First Among Equals

When the sergeant saw the severed head he pulled Elizabeth back. Two other bodies lay motionless in the road, one of them an old lady with the contents of her shopping bag spread around her.

Within minutes, six police cars had arrived and Special Branch officers had cordoned off the area with white ribbon. An ambulance rushed the bodies to Westminster Hospital. The job of picking up the remains of the police constable needed a very resolute man.

Elizabeth was taken to the hospital in a police car, where she learned that the old lady had died before arrival while her husband was on the critical list. When she told the surgeon in charge that she was a doctor he was more forthcoming and answered her questions candidly. Simon was suffering from multiple fractures, a dislocated hip, and a severe loss of blood. The only question he was not willing to be drawn on was when she asked about his chances.

She sat alone outside the operating theater waiting for any scrap of news. Hour after hour went by, and Elizabeth kept recalling Simon’s words: “Be tolerant. Always remember there are still men of goodwill in Northern Ireland.” She found it almost impossible not to scream, to think of the whole lot of them as evil murderers. Her husband had worked tirelessly on their behalf. He wasn’t a Catholic or a Protestant, just a man trying to do an impossible task. Although she couldn’t help thinking that it was she who had been the intended target.

Another hour passed.

A tired, gray-faced man came out into the corridor through the flapping rubber doors. “He’s still hanging on, Dr. Kerslake. Your husband has the constitution of an ox; most people would have let go by now.” He smiled “Can I find you a room so that you can get some sleep?”

“No, thank you,” Elizabeth replied. “I’d prefer to be near him.”

She rang home to check the children were coping and her mother answered the phone. She had rushed over the moment she had heard the news and was keeping them away from the radio and television.

“How is he?” she asked.

Elizabeth told her mother all she knew, then spoke to the children.

“We’re taking care of Grandmother,” Peter told her.

Elizabeth couldn’t hold back the tears. “Thank you, darling,” she said, and quickly replaced the receiver. She returned to the bench outside the operating theater, kicked off her shoes, curled her legs under her body, and tried to snatch some sleep.

She woke with a start in the early morning. Her back hurt and her neck was stiff. She walked slowly up and down the corridor in her bare feet stretching her aching limbs, searching for anyone who could tell her some news. Finally a nurse brought her a cup of tea and assured her that her husband was still alive. But what did “still alive” mean? She stood and watched the grim faces coming out of the operating theater and tried not to recognize the telltale signs of despair. The surgeon told her she ought to go home and rest: they would have nothing to tell her for several hours. A policeman kept all journalists—who were arriving by the minute—in an anteroom off the main corridor.

Elizabeth didn’t move from the corridor for another day and another night, and she didn’t return home until the surgeon told her it was all over.

When she heard the news she fell on her knees and wept.

“God must want the Irish problem solved as well,” he added. “Your husband will live, Dr. Kerslake, but it’s a miracle.”

“Got time for a quick one?” asked Alexander Dalglish.

“If you press me,” said Pimkin.

“Fiona,” shouted Alexander. “It’s Alec Pimkin, he’s dropped in for a drink.”

She came through to join them. She was dressed in a bright yellow frock and had allowed her hair to grow down past her shoulders.

“It suits you,” said Pimkin, tapping his bald head.

“Thank you,” said Fiona. “Why don’t we all go through to the drawing room?”

Pimkin happily obeyed and had soon settled himself into Alexander’s favorite chair.

“What will you have?” asked Fiona, as she stood by the drinks cabinet.

“A large gin with just a rumor of tonic.”

“Well, how’s the constituency faring since my resignation?”

“It ticks along, trying hard to survive the biggest sex scandal since Profumo,” chuckled Pimkin.

“I only hope it hasn’t harmed your election chances,” said Alexa

nder.

“Not a bit of it, old fellow,” said Pimkin, accepting the large Beefeaters and tonic Fiona handed him. “On the contrary, it’s taken their minds off me for a change.”