“If only we weren’t so short of money.”
“Don’t worry about the money,” said Simon.
“I do worry, but it may just be an excuse because I worry more about becoming bored when the children have grown up. I just wasn’t cut out to be a politician’s wife,” she added. “You should have married someone like Fiona Seymour and you’d be Prime Minister by now.”
“If that’s the only way I can be sure of getting the job I’ll stick with you,” said Simon, taking Elizabeth in his arms. Simon couldn’t help thinking of all the support his wife had given him during their marriage and even more so since his financial crisis. He knew exactly what his wife must do.
“You mustn’t be allowed to give up being a doctor,” he said. “It’s every bit as important as wanting to be a minister. Shall I have a word with Gerry Vaughan? As Shadow spokesman for Health he might—”
“Certainly not, Simon. If I am to get another job, it’ll be without anyone doing you or me a favor.”
Louise was now coping on her own, and had almost returned to a normal life except she still couldn’t speak. She seemed to be self-sufficient within her own world and the doctor agreed that she no longer needed a full-time nurse.
The day the nurse left Andrew decided to take Louise off for a week’s holiday abroad. He wanted to return to the South of France and the Colombe d’Or, but the specialist had advised against it, explaining that any past association might trigger off a memory that in itself could cause a further relapse.
“Witch doctors’ mumbo jumbo,” Andrew complained but nevertheless took her to Venice, not Colombe d’Or. Once there, he was delighted by the interest Louise showed in the beautiful and ancient city. Her eyes lit up at the sight of Torcello and she appeared to revel in the trip on a gondola down the twisting waterways past irreplaceable Italian architecture. Again and again she squeezed his hand. As they sat on a piazza for an evening drink, she inclined her head and listened to a quintet playing on St. Mark’s Square. Andrew was confident that she could now hear everything he told her. The night before they flew back to England he woke to find her reading James Morris’s Venice which he had left by his side of the bed. It was the first time she had opened a book since the accident. When he smiled at her she grinned back. He laughed, wanting to hear her laugh.
Andrew returned to the Ministry of Defense on Monday. On his desk there was a general directive from the Chancellor of the Exchequer, requiring the budget estimates for all the big-spending Departments of State. Andrew fought hard to keep the Polaris missile after being convinced by the Joint Chiefs of its strategic importance to the nation’s defense. He was, however, continually reminded by his colleagues in the House that it was party policy to rid themselves of “the warmongers’ toy.”
When the Secretary of State returned from Cabinet he told Andrew, “We’ve had our way: the Cabinet were impressed by the case. But I can promise you one thing—you won’t be the golden boy at this year’s party conference.”
“It will make a change for them even to notice me,” replied Andrew.
He breathed a sigh of relief while the Joint Chiefs were delighted, but a week later he lost—by default—the same argument with his own General Purposes Committee in Edinburgh. In his absence, they passed a resolution deploring the retention of the Polaris missile and demanded that all the ministers involved should reconsider their decision. They stopped short of naming Andrew, but everyone knew whose scalp they were after. His case was not helped by Tom Carson making yet another inflammatory speech in the House, claiming that Andrew had been browbeaten by the Joint Chiefs and was nothing more than a Polaris puppet.
Andrew’s trips to Edinburgh had become less frequent over the past year because of his commitments to Louise and the Defense Department. During the year three members of his General Management Committee had been replaced with a new group calling themselves “Militant Tendency” led by Frank Boyle. It wasn’t just Edinburgh Carlton that was facing the problem of a left-wing insurgence—as Andrew learned from colleague after colleague who was beginning to work out why the left were pushing a resolution at the party conference proposing that members should be re-selected for each election. Some of his more right-wing colleagues had already been replaced, and it didn’t take a Wrangler to work out that once a majority of the Trotskyites had secured places on his Management Committee Andrew could be removed at their whim, whatever his past experience or record.
Whenever Andrew was in Edinburgh the local people continually assured him of their support and their confidence in him, but he could not forget, despite their avowals, that it would still take only a handful of votes to remove him. Andrew feared what the outcome would be if many other members were facing the same prob
lem as he faced in Edinburgh.
“Dad, can I have a new cricket bat, please?”
“What’s wrong with the old one?” asked Simon, as they came out of the house.
“It’s too small,” he said, waving it around as if it was an extension to his arm.
“It will have to do, I’m afraid.”
“But Martin Henderson’s dad has given him a new bat to start the season.”
“I’m sorry, Peter, the truth is that Martin’s father is far better off than I am.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” said Peter with feeling. “I’m sure not going to be an MP when I grow up.” Simon smiled as his son removed an old cricket ball from his trouser pocket and tossed it over to his father. “Anyway, I bet you can’t get me out even though I’ve only got a small bat.”
“Don’t forget we still have the junior size stumps left over from last year,” said Simon, “so it will be just as hard to hit them.”
“Stop making excuses, Dad. Just admit you’re past it.”
Simon burst out laughing. “We’ll see,” he said, with more bravado than conviction. Simon always enjoyed a few overs in the garden against his elder son although at the age of thirteen Peter was already able to play his best deliveries with a confidence that was beginning to look ominous.
It was several overs before Simon removed Peter’s middle stump and took his turn at the crease.
Michael ran out of the house to join them in the field and Simon couldn’t help noticing that he was wearing a pair of jeans that were far too short and had once belonged to Peter.
“Get behind the wicket, nipper,” shouted Peter at his eleven-year-old brother. “Because that’s where most of the balls will be going.” Michael happily obeyed without comment.
A colleague in the House had recently warned Simon that by fourteen they began to beat you and by sixteen they hoped not to show they weren’t trying their hardest any longer.