As Raymond flew out of Washington on his way back to London he presumed, like any lover, that the affair with America could be continued whenever he chose to return.
Simon was in Manchester as a guest of the Business School when he received Elizabeth’s message to call her. It was most unusual for Elizabeth to phone in the middle of the day and Simon assumed the worst: something must have happened to the children. The Principal of the Business School accompanied him to his private office, then left him alone.
Dr. Kerslake was not at the hospital, he was told, which made him even more anxious. He dialed the Beaufort Street number.
Elizabeth picked up the receiver so quickly that she must have been sitting by the phone waiting for him to call.
“I’ve been sacked,” she said.
“What?” said Simon, unable to comprehend.
“I’ve been made redundant—isn’t that the modern term meant to lessen the blow? The hospital governors have been instructed by the Department of Health and Social Security to make cutbacks and three of us in gynecology have lost our jobs. I go at the end of the month.”
“Darling, I’m sorry,” he said, knowing how inadequate his words must have sounded.
“I didn’t mean to bother you, but I just wanted someone to talk to,” she said. “Everyone else is allowed to complain to their MP, so I thought it was my turn.”
“Normally what I do in these circumstances is to put the blame on the Labour party.” Simon was relieved to hear Elizabeth laugh.
“Thanks for ringing me back so quickly, darling. See you tomorrow,” she said and put the phone down.
Simon returned to his group and explained that he had to leave for London immediately. He took a taxi to the airport and caught the next shuttle to Heathrow. He was back at Beaufort Street within three hours.
“I didn’t mean you to come home,” Elizabeth said contritely when she saw him on the doorstep.
“I’ve come back to celebrate,” Simon said. “Let’s open the bottle of champagne that Ronnie gave us when he closed the deal with Morgan Grenfell.”
“Why?”
“Because Ronnie taught me one thing. You should always celebrate disasters, not successes.”
Simon hung up his coat and went off in search of the champagne. When he returned with the bottle and two glasses Elizabeth asked, “What’s your overdraft looking like nowadays?”
“Down to £16,000, give or take a pound.”
“Well, that’s another problem then, I won’t be giving any pounds in the future, only taking.”
“Don’t be silly. Someone will snap you up,” he said, embracing her.
“It won’t be quite that easy,” said Elizabeth.
“Why not?” asked Simon, trying to sound cheerful.
“Because I had already been warned about whether I wanted to be a politician’s wife or a doctor.”
Simon was stunned. “I had no idea,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was my choice, darling, but I will have to make one or two decisions if I want to remain in medicine, especially if you’re going to become a minister.”
Simon remained silent: he had always wanted Elizabeth to make this decision herself and he was determined not to try to influence her.
“If only we weren’t so short of money.”
“Don’t worry about the money,” said Simon.
“I do worry, but it may just be an excuse because I worry more about becoming bored when the children have grown up. I just wasn’t cut out to be a politician’s wife,” she added. “You should have married someone like Fiona Seymour and you’d be Prime Minister by now.”
“If that’s the only way I can be sure of getting the job I’ll stick with you,” said Simon, taking Elizabeth in his arms. Simon couldn’t help thinking of all the support his wife had given him during their marriage and even more so since his financial crisis. He knew exactly what his wife must do.
“You mustn’t be allowed to give up being a doctor,” he said. “It’s every bit as important as wanting to be a minister. Shall I have a word with Gerry Vaughan? As Shadow spokesman for Health he might—”
“Certainly not, Simon. If I am to get another job, it’ll be without anyone doing you or me a favor.”
Louise was now coping on her own, and had almost returned to a normal life except she still couldn’t speak. She seemed to be self-sufficient within her own world and the doctor agreed that she no longer needed a full-time nurse.
The day the nurse left Andrew decided to take Louise off for a week’s holiday abroad. He wanted to return to the South of France and the Colombe d’Or, but the specialist had advised against it, explaining that any past association might trigger off a memory that in itself could cause a further relapse.
“Witch doctors’ mumbo jumbo,” Andrew complained but nevertheless took her to Venice, not Colombe d’Or. Once there, he was delighted by the interest Louise showed in the beautiful and ancient city. Her eyes lit up at the sight of Torcello and she appeared to revel in the trip on a gondola down the twisting waterways past irreplaceable Italian architecture. Again and again she squeezed his hand. As they sat on a piazza for an evening drink, she inclined her head and listened to a quintet playing on St. Mark’s Square. Andrew was confident that she could now hear everything he told her. The night before they flew back to England he woke to find her reading James Morris’s Venice which he had left by his side of the bed. It was the first time she had opened a book since the accident. When he smiled at her she grinned back. He laughed, wanting to hear her laugh.
Andrew returned to the Ministry of Defense on Monday. On his desk there was a general directive from the Chancellor of the Exchequer, requiring the budget estimates for all the big-spending Departments of State. Andrew fought hard to keep the Polaris missile after being convinced by the Joint Chiefs of its strategic importance to the nation’s defense. He was, however, continually reminded by his colleagues in the House that it was party policy to rid themselves of “the warmongers’ toy.”
When the Secretary of State returned from Cabinet he told Andrew, “We’ve had our way: the Cabinet were impressed by the case. But I can promise you one thing—you won’t be the golden boy at this year’s party conference.”
“It will make a change for them even to notice me,” replied Andrew.
He breathed a sigh of relief while the Joint Chiefs were delighted, but a week later he lost—by default—the same argument with his own General Purposes Committee in Edinburgh. In his absence, they passed a resolution deploring the retention of the Polaris missile and demanded that all the ministers involved should reconsider their decision. They stopped short of naming Andrew, but everyone knew whose scalp they were after. His case was not helped by Tom Carson making yet another inflammatory speech in the House, claiming that Andrew had been browbeaten by the Joint Chiefs and was nothing more than a Polaris puppet.
Andrew’s trips to Edinburgh had become less frequent over the past year because of his commitments to Louise and the Defense Department. During the year three members of his General Management Committee had been replaced with a new group calling themselves “Militant Tendency” led by Frank Boyle. It wasn’t just Edinburgh Carlton that was facing the problem of a left-wing insurgence—as Andrew learned from colleague after colleague who was beginning to work out why the left were pushing a resolution at the party conference proposing that members should be re-selected for each election. Some of his more right-wing colleagues had already been replaced, and it didn’t take a Wrangler to work out that once a majority of the Trotskyites had secured places on his Management Committee Andrew could be removed at their whim, whatever his past experience or record.
Whenever Andrew was in Edinburgh the local people continually assured him of their support and their confidence in him, but he could not forget, despite their avowals, that it would still take only a handful of votes to remove him. Andrew feared what the outcome would be if many other members were facing the same prob
lem as he faced in Edinburgh.
“Dad, can I have a new cricket bat, please?”
“What’s wrong with the old one?” asked Simon, as they came out of the house.
“It’s too small,” he said, waving it around as if it was an extension to his arm.
“It will have to do, I’m afraid.”
“But Martin Henderson’s dad has given him a new bat to start the season.”
“I’m sorry, Peter, the truth is that Martin’s father is far better off than I am.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” said Peter with feeling. “I’m sure not going to be an MP when I grow up.” Simon smiled as his son removed an old cricket ball from his trouser pocket and tossed it over to his father. “Anyway, I bet you can’t get me out even though I’ve only got a small bat.”
“Don’t forget we still have the junior size stumps left over from last year,” said Simon, “so it will be just as hard to hit them.”
“Stop making excuses, Dad. Just admit you’re past it.”
Simon burst out laughing. “We’ll see,” he said, with more bravado than conviction. Simon always enjoyed a few overs in the garden against his elder son although at the age of thirteen Peter was already able to play his best deliveries with a confidence that was beginning to look ominous.
It was several overs before Simon removed Peter’s middle stump and took his turn at the crease.
Michael ran out of the house to join them in the field and Simon couldn’t help noticing that he was wearing a pair of jeans that were far too short and had once belonged to Peter.
“Get behind the wicket, nipper,” shouted Peter at his eleven-year-old brother. “Because that’s where most of the balls will be going.” Michael happily obeyed without comment.
A colleague in the House had recently warned Simon that by fourteen they began to beat you and by sixteen they hoped not to show they weren’t trying their hardest any longer.
Simon gritted his teeth as he watched his elder son’s fastest ball safely on to the middle of the bat. The way he was going Peter wouldn’t have to wait much longer before he could clean bowl him.
He managed to keep his wicket intact for a further five minutes before he was rescued by Elizabeth who came out to tell them that supper was ready.
“What, hamburgers and chips again?” said Michael as his mother put a plate in front of him.
“You’re lucky to get anything,” Elizabeth snapped back.
Simon cursed again at the damage his own selfish greed had brought upon his family, and marveled at how little they all complained. He said nothing, only too aware that the previous day Elizabeth had completed her last week at the hospital and was already missing St. Mary’s.
“How did you all get on?” she asked cheerily.
“I’ll survive,” said Simon, still thinking about his overdraft.
Once the Chancellor had presented his minibudget, in November 1976, the long process of the Finance Bill, confirming all the new measures proposed, fully occupied the House. Charles, although not a member of the front-bench finance team, regularly took the lead among back-benchers on clauses on which he had specialist knowledge.
He and Clive Reynolds studied the new Finance Bill meticulously and between them picked out the seven clauses that would have an adverse effect on banking.
Reynolds guided Charles through each clause, suggesting changes, rewording, and on some occasions presenting an argument for deleting whole sections of the bill. Charles learned quickly and was soon adding his own ideas; one or two even made Give Reynolds reconsider. After Charles had put forward amendments to the House on three of the clauses both front benches became respectfully attentive whenever he rose to present a case. One morning, after the Government’s defeat on a clause relating to banking loans, he received a note of congratulation from Margaret Thatcher.
The clause Charles most wanted to see removed from the bill concerned a client’s right to privacy when dealing with a merchant bank. The Shadow Chancellor was aware of Charles’s specialized knowledge on this subject and invited him to oppose clause 110 from the front bench. Charles realized that if he could defeat the Government on this clause he might be invited to join the Shadow finance team in the runup to the general election.
Judging by the chairman of Ways and Means’ selection of amendments the Whips estimated that clause 110 on banking privacy would be reached some time on Thursday afternoon.
On Thursday morning Charles rehearsed his arguments thoroughly with Clive Reynolds, who only had one or two minor amendments to add before Charles set off for the House. When he arrived at the Commons there was a note on the message board asking him to phone the Shadow Chancellor urgently.
“The Government are going to accept a Liberal amendment tabled late last night,” the Shadow Chancellor told him.
“Why?” said Charles.
“Minimum change is what they’re really after, but it gets them off the hook and at the same time keeps the Liberal vote intact. In essence nothing of substance has changed, but you’ll need to study the wording carefully. Can I leave you to handle the problem?”
“Certainly,” said Charles, pleased with the responsibility with which they were now entrusting him.
He walked down the long corridor to the vote office and picked up the sheet with clause 110 on it and the proposed Liberal amendment. He read them both through half a dozen times before he started to make notes. Parliamentary counsel, with their usual expertise, had produced an ingenious amendment. Charles ducked into a nearby phone booth and rang Clive Reynolds at the bank. Charles dictated the amendment over the phone to him and then remained silent while Reynolds considered its implications.
“Clever bunch of sharpies. It’s a cosmetic job, but it won’t change the power it invests in the Government one iota. Were you thinking of returning to the bank? That would give me time to work on it.”
“No,” said Charles. “Are you free for lunch?”
Clive Reynolds checked his diary: a Belgian banker would be lunching in the boardroom but his colleagues could handle that. “Yes, I’m free.”
“Good,” said Charles. “Why don’t you join me at White’s around one o’clock?”
“Thank you,” said Reynolds. “By then I should have had enough time to come up with some credible alternatives.”
Charles spent the rest of the morning rewriting his speech which he hoped would counter the Liberal argument and make them reconsider their position. If it met with Reynolds’s imprimatur the day could still be his. He read through the clause once more, convinced he had found a way through the loophole the civil servants couldn’t block. He placed his speech and the amended clause in his inside pocket and went down to the Members’ Entrance and jumped into a waiting taxi.
As the cab drove up St. James’s Charles thought he saw his wife coming down the opposite side of the road. He pushed down the window to be sure but she had disappeared into Prunier’s. He wondered with which of her girlfriends she was lunching.
The cab traveled on up St. James’s and came to a halt outside White’s. Charles found he was a few minutes early so he decided to walk down to Prunie’s and ask Fiona if she would like to come to the House after lunch and hear him oppose the clause. Reaching the restaurant he glanced through the pane-glass window. He froze on the spot. Fiona was chatting at the bar with a man whose back was to Charles but he thought he recognized his profile although he couldn’t be certain. He noticed that his wife was wearing a dress he had never seen before. He didn’t move as he watched a waiter bow, then guide the pair toward a corner table where they were conveniently out of sight. Charles’s first instinct was to march straight in and confront them, but he remained outside. For what seemed an interminable time he stood alone, uncertain what to do next. Finally he crossed back over St. James’s Street and stood in the doorway of the Economist building going over several plans. In the end he decided to do nothing but wait. He stood there so cold and so incensed that he did not consid
er returning for his lunch appointment with Clive Reynolds a few hundred yards up the road.
An hour and twenty minutes later the man came out of Prunier’s alone and headed up St. James’s. Charles felt a sense of relief until he saw him turn into St. James’s Place. He checked his watch: Reynolds would have left by now but he would still be well in time for clause number 110. A few minutes later Fiona stepped out of the restaurant and followed ir the man’s footsteps. Charles crossed the road, causing a cab to swerve while another motorist slammed on her brakes. He didn’t notice. He shadowed his wife, careful to keep a safe distance. When she reached the far end of the passage he watched Fiona enter the Stafford Hotel. Once she was through the swing doors Fiona stepped into an empty lift.
Charles came up to the swing doors and stared at the little numbers above the lift, watching them light up in succession until they stopped at four.
Charles marched through the swing doors and up to the reception desk.
“Can I help you, sir?” the hall porter asked.
“Er—is the dining room in this hotel on the fourth floor?” asked Charles.
“No, sir,” replied the hall porter, surprised. “The dining room is on the ground floor to your left”—he indicated the way with a sweep of his hand—“there are only bedrooms on the fourth floor.”
“Thank you,” said Charles and marched back outside.
He returned slowly to the Economist building, incensed, where he waited for nearly two hours pacing up and down St. James’s before the man emerged from the Stafford Hotel; Alexander Dalglish hailed a taxi and disappeared in the direction of Piccadilly.