First Among Equals

“Can we live off that?”

“Hardly. I don’t get the first payment until I’m sixty-five, so we have a twenty-five-year wait to find out.” He got up. “Can I give you a lift to the hospital?”

“No thanks. I intend to savor the joys of being a two-car family for at least another week. Just let’s hope the new Marina holds its price as well as Sir Michael Edwardes claimed it would.”

Simon laughed, kissed his wife, and left for his appointment with the Chief Whip at the House of Commons. As he started the car Elizabeth rushed out. “I forgot to tell you, Ronnie phoned while you were in the bath.”

“I’ll call him as soon as I reach the House.”

Simon made his way to the Commons. He felt sick as he passed Cheyne Walk and thought of Andrew Fraser and all he must be going through. He made a mental note to write to him immediately. At the Commons the policeman on the gate saluted as he drove in. “Good morning, sir,” he said.

“Good morning,” said Simon. He parked his car on the second level of the new underground car park and took the escalator up to the Members’ Entrance. He couldn’t help reflecting that ten years ago he would have taken the stairs. He continued through the Members’ Cloakroom, up the marble staircase to the Members’ Lobby. Habit made him turn left into the little post office to check whether he had any mail.

“Mr. Kerslake,” the man behind the counter called into an intercom, and a few seconds later a parcel and a packet of letters held together by a thick elastic band thudded into an office basket. Simon left the parcel marked “London School of Economics” and the letters on the desk in his room and checked his watch: over forty minutes before his appointment with the Chief Whip. He went to the nearest phone and dialed Nethercote and Company. Ronnie answered the phone himself.

“Sacked the telephone operator last Friday,” he explained. “Only me and my secreta

ry left.”

“You called, Ronnie,” a millimeter of hope in Simon’s voice.

“Yes, I wanted to express how I felt. I tried to write you a letter over the weekend but I’m not very good with words.” He paused. “Nor it seems with figures. I just wanted to say how desperately sorry I am. Elizabeth told me you were going to see the Chief Whip this morning. I’ll be thinking of you.”

“That’s kind, Ronnie, but I went into it with my eyes wide open. As an advocate of free enterprise, I can hardly complain when I turn out to be one of its victims.”

“A very philosophical attitude for this time of the morning.”

“How are things your end?”

“The receiver’s checking the books. I still believe we can get out with all our creditors fully paid. At least that way I’ll avoid the stigma of bankruptcy.” There was a longer pause. “Oh Christ, that was tactless.”

“Don’t worry about it, Ronnie, the overdraft was my decision.”

Simon already wished he had been as frank with his wife.

“Let’s have lunch one day next week.”

“It will have to be somewhere that takes luncheon vouchers,” said Simon wryly.

“Good luck, mate,” said Ronnie.

Simon decided to fill up the remaining thirty minutes at the House by going to the library and glancing over the rest of the morning press. He settled himself in a corner of the “B” Room, next to the fireplace over which hung a notice reminding members not to have overloud or prolonged conversations. He leafed through the papers, which all carried photographs of Andrew Fraser and his wife and son. The same portrait of five-year-old Robert appeared on almost every front page. Elizabeth was right: in so many respects they were lucky.

The story of the probable break-up of Nethercote and Company was detailed on the financial pages. They quoted approvingly Ronnie’s view that all creditors ought to be paid in full. Not one of the articles mentioned Simon’s name, but he could already anticipate the headlines in tomorrow’s paper with another picture of a young MP and his happy family. The Rise and Fall of Simon Kerslake.” Over ten years’ work quickly forgotten: he would be old news within a week.

The library clock inched toward the hour that he could no longer put off. Simon heaved himself out of the deep leather chair like an old man and walked slowly toward the Chief Whip’s office.

Miss Norse, the Chiefs ancient secretary, smiled benignly as he came in.

“Good morning, Mr. Kerslake,” she said brightly. “I’m afraid the Chief is still with Mrs. Thatcher but I did remind him of your appointment so I don’t expect him to be long. Would you care to have a seat?”

“Thank you,” he said.

Alec Pimkin always claimed that Miss Norse had a set patter for every occasion. His imitation of her saying, “I hope I find you in rude health, Mr. Pimkin,” had brought chuckles to the Members’ Dining Room on many occasions. He must have exaggerated, thought Simon.

“I hope I find you in rude health, Mr. Kerslake,” said Miss Norse, not looking up from her typing. Simon choked back a laugh.

“Very rude, thank you,” he said, wondering how many tragic stories or tales of lost opportunities Miss Norse had had to listen to over the years. She stopped suddenly and looked at her note pad.