First Among Equals

Roy Jenkins, the former deputy leader of the Labour party, was returning from Brussels as soon as his term as President of the European Commission came to an end. After delivering the Dimbleby lecture on television Jenkins made no secret of the fact that he was considering founding a new party that would take in those moderate radicals who felt the Labour party had swung too far to the left. The party conference had removed the power of selection of the leaders from Members of Parliament; for many this was the final straw, and several Labour MPs told Jenkins they were ready to defect. Andrew would have preferred to remain loyal to the party and try to change it from the inside, but he was fast coming to the conclusion that that hour had passed.

In his morning mail was a curt note from the constituency secretary informing him that Frank Boyle was going to oppose him for the nomination. Andrew flew up to Edinburgh on the day of the meeting, fearing the worst. No one met him at the airport, and at party headquarters David Connaught greeted him with a glum face.

Andrew stood in front of the committee in a cold, cheerless room and answered the same questions that had been put to him only three years before. He gave exactly the same answers: where he stood on nuclear disarmament, why he was in favor of a close association with the United States, his attitude to a wealth tax—on and on, predictable question after predictable question, but he never once allowed them to exasperate him.

He ended with the words: “I have been proud to serve the people of Edinburgh Carlton for almost twenty years as the Labour member and hope to do so for at least another twenty. If you now feel unable to reselect me I would have to consider standing as an independent candidate.” For the first time, one or two members of the committee looked anxious.

“We are not intimidated by your threats, Mr. Fraser,” said Frank Boyle. “The Labour party has always been bigger than any individual. Now we know where Mr. Fraser’s real interests lie I suggest we move to a vote.”

Twelve little slips of paper were passed out. “Fraser” or “Boyle” were scribbled on them before they were sent back to the chairman.

Frank Boyle slowly gathered up the slips, clearly relishing Andrew’s discomfort. He unfolded the first slip of paper. “Boyle,” he said, glancing at the others round the table.

He opened a second—“Fraser”—then a third, “Boyle,” followed by “Fraser, Fraser, Fraser.”

Andrew kept count in his head: four-two in his favor.

“Fraser,” followed by “Boyle, Boyle, Fraser.”

Six-four in Andrew’s favor, with two still unopened: he only needed one more vote. “Boyle.” Six-five. The chairman took some considerable time opening the last slip.

“Boyle,” he announced in triumph.

He paused for effect. “Six votes all,” he declared. “Under standing order forty-two of the Party Constitution,” he said, as if he had learned the words off by heart before the meeting, “in the result of a tie the chairman shall have the casting vote.” He paused once again.

“Boyle,” he said, lingering for a moment. “I therefore declare that Frank Boyle is selected as the official Labour party candidate for the constituency of Edinburgh Carlton at the next general election.” He turned to Andrew and said, “We shall no longer be requiring your services, Mr. Fraser.”

“I would like to thank those of you who supported me,” Andrew said quietly and left without another word.

The next day the Scotsman came out with a lengthy article on the dangers of a small group of willful people having the power to remove a member who had served his constituents honorably over a long period of time. Andrew phoned Stuart Gray to thank him. “I only wish the article had come out the day before,” he said.

“It was set up for yesterday,” Stuart told him, “but the announcement from Buckingham Palace of Prince Charles’s engagement to Lady Diana Spencer moved everything else out—even the Rangers—Celtic report. By the way, doesn’t Boyle’s nomination have to be confirmed by his General Management Committee?”

“Yes, but they are putty in his hands. That would be like trying to explain to your mother-in-law about your wife’s nagging.”

“Then why don’t you appeal to the National Executive and ask for the decision to be put to a full meeting of the constituency party?”

“Because it would take weeks to get the decision overturned and more importantly I’m no longer certain that I want to fight the seat as a Labour candidate.”

Andrew listened to the reporter’s question and said, “Yes, you may quote me.”

As the date for an election drew nearer Charles decided it might be wis

e to introduce Amanda to the constituency. He had explained to those who inquired that his wife had had rather a bad time of it after the birth, and had been told by her doctors not to participate in anything that might raise her blood pressure—though one or two constituents considered that the Sussex Downs’ Conservatives would find it hard to raise the blood pressure of a ninety-year-old with a pacemaker. Charles had also decided to leave Harry at home, explaining that it was he who had chosen a public life, not his son.

The annual Garden Party held in the grounds of Lord Cuckfield’s country home seemed to Charles to be the ideal opportunity to show off Amanda and he asked her to be certain to wear something appropriate.

He was aware that designer jeans had come into fashion, and that his clothes-conscious wife never seemed to dress in the same thing twice. He also knew that liberated women didn’t wear bras. But he was nevertheless shocked when he saw Amanda in a near see-through blouse and jeans so tight it looked as if she had been poured into them. Charles was genuinely horrified.

“Can’t you find something a little more … conservative?” he suggested.

“Like the things that old frump Fiona used to wear?”

Charles couldn’t think of a suitable reply. “The Garden Party will be frightfully dull,” said Charles desperately. “Perhaps I should go on my own.”

Amanda turned and looked him in the eye. “Are you ashamed of me, Charlie?”

He drove his wife silently down to the constituency and every time he glanced over at her he wanted to make an excuse to turn back. When they arrived at Lord Cuckfield’s home his worst fears were confirmed. Neither the men nor the women could take their eyes off Amanda as she strolled around the lawns devouring strawberries. Many of them would have used the word “hussy” if she hadn’t been the member’s wife.