Andrew began each day of the campaign with a press conference at which he discussed local matters that affected his constituents, answered criticisms made by the other candidates, and dealt with any national issues that had arisen during the previous twenty-four hours. He then spent the rest of the morning touring the constituency with a loudspeaker van, entreating people to “Send Fraser back to Westminster.” He and Louise would fit in a pub lunch together before the dreaded door-to-door canvassing began.
“You’ll enjoy this,” said Andrew as they walked up to the first door on a cold Monday morning. The street list of names was on a card in his pocket. Andrew pressed the door bell, and a little jingle could be heard. A woman still in her dressing gown answered it a few moments later.
“Good morning, Mrs. Foster,” he began. “My name is Andrew Fraser. I’m your Labour candidate.”
“Oh, how nice to meet you. I have so much I need to discuss with you—won’t you come in and have a cup of tea?”
“It’s kind of you, Mrs. Foster, but I have rather a lot of ground to cover during the next few days.” When the door closed, Andrew put a blue line through her name on his card.
“How can you be sure she’s Conservative?” demanded Louise, “she seemed so friendly.”
“The Conservatives are trained to ask all the other candidates in for tea and waste their time. Your own side will always say, ‘You have my vote, don’t spend your time with me,’ and let you get on to those who are genuinely uncommitted.”
“I always vote for Fraser,” said Mrs. Foster’s next-door neighbor. “Labour for parliament, Tory for the local council.”
“But don’t you feel Sir Duncan should be removed from the council?” asked Andrew, grinning.
“Certainly not, and that’s what I told him when he suggested I shouldn’t vote for you.”
Andrew put a red line through the name and knocked on the next door.
“My name is Andrew Fraser and I—”
“I know who you are, young man, and I’ll have none of your politics, or your father’s for that matter.”
“May I ask who you will be voting for?” asked Andrew.
“Scottish Nationalist.”
“Why?” asked Louise.
“Because the oil belongs to us, not those bloody Sassenachs.”
“Surely it’s better for the United Kingdom to remain as one body?” suggested Andrew. “At least that way—”
“Never. The Act of 1707 was a disgrace to our nation.”
“But—” began Louise enthusiastically. Andrew put a hand on her arm. “Thank you, sir, for your time,” and prodded his wife gently down the path.
“Sorry, Louise,” said Andrew, when they were back on the pavement. “Once they mention the 1707 Act of Union we have no chance; some Scots have remarkably long memories.”
He knocked on the next door. A fat man answered it, a dog lead in his hand.
“My name is Andrew Fraser, I—”
“Get lost, creep,” came back the reply.
“Who are you calling creep?” Louise retaliated as the door was slammed in their faces. “Charming man.”
“Don’t be offended, darling. He was referring to me, not you.”
“What will you put by his name?”
“A question mark. No way of telling who he votes for. Probably abstains.”
He tried the next door.
“Hello, Andrew,” said a lady before he could open his mouth. “Don’t waste your time on me, I always vote for you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Irvine,” said Andrew, checking his house list. “What about your next-door neighbor?” he asked, pointing back.
“Ah, he’s an irritable old basket, but I’ll see he gets to the polls on the day and puts his cross in the right box. He’d better, or I’ll stop keeping an eye on his greyhound for him when he’s out.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Irvine,” said Andrew, laughing.
“One more red,” he told Louise as they returned to the pavement.
“And you might even pick up the greyhound vote.”
They covered four streets during the next three hours, and Andrew put red lines through those names he was certain would support him on polling day.
“Why do you have to be so sure?” asked Louise.
“Because when we pick them up to vote on election day we don’t want to remind the opposition, let alone arrange a lift for someone who then takes pleasure in voting Tory.”
Louise laughed. “Politics is so dishonest.”
“Be relieved you’re not married to an American senator,” said Andrew, putting a red line through the last name in the street. “At least we don’t have to be millionaires to stand. Time for a quick bite before the evening meeting,” he added, taking his wife’s hand. On their way back to their headquarters they came across their Conservative opponent, but Andrew didn’t respond when Hector McGregor tried to engage him in conversation, again holding him up.
Louise never joined her husband again on these sessions, deciding she could be of more use working back in the Committee Rooms.
In the public meetings held each evening, Andrew made the same speech thirty-two times in twenty-four days with only slight variations to account for national developments. Louise sat loyally through every one of them, always laughing at his punch lines and starting the clapping whenever he made a telling point. Somehow she managed to remain fresh and lively even at the end of the day when she drove her husband home.
By the eve of the election all the press were predicting a clear majority for Labour, but Andrew observed the gleam in his father’s eye when he passed him in the street canvassing for McGregor.
At five-thirty on the morning of the election Louise woke Andrew with a cup of tea. He didn’t see another cup that day. To his relief the sun was shining when he pulled back the curtains after he had had his bath: bad weather invariably helped the Tories with their never-ending pool of cars, ferrying voters to the polling booths. He returned to the bedroom to find his wife pinning to the lapel of his jacket a vast red rosette bearing the exhortation, “Send Fraser back to Westminster.”
He was strolling through the streets of Edinburgh shaking hands, chatting to well-wishers, trying to convince last-minute “don’t knows” when he spotted his father heading toward him. They ended up facing each other in the middle of the street.
“It’s going to be a close-run thing,” said Sir Duncan.
“Then I’ll know who to blame if I lose by one vote,” said Andrew.
Sir Duncan looked conspiratorially about him, then lowered his voice. “If you win by one vote you’ll have me to thank, laddie.” He marched away entreating the citizens of Edinburgh to remove the turncoat Fraser.
The next time father and son met was at the count that evening. As the little piles of votes began to grow it became obvious that Andrew would be returned to Parliament, and Hector McGregor was soon shaking his head in disappointment.
But when the first result was announced in Guildford and showed a four percent swing to the Tories all the previous predictions of a strong Labour victory began to look unrealistic. As each return was announced from town hall platforms all over the country it became progressively more obvious that the Tories were going to end up with a large enough majority to govern.
“I would have thought,” Sir Duncan said to his son as the trend was confirmed across the nation, “that you’ll be in for a wee spell of Opposition.”
“Wee is the important word,” was all that Andrew replied.
Andrew retained his seat, keeping the swing against him down to one percent and his majority a safe 4,009. Scotland wasn’t as sure about Heath as the rest of the country, which showed an average swing against Labour of 4.7 percent.
Simon Kerslake managed a four-figure majority for the first time when he won Coventry Central by 2,118.
When Fiona was asked by the old earl how many votes Charles had won by, she said she couldn’t be certain but she did recall Charle
s telling a journalist it was more than the other candidates put together.
Raymond Gould suffered an adverse swing of only two percent and was returned with a 10,416 majority. The people of Leeds admire independence in a member, especially when it comes to a matter of principle.
The Conservatives captured Parliament with an overall majority of thirty. Her Majesty the Queen called for Edward Heath and asked him to form a Government. He kissed the hands of his sovereign and accepted her commission.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WHEN SIMON AWOKE on the morning after the election he felt both exhausted and exhilarated. He lay in bed trying to imagine how those Labour ministers, who only the previous day had assumed they would be returning to their departments, would be feeling now.
Elizabeth stirred, let out a small sleep-filled sigh. Simon stared down at his wife. In the seven years of their marriage she had lost none of her attraction for him, but he still took pleasure in just looking at her sleeping form. Her long fair hair rested on her shoulders and her slim, firm figure curved gently beneath the silk nightgown. He started stroking her back and watched her slowly come out of sleep. When she finally awoke she turned over and he took her in his arms.
“I admire your energy,” she said. “If you’re still fit after three weeks on the trail I can hardly claim to have a headache.”
He smiled, delighted to catch a moment of privacy between the seeming lunacy of electioneering and the anticipation of office. No voter was going to interrupt this rare moment of pleasure.
“Mum,” said a voice, and Simon quickly turned over to see Peter standing at the door in his pajamas. “I’m hungry.”
On the way back to London in the car Elizabeth asked, “What do you think he’ll offer you?”
“Daren’t anticipate anything,” said Simon. “But I would hope—Under-Secretary of State for Housing and Local Government.”
“But you’re still not certain to be offered a post?”
“Not at all. One can never know what permutations and pressures a new Prime Minister has to consider.”
“Like what?” asked Elizabeth.
“Left and right wings of the party, north and south of the country—countless debts to be cleared with those people who can claim they played a role in getting him into No. 10.” Simon yawned.
“Are you saying he could leave you out?”
“Oh yes. But I’ll be livid if he does, and I’d certainly want to know who had been given my job—and why.”
“And what could you do about it?”
“Nothing. There is absolutely nothing one can do and every back-bencher knows it. The Prime Minister’s power of patronage is absolute.”
“It won’t matter, if you continue driving on the center line,” she said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to take a turn at the wheel?”
Louise let Andrew lie in on the Friday morning. She knew he had been expecting to return to a higher ministerial office and had been shattered by the election result.
By the time Andrew woke it was nearly eleven. He sat in silence in his dressing gown, unshaven, and tapped a hardboiled egg that refused to crack. An unopened Times lay by his side.
“Thank you for all your hard work,” he said once the second cup of coffee had taken effect. She smiled.
An hour later, dressed in sports jacket and gray flannels, he toured the constituency in a loudspeaker van, thanking his supporters for returning him to Westminster. Louise was by his side, often able to jog his memory on names he couldn’t recall.
After they had shaken the last hand they spent a quiet weekend with Sir Duncan in Stirling—who found it extremely hard to remove the smirk from his face.
Raymond was astonished by the election result. He couldn’t believe that the opinion polls had been so wrong. He didn’t confide in Joyce that he had hoped a Labour victory would bring him back into office after languishing on the back benches for what seemed an interminable time.
“There’s nothing for it,” he told her, “but to rebuild a career at the bar. We may be out of office for years.”
“But surely that won’t be enough to keep you fully occupied?”
“I have to be realistic about the future,” he said slowly. “Although I don’t intend to let Heath drag us into Europe without putting up one hell of a fight.”
“Perhaps they’ll ask you to Shadow someone?”
“No, there are always far fewer jobs available in Opposition, and in any case they always give the orators like Fraser the dispatch box when all you can do is to sit and make noises while we wait for another election.”
Raymond wondered how he would broach what was really on his mind and tried to sound casual when he said, “Perhaps it’s time we considered having our own home in the constituency.”
“That seems an unnecessary expense,” said Joyce, “especially as there’s nothing wrong with your parents’ home. And, in any case, wouldn’t they be offended?”
“My first interest should be my duty to the constituents and this would be a chance to prove a long-term commitment to them. Naturally my parents will understand.”
“But we can’t afford the cost of two houses,” said Joyce uncertainly.
“I realize that, but it’s you who have always wanted to live in Leeds, and this will give you the chance to stop commuting from London every week. After I’ve done the rounds why don’t you stay up, contact a few local estate agents, and see what’s on the market?”
“All right, if that’s what you really want,” said Joyce. “I’ll start next week.”
Charles and Fiona spent a quiet weekend at their cottage in Sussex. Charles tried to do some gardening while he kept one ear open for the telephone. Fiona began to realize how anxious he was when she looked through the French windows and saw her finest delphinium being taken for a weed.
Charles eventually gave the weeds a reprieve and came in and turned on the television to catch Maudling, Macleod, Thatcher, and Carrington enter No. 10 Downing Street looking pensive, only to leave smiling. The senior appointments had been made: the Cabinet was taking shape. The new Prime Minister came out and waved to the crowds before being whisked away in his official car.
Would he remember who had organized the young vote for him before he was even the party leader?
“When do you want to go back to Eaton Square?” Fiona inquired from the kitchen.
“Depends,” said Charles.
“On what?”
“On whether the phone rings.”
Simon sat staring at the television. All those hours of work on Housing and Local Government, and the PM had offered the portfolio to someone else. He had left the set on all day but didn’t learn who it was, only that the rest of the Housing and Local Government team had remained intact.
“Why do I bother?” he said out loud. “The whole thing’s a farce.”
“What were you saying, darling?” asked Elizabeth as she came into the room.
The phone rang again. It was the newly appointed Home Secretary, Reginald Maudling.
“Simon?”
“Reggie, many congratulations on your appointment—not that it came as a great surprise.”
“That’s what I’m calling about, Simon. Would you like to join me at the Home Office as Under-Secretary?”
“Like to? I’d be delighted.”
“Thank heavens for that,” said Maudling. “It took me a dickens of a time to convince Ted Heath that you should be released from the Housing and Local Government team.”
When Andrew and Louise arrived back at Cheyne Walk after the weekend a red box was waiting for him in the drawing room. “Under-Secretary of State for Scotland” was printed in gold on the side.
“They’ll be round to collect that later today,” he told Louise. He turned the key to find the box was empty, and then he saw the small envelope in one corner. It was addressed to “Andrew Fraser Esquire, MP.” He tore it open. It contained a short handwritten note from the Permanent Secretary, the senior civ
il servant at the Scottish Office.
“In keeping with a long tradition, ministers are presented with the last red box from which they worked. Au revoir. No doubt we will meet again.”
“I suppose it could be used as a lunch box,” said Louise, standing by the door.
“Or perhaps an overnight case,” offered Andrew.
“Or a very small cot,” added his wife, trying to make her words casual.
Andrew looked up to see Louise looking radiant.
“I let your parents know last night, but I wasn’t going to tell you until dinner this evening.”
Andrew threw his arms around her.
“By the way,” Louise added, “we’ve already decided on her name.”
When Raymond arrived back at Lincoln’s Inn he let his clerk know that he wanted to be flooded with work. Over lunch with Sir Nigel Hartwell, the head of chambers, he explained that he thought it unlikely that the Labour party would be in Government again for some considerable time.
“Age is on your side, Raymond. Another full Parliament and you’ll be barely forty, so you can still look forward to many years in the Cabinet.”
“I wonder,” said Raymond, uncharacteristically hesitant.
“Well, you needn’t worry about briefs. Solicitors have been calling constantly since it was known you were back on a more permanent basis.”
Raymond began to relax.
Joyce phoned him after lunch with the news that she hadn’t found anything suitable, but the estate agent had assured her that they were expecting a lot more on the market in the autumn.
“Well, keep looking,” said Raymond.
“Don’t worry, I will,” said Joyce, sounding as if she was enjoying the whole exercise. “If we find something perhaps we can think of starting a family,” she added tentatively.