“Good. Find out how she feels,” said the specialist, “and if you both decide to go ahead I’ll arrange a meeting with the local authority.” He rose from behind his desk. “I’m sure it won’t be hard to find you a suitable child.”
“If it were possible for him to come from a Scottish orphans’ home, I would appreciate it.”
The specialist nodded. “I’ll be in touch with you as soon as I have any news.”
When Charles returned home he knew at once Fiona had left. He felt an immediate relief. After a week at his club, he was glad the charade was over, a clean, irrevocable break. He strolled into the drawing room and stopped: something was wrong. It took him a few moments before he realized what she had done.
Fiona had removed every one of the family paintings.
No Wellington above the fireplace, no Victoria behind the sofa. Where the two Landseers and the Constable had hung there was nothing more than thin dusty outlines indicating the size of each picture she had removed. He walked to the library: the Van Dyck, the Murillo, and the two small Rembrandts were also missing. Charles ran down the hall. It couldn’t be possible, he thought, as he threw open the dining room door. It was. He stared at the blank wall where only the previous week the Holbein portrait of the first Earl of Bridgwater had hung.
Charles scrabbled in the back of his pocket diary for the number and dialed it frantically. Mr. Cruddick listened to the story in silence.
“Remembering how sensitive you are about publicity, Mr. Seymour, there are two avenues of approach,” he began in his normal level tone and sounding unperturbed. “You can grin and bear it, or the alternative is one I have used often in the past.”
Because of the demands of his new job Raymond saw less of Kate and almost nothing of Joyce apart from his fortnightly visits to Leeds. He worked from eight in the morning until he fell asleep at night.
“And you love every minute of it,” Kate reminded him whenever he complained. Raymond had also become aware of the subtle changes that had taken place in his life since he had become a member of the Cabinet, the way he was treated by other people, how quickly his slightest whim was granted, how flattery fell from almost every tongue. He began to enjoy the change in status although Kate reminded him that only the Queen could afford to get used to it.
At the Labour party conference that year he allowed his name to be put forward for a place on the National Executive. Although he failed to be elected he managed to finish ahead of several other Cabinet ministers and polled only a few votes less than Neil Kinnock, the darling of the constituency section.
Andrew Fraser, who now looked upon Raymond as someone he could confide in, joined Raymond for what was becoming their traditional conference lunch together on the third day. Andrew told him of his distress at the party’s continued drift to the left.
“If some of those resolutions on defense are passed my life will be made impossible,” he said, trying to cut into a very tough steak.
“The hotheads always put up resolutions that are never allowed more than a token discussion.”
‘Token discussion be damned. Some of their mad ideas are beginning to gain credence which, translated, could become party policy.”
“Any particular resolution worrying you?” asked Raymond.
“Yes, Tony Benn’s latest proposal that members must be re-selected before every election. His idea of democracy and accountability.”
“Why should you fear that?”
“If your management committee is taken over by half a dozen Trots they can reverse a decision 50,000 voters have previously agreed on.”
“You’re overreacting, Andrew.”
“Raymond, if we lose the next election I can see a split in the party that will be so great we may never recover.”
“They’ve been saying that in the Labour party since the day it was founded.”
“I hope you’re right, but I fear times have changed,” said Andrew. “Not so long ago it was you who envied me.”
“That can change again.” Raymond abandoned the steak, waved his hand, and asked the waitress to bring two large brandies.
Charles picked up the phone and dialed a number he had not needed to look up. The new young Portuguese maid answered.
“Is Lady Fiona at home?”
“Lady no home, sir.”
“Do you know where she is?” asked Charles, speaking slowly and clearly.
“Go down to country, expect back six o’clock. Take message please?”
“No, thank you,” said Charles. “I’ll call this evening.” He replaced the receiver.