There was also a letter from Ronnie Nethercote inviting him to return to the board of Nethercote and Company at £5,000 a year, which even Elizabeth acknowledged as a generous gesture.
It was not long before Ronnie Nethercote had made Simon an executive director of the company. Simon enjoyed negotiating with the trade unions at a level he had not experienced before. Ronnie made it clear how he would have dealt with the “Commie bastards” given half a chance. “Lock them all up until they learn to do a day’s work.”
“You would have lasted about a week in the House of Commons,” Simon told him.
“After a week with those windbags I’d have been only too happy to return to the real world.”
Simon smiled. Ronnie, he felt, was like so many others—imagining all Members of Parliament were unemployable except the one they knew.
Raymond waited until the last Government appointment was announced before he finally gave up any hope of a job. Several leading political journalists pointed out that he had been left on the back benches while lesser men had been given Government posts but it was scant comfort. Reluctantly he returned to Lincoln’s Inn to continue his practice at the bar.
Harold Wilson, starting his third administration, made it clear that he would govern as long as possible before calling an election. But as he did not have an overall majority in the House few members believed that he could hold out for more than a matter of months.
Fiona returned home after her lunch with Miss Trubshaw with a large Cheshire Cat grin on her face. It remained firmly in place during the hours she had to wait for Charles to get back from the Commons after the last division.
“You look pleased with yourself,” said Charles, shaking out his umbrella before closing the front door. His wife stood in the hallway, her arms crossed.
“How has your day been?” she asked.
“So-so,” said Charles, wanting to hear the news. “But what about you?”
“Oh, pleasant enough. I had coffee with your mother this morning. She seems very well. A little cold in the head, otherwise—”
‘To hell with my mother. How did your lunch with Miss Trubshaw go?”
“I wondered how long it would take you to get round to that.”
She continued to wait just as long as it took for them to walk into the drawing room and sit down. “After seventeen years as secretary to your father and twelve years as secretary to the board there isn’t much Miss Trubshaw doesn’t know about Seymour’s or its present chairman,” Fiona began.
“So what did you discover?”
“Which do you want to hear about first, the name of his mistress or the number of his Swiss bank account?”
Fiona revealed everything she had learned over her two-hour lunch, explaining that Miss Trubshaw usually only drank fortified wine but on this occasion she had downed most of a vintage bottle of Pommard. Charles’s smile grew wider and wider as each fact came pouring out. To Fiona he looked like a boy who has been given a box of chocolates and keeps discovering another layer underneath.
“Well done, old girl,” he said when she had come to the end of her tale. “But how do I get all the proof I need?”
“I’ve made a deal with our Miss Trubshaw.”
“You’ve what?”
“A deal. With Miss Trubshaw. You get the proof if she remains as secretary to the board for a further five years, and no loss of benefit to her pension.”
“Is that all she wants?” said Charles, guardedly.
“And the price of another lunch at the Savoy Grill when you’re invited back on the board.”
Unlike many of his Labour colleagues Raymond now enjoyed dressing up in white tie and tails and mixing with London society. An invitation to the annual bankers’ banquet at the Guildhall was no exception. The Prime Minister was the guest of honor and Raymond wondered if he would drop a hint as to how long he expected the parliamentary session to last before he felt he had to call an election.
At the pre-dinner drinks Raymond had a quick word with the Lord Mayor before becoming involved in a conversation with a circuit court judge on the problems of the parity of sentencing.
When dinner was announced Raymond found his seat on one of the long fingers stretching away from the top table. He checked his place card. Raymond Gould QC, MP. On his right was the chairman of Chloride, Michael Edwardes, and on his left an American banker who had just taken up an appointment in the City.
Raymond found Michael Edwardes’s views on how the Prime Minister should tackle the nationalized industries fascinating, but he devoted far more of his attention to the Euro Bond manager from Chase Manhattan. She must have been thirty, Raymond decided, if only because of her elevated position at the bank and her claim to have been an undergraduate at Wellesley at the time of Kennedy’s death. He would have put Kate Garthwaite at far younger and was not surprised to learn she played tennis in the summer and swam every day during the winter—to keep her weight down, she confided. She had a warm, oval face, and her dark hair was cut in what Raymond thought was a Mary Quant style. Her nose turned up slightly at the end and would have cost a lot of money for a plastic surgeon to reproduce. There was no chance of seeing her legs as they were covered by a long dress, but what he could see left Raymond more than interested.
“I see there’s an ‘MP’ behind your name, Mr. Gould. May I ask which party you represent?” she asked, in an accent heard more often in Boston.
“I’m a Socialist, Mrs. Garthwaite. Where do your sympathies lie on this occasion?”
“I would have voted Labour at the last election if I had been qualified,” she declared.
“Should I be surprised?” he teased.
“You certainly should. My ex-husband is a Republican congressman.”
He was about to ask his next question when the toastmaster called for silence. For the first time Raymond turned his eyes to the top table and the Prime Minister. Harold Wilson’s speech stuck firmly to economic problems and the role of a Labour Government in the City and gave no clue as to the timing of the next election. Nevertheless, Raymond considered it a worthwhile evening. He had made a useful contact with the chairman of a large public company. And he had acquired Kate’s telephone number.
The chairman of Seymour, reluctantly agreed to see him a second time, but it was obvious from the moment Charles walked in when no hand was proffered that Derek Spencer intended it to be a short interview.
“I thought I ought to see you personally,” said Charles as he settled back in the comfortable leather chair and slowly lit a cigarette, “rather than raise my query at the AGM next month.”
The first sign of apprehension began to show on the chairman’s face, but he said nothing.
“I’m rather keen to discover why the bank should pay out a monthly check of £400 to an employee called Miss Janet Darrow, whom I have never come across, although it appears she has been on the payroll for over five years. The checks, it seems, have been going to a branch of Lloyds in Kensington.”
Derek Spencer’s face became flushed.
“What I am at a loss to discover,” continued Charles after he had inhaled deeply, “is what services Miss Darrow has been supplying to the bank. They must be quite impressive to have earned her £25,000 over the last five years. I appreciate that this is a small amount when you consider the bank’s turnover of 123 million last year, but my grandfather instilled in me at an early age the belief that if one took care of the pennies the pounds would take care of themselves.”
Still Derek Spencer said nothing, although beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead. Suddenly Charles’s tone changed. “If I find I am not a member of the board by the time of the Annual General Meeting I feel it will be my duty to point out this slight discrepancy in the bank’s accounts to the other shareholders present.”
“You’re a bastard, Seymour,” the chairman said quietly.
“Now that is not accurate. I am the second son of the former chairman of this bank and I bear a striking res
emblance to my father, although everyone says I have my mother’s eyes.”
“What’s the deal?”
“No deal. You will merely keep to your original agreement and see that I am reinstated on the board before the AGM. You will also cease any further payments to Miss Janet Darrow immediately.”
“If I agree, will you swear never to mention this matter to anyone again?”
“I will. And, unlike you, I am in the habit of keeping my word.”
Charles rose from his chair, leaned over the desk, and stubbed out his cigarette in the chairman’s ashtray.
Andrew Fraser was surprised when he heard that Jock McPherson wanted to see him. The two men had never been on good terms since McPherson had failed to be elected to the Scottish Labour Party Executive Committee and had then left the party to stand against him at Edinburgh Carton Since McPherson had switched his allegiance they had barely been on speaking terms. However, Andrew realized it would be foolish not to see him after the SNP’s sweeping successes in the election.
Andrew was even more surprised when McPherson asked if all seven SNP Members of Parliament could also attend the meeting, not in Andrew’s office but somewhere private. He agreed, even more mystified.
McPherson and his band of renegade Scots arrived together at Cheyne Walk, looking as though they had already held a meeting between themselves. Andrew offered them a variety of seats, including the dining room chairs, a pouffe, and even the kitchen stool, apologizing that his London flat had never been intended to accommodate nine men in the drawing room.
While the men settled themselves Andrew remained standing by the mantelpiece, facing Jock McPherson who had obviously been chosen to act as their spokesman.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” McPherson began. “We want you to fight under the SNP banner at the next election.”
Andrew tried not to show his disbelief, and began, “I don’t feel …”
“Hear me out,” said McPherson, raising his massive palms. “We want you to contest the Edinburgh Carlton seat not just as a Scottish Nationalist candidate but as leader of the party.”
Andrew still couldn’t believe what he was hearing but remained silent.
“We’re convinced you’ll) lose your seat in any case if you stand as a Socialist,” McPherson continued, “but we realize that there are many people in Scotland who, whatever their political views, admire what you have achieved in the nine years you have been in the House. After all, man, you were brought up and educated in Edinburgh. With you as leader, we believe we could capture forty to fifty of the seventy-one seats in Scotland. And I may add that your own party is moving inexorably to the left, a state of affairs that I can’t believe you are altogether happy about.”
Andrew still made no comment. He listened as each one of the MPs put his own view, which became predictable long before the last one had spoken. Every Scottish tone from a Highland lilt to a Glasgow growl was represented in the voices. It became clear that they had given the matter considerable thought and were obviously sincere. “I am very flattered, gentlemen,” he began when the last one had said his piece. “And I assure you I will give your offer my serious consideration.”
“Thank you,” said McPherson. They all stood up like clan leaders in the presence of a new chief.
“We’ll wait to hear from you then,” said McPherson. One by one they shook hands with their host before filing out.
As soon as they had left Andrew went straight into the kitchen where Robert was still waiting impatiently to play football before going to bed.
“In a moment, in a moment,” he said in response to his son’s noisy demands. “I’ll join you in the garden.”
“And what did that lot want?” inquired Louise, as she continued to peel the potatoes.
Andrew went over the details of their proposition.
“And how did you respond?”
“I didn’t. I shall wait a week and then decline as gracefully as possible.”
“What made you decide against the offer so quickly?”
“I don’t like being told by Jock McPherson, or anyone else for that matter, that I will lose my seat at the next election if I don’t fall in with their plans.” He headed toward the kitchen door. “I’ll be back to the red box as soon as I’ve scored a couple of goals against MacPele.” A moment later he had joined Robert in the garden.
“Now listen, clever boots, I’m going to teach you how to feint a pass so that your opponent goes one way while you go the other.”
“Sounds just like politics to me,” muttered Louise, watching them out of the kitchen window.
27 Eaton Square,
London, SW1
23 April 1974
Dear Derek,
Thank you for your letter of 18 April and your kind invitation to rejoin the board of Seymour’s. I am delighted to accept and look forward to working with you again.
Yours sincerely,
Charles Seymour.
Fiona checked the wording and nodded. Short and to the point. “Shall I post it?”
“Yes, pleas,” said Charles as the phone rang.
He picked it up. “730-9712. Charles Seymour speaking.”
“Oh, hello, Charles. It’s Simon Kerslake.”
“Hello, Simon,” said Charles, trying to sound pleased to hear from his former colleague. “What’s it like out there in the real world?”
“Not much fun, which is exactly why I’m phoning. I’ve been short-listed for Pucklebridge, Sir Michael Harbour-Baker’s seat. He’s nearly seventy and has decided not to stand again at the next election. As his constituency touches the south border of yours, I thought you might be able to put in a word for me again.”
“Delighted,” said Charles. “I’ll speak to the chairman tonight. You can rely on me, and good luck. It would be nice to have you back in the House.”
Simon gave him his home number which Charles repeated slowly, as if he were writing it down.
“I’ll be in touch,” said Charles.
“I really appreciate your help.”
Simon put down the phone.
Elizabeth looked up from her copy of The Lancet.
“I don’t trust that man,” she said.
“A woman’s intuition again?” said Simon, smiling. “You were wrong about Ronnie Nethercote.”
“That’s yet to be proved.”
It was several days before Kate Garthwaite agreed to see Raymond again. And when she eventually joined him for dinner at the House she was not overwhelmed or flattered and she certainly didn’t hang on his every word.
She was lively, fun, intelligent, and well informed and they began to see each other regularly. As the months passed Raymond found himself missing her at weekends when he was in Leeds with Joyce. Kate enjoyed her independence and made none of the demands on him that Stephanie had, never once suggesting he spend more time with her or that she might leave clothes behind in the flat.
Raymond sipped his coffee. “That was a memorable meal,” he said, falling back into the sofa.
“Only by the standards of the House of Commons,” replied Kate.
Raymond put an arm round her shoulder before kissing her gently on the lips.
“What! Rampant sex as well as cheap Beaujolais?” she exclaimed, stretching over and pouring herself some more coffee.
“I wish you wouldn’t always make a joke of our relationship,” said Raymond, stroking the back of her hair.
“I have to,” said Kate quietly.
“Why?” Raymond turned to face her.
“Because I’m frightened of what might happen if I take it seriously”
Raymond leaned over and kissed her again. “Don’t be frightened. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in my whole life.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” said Kate, turning away.
Charles sat through the Annual General Meeting in silence. The chairman made his report for the year ending March 1974 before welcoming two new directors to the
board and the return of Charles Seymour.
There were several questions from the floor which Derek Spencer had no trouble in handling. As Charles had promised, there was not even a hint of Miss Janet Darrow. Miss Trubshaw had let Fiona know that the payment had been stopped and also mentioned that she was still worried that her contract was coming to an end on I July.
When the chairman brought the AGM to a close Charles asked courteously if he could spare him a moment.
“Of course,” said Spencer, looking relieved that the meeting had gone through without a hitch. “What can I do for you?”
“I think it might be wiser to talk in the privacy of your office.”
The chairman glanced at him sharply but led him back to his room.
Charles settled himself comfortably in the leather chair once more and removed some papers from his inside pocket. Peering down at them he asked, “What does BX41207122, Bank Rombert, Zurich, mean to you?”
“You said you would never mention—”
“Miss Darrow,” said Charles. “And I shall keep my word. But now, as a director of the bank, I am trying to find out what BX41207122 means to you?”
“You know damn well what it means,” said the chairman, banging his clenched fist on the desk.
“I know it’s your private”—Charles emphasized the last word—“account in Zurich.”
“You could never prove anything,” said Derek Spencer defiantly.
“I agree with you, but what I am able to prove,” said Charles, shuffling through the papers that were resting on his lap, “is that you have been using Seymour’s money to do private deals, leaving the profit in your Zurich account without informing the board.”
“I’ve done nothing that will harm the bank, and you know it.”
“I know the money has been returned with interest, and I could never prove the bank had suffered any loss. Nevertheless, the board might take a dim view of your activities remembering they pay you £40,000 a year to make profits for the bank, not for yourself.”