First Among Equals

“Can I help you, sir?” the hall porter asked.

“Er—is the dining room in this hotel on the fourth floor?” asked Charles.

“No, sir,” replied the hall porter, surprised. “The dining room is on the ground floor to your left”—he indicated the way with a sweep of his hand—“there are only bedrooms on the fourth floor.”

“Thank you,” said Charles and marched back outside.

He returned slowly to the Economist building, incensed, where he waited for nearly two hours pacing up and down St. James’s before the man emerged from the Stafford Hotel; Alexander Dalglish hailed a taxi and disappeared in the direction of Piccadilly.

Fiona left the hotel about twenty minutes later, and took the path through to the park before setting off toward Eaton Square. On three occasions Charles had to fall back to be certain Fiona didn’t spot him; once he was so close he thought he saw a smile of satisfaction come over her face.

He had followed his wife most of the way across St. James’s Park when he suddenly remembered. He checked his watch, then dashed back to the roadside, hailed a taxi, and shouted, “The House of Commons, as fast as you can.” The cabbie took seven minutes and Charles passed him two pound notes before running up the steps into the Members’ Lobby and through to the Chamber out of breath. He stopped by the Serjeant-at-Arms’s chair.

From the table where he sat during Committee of the whole House, the Mace lowered on its supports in front of the table, the chairman of Ways and Means faced a packed House. He read from the division list.

“The Ayes to the right 294.

The Noes to the left 293.

The Ayes have it, the Ayes have it.”

The Government benches cheered and the Conservatives looked distinctly glum. “What clause were they debating?” a still out of breath Charles asked the Serjeant-at-Arms.

“Clause 110, Mr. Seymour.”

BOOK FOUR

1977-1989 THE CABINET

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

RAYMOND’S SECOND TRIP to the States was at the behest of the Secretary of State for Trade: he was asked to present the country’s export and import assessment to the International Monetary Fund, following up a loan granted to Britain the previous November. His civil servants went over the prepared speech with him again and again, emphasizing to their minister the responsibility that had been placed on his shoulders. Even the Governor of the Bank of England’s private office had been consulted.

“A chance to impress a few people beyond the boundaries of Leeds,” Kate assured him.

Raymond’s speech was scheduled for the Wednesday morning. He flew into Washington on the Sunday and spent Monday and Tuesday listening to the problems of other nations’ trade ministers while trying to get used to the dreadful earphones and the female interpreter.

The conference was attended by most of the leading industrial nations and the British Ambassador, Sir Peter Ramsbotham, told Raymond over dinner at the Embassy that this was a real chance to convince the hard-headed international bankers that Britain cared about economic realities and was still worth their financial backing.

Raymond soon realized that convincing such a gathering required a very different technique from shouting from a soap box on a street corner in Leeds or even addressing the House from the dispatch box. He was glad he had not been scheduled to present his case on the opening day. Over leisurely lunches he re-established his existing contacts in Congress and made some new ones.

The night before he was to deliver his speech Raymond hardly slept. He continued to rehearse each crucial phrase and repeated the salient points that needed to be emphasized until he almost knew them by heart. At three o’clock in the morning he dropped his speech on the floor beside his bed and phoned Kate to have a chat before she went to work.

“I’d enjoy hearing your speech at the conference,” she told him. “Although I don’t suppose it would be much different from the thirty times I’ve listened to it in the bedroom.”

Once he had said good-bye to Kate he fell into a deep sleep. He woke early that morning and went over the speech one last time before leaving for the conference center.

All the homework and preparation proved worthwhile. By the time he turned the last page Raymond couldn’t be certain how convincing his case had been, but he knew it was the best speech he had ever delivered. When he looked up the smiles all around the oval table assured him that his contribution had been well received. As the ambassador pointed out to him as he rose to leave, any signs of emotion at these gatherings were almost unknown. He felt confident that the IMF loan would be renewed.

There followed two further speeches before they broke for lunch. At the end of the afternoon session Raymond walked out into the clear Washington air and decided to make his way back to the Embassy on foot. He was exhilarated by the experience of dominating an international conference and picked up an evening paper: an article covering the conference suggested that Raymond would be Britain’s next Labor Chancellor. He smiled at the spelling. Just the closing day to go, followed by the official banquet and he would be back home by the weekend.

When he reached the Embassy the guard had to double-check: they weren’t used to ministers arriving on foot and without a bodyguard. Raymond was allowed to proceed down the tree-lined drive toward the massive Lutyens building. He looked up to see the British flag was flying at half mast and wondered which distinguished American had died.

“Who has died?” he asked the tail-coated butler who opened the door for him.

“The Foreign Secretary, sir.”

“Anthony Crosland? I knew he had gone into hospital, but …” said Raymond almost to himself. He hurried into the Embassy to find it abuzz with telexes and coded messages. Raymond sat alone in his private sitting room for several hours and later, to the horror of the security staff, slipped out for a quiet dinner at the Mayflower Hotel with Senator Hart.