Charles phoned Amanda every day while she was in Geneva. She kept assuring him all was well, and that the baby was expected on time. He had considered it prudent for Amanda not to remain in England advertising her pregnancy, a less than recent occurrence to even the most casual observer. She for her part did not complain. With £10,000 safely tucked away in a private Swiss account there were few little necessities she could not have brought to her, even in Geneva.
It had taken a few weeks for Charles to become accustomed to Government after such a long break. He enjoyed the challenge of the Treasury and quickly fell in with its strange traditions. He was constantly reminded that his was the department on which the Prime Minister kept the closest eye, making the challenge even greater. The civil servants, when asked their opinion of the new Financial Secretary, would reply variously: able, competent, efficient, hardworking—but without any hint of affection in their voices. When someone asked his driver, whose name Charles could never remember, the same question he proffered the view, “He’s the sort of minister who always sits in the back of a car. But I’d still put a week’s wages on Mr. Seymour becoming Prime Minister.”
Amanda produced her child in the middle of the ninth month. After a week’s recuperation she was allowed to return to England. She discovered traveling with her offspring was a nuisance and by the time she arrived at Heathrow she was more than happy to turn the child over to the nanny Charles had selected.
Charles had sent a car to pick her up from the airport. He had an unavoidable conference with a delegation of Japanese businessmen, he explained, all of them busy complaining about the new Government tariffs on imports. At the first opportunity to be rid of his oriental guests he bolted back to Eaton Square.
Amanda was there to meet him at the door. Charles had almost forgotten how beautiful his wife was, and how long she had been away.
“Where’s my child?” he asked, after he had given her a long kiss.
“In a nursery that’s more expensively furnished than our bedroom,” she replied a little sharply.
Charles ran up the wide staircase and along the passage. Amanda followed. He entered the nursery and stopped in his tracks as he stared at the future Earl of Bridgwater. The little black curls and deep brown eyes came as something of a shock.
“Good heavens,” said Charles, stepping forward for a closer examination. Amanda remained by the door, her hand clutching its handle.
She had a hundred answers ready for his question.
“He’s the spitting image of my great-grandfather. You skipped a couple of generations, Harry,” said Charles, lifting the boy high into the air, “but there’s no doubt you’re a real Seymour.”
Amanda sighed with inaudible relief. The hundred answers she could now keep to herself.
“It’s more than a couple of generations the little bastard has skipped,” said Pimkin. “It’s an entire continent.” He took another sip of christening champagne before continuing. “This poor creature, on the other hand,” he said, staring at Fiona’s firstborn, “bears a striking resemblance to Alexander. Dear little girl should have been
given a kinder legacy with which to start her life.”
“She’s beautiful,” said Fiona, picking Lucy up from the cradle to check her nappy.
“Now we know why you needed to be married so quickly,” added Pimkin between gulps. “At least this child made wedlock, even if it was a close-run thing.”
Fiona continued as if she had not heard his remark. “Have you actually seen Charles’s son?”
“I think we should refer to young Harry as Amanda’s child,” said Pimkin. “We don’t want to be had up under the Trade Descriptions Act.”
“Come on, Alec, have you seen Harry?” she asked, refusing to fill his empty glass.
“Yes, I have. And I am afraid he also bears too striking a resemblance to his father for it to go unnoticed in later life.”
“Anyone we know?” asked Fiona, probing.
“I am not a scandalmonger,” said Pimkin, removing a crumb from his waistcoat. “As you well know. But a certain Brazilian fazendeiro who frequents Cowdray Park and Ascot during the summer months has obviously maintained his interest in English fillies.”
Pimkin confidently held out his glass.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
JAMES CALLAGHAN’S RESIGNATION as Labour party leader in October 1980 took none of the political analysts by surprise. Unlike his predecessor he was over sixty-five, the age at which his party had recommended retirement.
Those same analysts were surprised, however, when Michael Foot, the veteran left-winger, defeated Denis Healey by 139 votes to 129 to become the new leader of the Labour party. The analysts immediately predicted a long spell of opposition for the socialists.
The Conservatives took much pleasure in watching a leadership struggle from the sidelines for a change. When Charles Seymour heard the result it amused him that the Labour party had ended up replacing a sixty-year-old with a sixty-four-year-old, who in turn was being replaced by a sixty-seven-year-old. Lord Shinwell, who at the age of ninety-six was the oldest living former Labour Cabinet minister, declared that he would be a candidate for party leadership when Foot retired.
When the election for the Shadow Cabinet came a week later Andrew decided not to submit his name. Like many of his colleagues he liked the new leader personally but had rarely been able to agree with him on domestic issues and was totally opposed to his defense and European policies. Instead he took on the chairmanship of the Select Committee on Scottish Affairs. Raymond for his part considered that Foot was destined to be no more than an interim leader and was therefore quite happy to serve under him. When the election to the Shadow Cabinet was announced Raymond came eighth. Michael Foot invited him to continue shadowing the Trade portfolio.
When Andrew entered the Commons Chamber the day after the election he walked up the gangway and took a seat on the back benches for the first time in fourteen years. He looked down at Raymond lounging on the front bench and recalled his own words “There may well come a day when I sit and envy you from the same back benches.”
Andrew was not surprised when he heard from his local committee in Edinburgh that he would once again have to submit himself to reselection as their candidate some time during 1981. When the Labour conference the previous October had approved the mandatory reselection of Labour MPs he had realized his biggest battle would be internal. Frank Boyle had even managed to replace another of Andrew’s supporters with one of his own henchmen.