Andrew held Louise’s hand as they approached the door of Grunechan Children’s Home on the outskirts of Edinburgh. The matron was waiting on the freshly scrubbed doorstep to greet them.
“Good morning, Minister,” she said. “We are honored that you have chosen our little home.”
Andrew and Louise smiled.
“Will you be kind enough to follow me?” She led them down a dimly lit corridor to her room, her starched blue uniform crackling as she walked.
“All the children are in the playground at the moment but you will be able to see them from my window.” Andrew had already gone over all the orphans’ histories and photographs; he couldn’t help noticing how one of them bore a striking resemblance to Robert.
They both looked out of the window for several minutes but Louise showed no interest in any of the children. When the boy who resembled Robert ran toward the window, she turned away and took a seat in the corner.
Andrew shook his head. The matron’s lips turned down at the corners.
Coffee and biscuits arrived and while they were eating them Andrew tried once more. “Did you want Matron to bring anyone in to meet you, darling?” Louise shook her head. Andrew cursed himself as he feared the experience might only have done her more harm.
“Have we seen everyone?” he asked, looking for an excuse to leave quickly.
“Yes, sir,” said the matron, putting down her cup of coffee. “Well,” she hesitated, “there was one girl we didn’t bother you with.”
“Why not?” asked Andrew out of curiosity.
“Well, you see, she’s black.”
Andrew stiffened.
“And what’s more,” continued the matron, “we have absolutely no idea who her parents were. She was left on the doorstep. Not at all the sort of girl to be brought up in a minister’s home.”
Andrew was so incensed that he quite forgot about consulting Louise who was still resting silently in the corner.
“I should like to see her,” he said.
“If you insist,” said the matron, a little taken aback. “I’m afraid she hasn’t got her best clothes on,” she added before she left the room.
Andrew paced up and down, conscious that if Louise hadn’t been there he might well have lost his temper with the woman. The matron returned a few moments later with a little girl aged four, perhaps five, and so thin that her dress hung on her like a coathanger. Andrew couldn’t see her face because she kept her head bowed.
“Look up, child,” commanded the matron. The girl raised her head slowly. She had the most perfect oval face and olive skin, piercing black eyes, and a smile that immediately captivated Andrew.
“What’s your name?” he asked quietly.
“Clarissa,” she said, and dropped her head again. He wanted to help her so much, and it made him feel guilty that he had put the poor child through such a pointless ordeal.
The matron still looked affronted and with a sniff she said, “You can leave us now, child.” Clarissa turned and walked toward the door. Looking at Louise the matron added, “I am sure you agree with me, Mrs. Fraser, the girl’s not at all suitable.”
They both turned to Louise. Her face was alight, her eyes shining in a way Andrew had not seen since Robert’s death. She stood up, walked quickly toward the child before she could reach the door, and stared into her black eyes.
“I think you’re beautiful,” Louise said, “and I do hope you will want to come and live with us.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“ORDER, ORDER” HAD meant nothing to the British electorate until 1978 when the House passed a resolution allowing the proceedings in the Commons to be broadcast on radio. Simon had supported the motion on broadcasting, putting forward the argument that radio was a further extension of democracy as it showed the House at work and allowed the voters to know exactly what their elected representatives were up to. Simon listened carefully to a number of his supplementaries, and realized for the first time that he spoke a little too quickly when he had a minister on the run.
Raymond, on the other hand, did not support the motion as he feared that the cries of “Hear, hear” or “Shame” and the heckling of the Prime Minister would sound to listeners like schoolchildren in a playground squabble. Overhearing the words with only one’s imagination to set the scene would, he believed, create a false impression about the many aspects of a member’s daily duties. When one evening Raymond heard a parliamentary debate in which he had taken part he was delighted to discover his arguments carried so much conviction.
When Andrew heard his own voice on Radio Four one morning answering questions on defense issues he was suddenly aware that what he had always considered was a faint trace of a Scottish accent was in fact—when he was angry or excited—quite pronounced.
Charles found the morning program an excellent way of catching up with any proceedings he had missed the previous day. As he now woke each morning alone, “Yesterday in Parliament” became his constant companion. He hadn’t been aware of how upper class he sounded until the occasion on which he followed Tom Carson. He had no intention of changing his voice for the radio.
When the Queen opened the new underground extension to Heathrow airp