do you expect? He’s married to an American.”
“Today’s extremist is tomorrow’s moderate,” said Kate blithely.
“A typical American generalization.”
“Benjamin Disraeli, actually.”
Raymond placed the pillow back over his head.
Andrew always attended the party conference, although he would never have voted for Tony Benn’s resolution on the method of selecting a leader. He feared that if the trade unions were given that sort of power a leader who was totally unacceptable to his colleagues in the House of Commons could be selected. He was relieved when the motion was defeated but he noted that the majority against was far from overwhelming.
Despite being a minister Andrew could only get a small room at Blackpool in a guest house masquerading as a hotel, and that some two miles from the conference center. Such were the problems created by 4,000 self-important people converging on a seaside resort for a week that many had to forgo the Presidential Suite.
Andrew still had to carry on his job as Minister of State, with red boxes being delivered and taken every morning and afternoon, while making his presence felt at the conference. He spent half his time on a phone in the hotel lobby putting through transfer-charge calls to the Home Office. No one in the Soviet Union would have believed it, especially if they had realized that the Minister of State for Defense, who had the room next to Andrew’s, was pacing up and down the corridor waiting for the phone to be free.
Andrew had never addressed the 3,000 delegates at a party conference. Even Cabinet ministers are only allowed a maximum of ten minutes at the rostrum unless they are members of the National Executive. Over half the Labour Cabinet had failed to be elected to this body, which consisted mainly of the leaders of the larger trade unions.
As he left the morning session Andrew was surprised to find Raymond Gould roaming around looking lost. They fell on each other like sane men locked in an asylum and decided to lunch together at the River House, Andrew’s favorite restaurant a few miles outside of Blackpool.
Although they had both been in the House for nearly ten years it was the first time they discovered how much they had in common. Andrew had never considered himself a close friend of Raymond’s but he had always admired his stand on devaluation.
“You must have been disappointed when the PM didn’t ask you to rejoin the Government,” Andrew began.
Raymond stared down at the menu. “Very,” he finally admitted, as a girl joined them in the bar to take their order.
“Nevertheless, you were wise to come to Blackpool. This is where your strength lies.”
“Come on. Everybody knows you’re the trade unions’ pinup boy, and they still have a lot of influence as to who sits in the Cabinet.”
“I haven’t noticed,” said Raymond mournfully.
“You will when they eventually choose the leader.”
“That’s funny, that’s exactly what … Joyce said last week.”
“Sensible girl, Joyce, I fear it will happen in our time as members.”
Bill Scott, the proprietor, told them their table was ready and they went through to the small dining room.
“Why fear?” asked Raymond, as he took his seat.
“Middle-of-the-road democrats like myself will end up as so many leaves on a bonfire.”