Fiona left the hotel about twenty minutes later, and took the path through to the park before setting off toward Eaton Square. On three occasions Charles had to fall back to be certain Fiona didn’t spot him; once he was so close he thought he saw a smile of satisfaction come over her face.
He had followed his wife most of the way across St. James’s Park when he suddenly remembered. He checked his watch, then dashed back to the roadside, hailed a taxi, and shouted, “The House of Commons, as fast as you can.” The cabbie took seven minutes and Charles passed him two pound notes before running up the steps into the Members’ Lobby and through to the Chamber out of breath. He stopped by the Serjeant-at-Arms’s chair.
From the table where he sat during Committee of the whole House, the Mace lowered on its supports in front of the table, the chairman of Ways and Means faced a packed House. He read from the division list.
“The Ayes to the right 294.
The Noes to the left 293.
The Ayes have it, the Ayes have it.”
The Government benches cheered and the Conservatives looked distinctly glum. “What clause were they debating?” a still out of breath Charles asked the Serjeant-at-Arms.
“Clause 110, Mr. Seymour.”
BOOK FOUR
1977-1989 THE CABINET
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
RAYMOND’S SECOND TRIP to the States was at the behest of the Secretary of State for Trade: he was asked to present the country’s export and import assessment to the International Monetary Fund, following up a loan granted to Britain the previous November. His civil servants went over the prepared speech with him again and again, emphasizing to their minister the responsibility that had been placed on his shoulders. Even the Governor of the Bank of England’s private office had been consulted.
“A chance to impress a few people beyond the boundaries of Leeds,” Kate assured him.
Raymond’s speech was scheduled for the Wednesday morning. He flew into Washington on the Sunday and spent Monday and Tuesday listening to the problems of other nations’ trade ministers while trying to get used to the dreadful earphones and the female interpreter.
The conference was attended by most of the leading industrial nations and the British Ambassador, Sir Peter Ramsbotham, told Raymond over dinner at the Embassy that this was a real chance to convince the hard-headed international bankers that Britain cared about economic realities and was still worth their financial backing.
Raymond soon realized that convincing such a gathering required a very different technique from shouting from a soap box on a street corner in Leeds or even addressing the House from the dispatch box. He was glad he had not been scheduled to present his case on the opening day. Over leisurely lunches he re-established his existing contacts in Congress and made some new ones.
The night before he was to deliver his speech Raymond hardly slept. He continued to rehearse each crucial phrase and repeated the salient points that needed to be emphasized until he almost knew them by heart. At three o’clock in the morning he dropped his speech on the floor beside his bed and phoned Kate to have a chat before she went to work.
“I’d enjoy hearing your speech at the conference,” she told him. “Although I don’t suppose it would be much different from the thirty times I’ve listened to it in the bedroom.”
Once he had said good-bye to Kate he fell into a deep sleep. He woke early that morning and went over the speech one last time before leaving for the conference center.
All the homework and preparation proved worthwhile. By the time he turned the last page Raymond couldn’t be certain how convincing his case had been, but he knew it was the best speech he had ever delivered. When he looked up the smiles all around the oval table assured him that his contribution had been well received. As the ambassador pointed out to him as he rose to leave, any signs of emotion at these gatherings were almost unknown. He felt confident that the IMF loan would be renewed.
There followed two further speeches before they broke for lunch. At the end of the afternoon session Raymond walked out into the clear Washington air and decided to make his way back to the Embassy on foot. He was exhilarated by the experience of dominating an international conference and picked up an evening paper: an article covering the conference suggested that Raymond would be Britain’s next Labor Chancellor. He smiled at the spelling. Just the closing day to go, followed by the official banquet and he would be back home by the weekend.
When he reached the Embassy the guard had to double-check: they weren’t used to ministers arriving on foot and without a bodyguard. Raymond was allowed to proceed down the tree-lined drive toward the massive Lutyens building. He looked up to see the British flag was flying at half mast and wondered which distinguished American had died.
“Who has died?” he asked the tail-coated butler who opened the door for him.
“The Foreign Secretary, sir.”
“Anthony Crosland? I knew he had gone into hospital, but …” said Raymond almost to himself. He hurried into the Embassy to find it abuzz with telexes and coded messages. Raymond sat alone in his private sitting room for several hours and later, to the horror of the security staff, slipped out for a quiet dinner at the Mayflower Hotel with Senator Hart.
Raymond returned to the conference table at nine o’clock the next morning to listen to the French Minister of Commerce put his case for renewed funds. He was savoring the thought of the official banquet at the White House to be held that evening when he was tapped on the shoulder by Sir Peter Ramsbotham, who indicated by touching his lips with his forefinger and pointing that they must have a word in private.
“The Prime Minister wants you to return on the midmorning Concorde,” said Sir Peter. “It leaves in an hour. On arrival in Britain you’re to go straight to Downing Street.”
“What’s this all about?”
“I have no idea, that was the only instruction I received from No. 10,” confided the ambassador.
Raymond returned to the conference table and made his apologies to the chairman, left the room, and was driven immediately to the waiting plane. “Your bags will follow, sir,” he was assured.
He was back on English soil three hours and forty-one minutes later, a little after seven-thirty. The purser ensured that he was the first to disembark. A car waiting by the side of the plane whisked him to Downing Street. He arrived just as the Prime Minister was going to dinner, accompanied by an elderly African statesman who was waving his trademark fan back and forth.
“Welcome home, Ray,” said the Prime Minister, leaving the African leader. “I’d ask you to join us, but as you can see I’m entertaining the President of Malawi. Let’s have a word in my study.”
Once Raymond had settled into a chair Mr. Callaghan wasted no time.
“Because of Tony’s tragic death I have had to make a few changes which will include moving the Secretary of State for Trade. I was hoping you would be willing to take over from him.”
Raymond sat up straighter. “I should be honored, Prime Minister.”
“Good. You’ve earned your promotion, Raymond. I also hear you did us proud in America, very proud.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ll be appointed to the Privy Council immediately and your first Cabinet meeting will be at ten o’clock tomorrow. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must catch up with Dr. Banda.”
Raymond was left standing in the hall.
He asked his driver to take him back to the flat. All he wanted to do was to tell Kate the news. When he arrived the flat was empty: then he remembered she wasn’t expecting him back until the next day. He phoned her home but after twenty continuous rings he resigned himself to the fact that she was out. “Damn,” he said out loud, and after pacing around phoned Joyce to let her know the news. Once again there was no reply.
He went into the kitchen and checked to see what was in the fridge: a piece of curled-up bacon, some half-eaten Brie, three eggs. He couldn’t help thinking about the banquet he wa
s missing at the White House.
The Right Honorable Raymond Gould QC, MP, Her Britannic Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for Trade, sat on the kitchen stool, opened a tin of baked beans, and devoured them with a fork.
Charles closed the file. It had taken him a month to gather all the proof he needed. Albert Cruddick, the private investigator Charles had selected from the Yellow Pages, had been expensive but discreet. Dates, times, places were all fully chronicled. The only name was that of Alexander Dalglish, the same rendezvous, lunch at Prunier’s followed by the Stafford Hotel. They hadn’t stretched Mr. Guddick’s imagination but at least the detective had spared Charles the necessity of standing in the entrance of the Economist building once, sometimes twice a week for hours on end.
Somehow he had managed to get through that month without giving himself away. He had also made his own notes of the dates and times Fiona claimed she was going to be in the constituency. He had then called his agent in Sussex Downs and, after veiled questioning, elicited answers that corroborated Mr. Cruddick’s findings.
Charles saw as little of Fiona as possible during this time, explaining that the Finance Bill was occupying his every moment. His lie had at least a semblance of credibility for he had worked tirelessly on the remaining clauses left for debate, and by the time the watered-down bill had become law he had just about recovered from the disaster of the Government’s successful retention of clause 110.
Charles placed the file on the table by the side of his chair and waited patiently for the call. He knew exactly where she was at that moment and just the thought of it made him sick to his stomach. The phone rang.
“The subject left five minutes ago,” said a voice.
“Thank you,” said Charles and replaced the receiver. He knew it would take her about twenty minutes to reach home.
“Why do you think she walks home instead of taking a taxi?” he had once asked Mr. Cruddick.
“Gets rid of any smells,” Mr. Cruddick had replied quite matter-of-factly.
Charles shuddered. “And what about him? What does he do?” He never could refer to him as Alexander, or even Dalglish ; or as anything but “him.”
“He goes to the Lansdowne Club, swims ten lengths or plays a game of squash before returning home. Swimming and squash both solve the problem,” Mr. Cruddick explained cheerily.
The key turned in the lock. Charles braced himself and picked up the file. Fiona came straight into the drawing room and was visibly shaken to discover her husband sitting in an armchair with a small suitcase by his side.
She recovered quickly, walked over, and kissed him on the cheek. “What brings you home so early, darling? The Socialists taken the day off?” She laughed nervously at her joke.
“This,” he said, standing up and holding the file out to her.
She took off her coat and dropped it over the sofa. Then she opened the buff folder and started to read. He watched her carefully. First the color drained from her cheeks, then her legs gave way and she collapsed onto the sofa. Finally she started to sob.
“It’s not true, none of it,” she protested.
“You know very well that every detail is accurate.”
“Charles, it’s you I love, I don’t care about him, you must believe that.”
“I believe nothing of the sort,” said Charles. “You’re no longer someone I could live with.”
“Live with? I’ve been living on my own since the day you entered Parliament.”
“Perhaps I might have come home more often if you had showed some interest in starting a family.”
“And do you imagine I am to blame for that inadequacy?” she said.
Charles ignored the innuendo and continued. “In a few moments I am going to my club where I shall spend the night. I expect you to be out of this house within seven days. When I return I want there to be no sign of you or any of your goods or chattels, to quote the original agreement.”
“Where will I go?” she cried.
“You could try your lover first, but no doubt his wife might object. Failing that, you can camp down at your feather’s place.”
“What if I refuse to go?” said Fiona, turning to defiance.
“Then I shall throw you out, as one should a whore, and cite Alexander Dalglish in a very messy divorce case.”
“Give me another chance. I’ll never look at him again,” begged Fiona, starting to cry once more.
“I seem to remember your telling me that once before, and indeed I did give you another chance. The results have been all too plain to sec.” He pointed to the file where it had fallen to the floor.
Fiona stopped weeping when she realized that Charles remained unmoved.
“I shall not see you again. We shall be separated for at least two years, when we will carry through as quiet a divorce as possible in the circumstances. If you cause me a moment of embarrassment I shall drag you both through the mire. Believe me.”
“You’ll regret your decision, Charles. I promise you. I’ll not be pushed aside quite that easily.”
“They’ve done what?” said Joyce.
“Two Communists have put their names forward for election to the General Purposes Committee,” repeated Fred Padgett.
“Over my dead body.” Joyce’s voice was unusually sharp.
“I thought that would be your attitude,” said Fred.
Joyce searched for the pencil and paper that were normally on the table by the phone.
“When’s the meeting?” she asked.
“Next Thursday.”
“Have we got reliable people to stand against them?”
“Of course,” said Fred. “Councillor Reg Illingworth and Jenny Simpkins from the Co-op.”
“They’re both sensible enough but between them they couldn’t knock the skin off a rice pudding.”
“Shall I phone Raymond at the House and get him to come up for the meeting?”
“No,” said Joyce, “He’s got enough to worry about now that he’s in the Cabinet without piling up trouble for him in Leeds. Leave it to me.”
She replaced the receiver and sat down to compose her thoughts. A few minutes later she went over to her desk and rummaged about for the full list of the G.P. Committee. She checked the sixteen names carefully, realizing that if two Communists were to get themselves elected this time within five years they could control the committee—and then even remove Raymond. She knew how these people worked. With any luck, if they got bloody noses now they might slink off to another constituency.
She checked the sixteen names once more before putting on a pair of sensible walking shoes. During the next four days she visited several homes in the area. “I was just passing,” she explained to nine of the wives who had husbands on the committee. The four men who never listened to a word their wives said were visited by Joyce after work. The three who had never cared for Raymond were left well alone.
By Thursday afternoon thirteen people knew only too well what was expected of them. Joyce sat alone hoping he would call that evening. She cooked herself a Lancashire hotpot but only picked at it, then later fell asleep in front of the television when she tried to watch the final episode of Roots. The phone woke her at five past eleven.
“Raymond?”
“Hope I didn’t wake you,” said Fred.
“No, no,” said Joyce, now impatient to learn the outcome of the meeting. “What happened?”
“Reg and Jenny walked it. Those two Communist bastards only managed three votes between them.”
“Well done,” said Joyce.
“I did nothing,” said Fred, “except count the votes. Shall I tell Raymond what’s been happening?”
“No,” said Joyce. “No need to let him think we’ve had any trouble.”
Joyce fell back into the chair by the phone, kicked off her walking shoes, and went back to sleep.
She knew she had to plan the whole operation so that her husband would never find out. She sat alone in the house considering the sev
eral alternative ways in which she could deceive him. After hours of unproductive thought the idea finally came in a flash. She went over the problems and repercussions again and again until she was convinced that nothing could go wrong. She leafed through the Yellow Pages and made an appointment for the following morning.
The saleslady helped her to try on several wigs, but only one was bearable.
“I think it makes Modom look most elegant, I must say.”
She knew that it didn’t—it made Modom look awful—but she hoped it would serve its purpose.
She then applied the eye makeup and lipstick she had acquired at Harrods, and pulled out from the back of her cupboard a floral dress she had never liked. She stood in front of the mirror and checked herself. Surely no one would recognize her in Sussex and she prayed that if he found out he would be forgiving.
She left and drove slowly toward the outskirts of London. How would she explain herself if she was caught? Would he remain understanding when he discovered the truth? When she reached the constituency she parked the car in a side road and walked up and down the high street. No one showed any sign of recognition which gave her the confidence to go through with it. And then she saw him.
She had hoped he’d be in the City that morning. She held her breath as he walked toward her. As he passed she said, “Good morning.” He turned and smiled, replying with a casual “Good morning,” as he might to any constituent. Her heartbeat returned to normal and she went back to find her car.
She drove off completely reassured she could now get away with it. She went over once again what she was going to say, then all too suddenly she had arrived. She parked the car outside the house opposite, got out, and bravely walked up the path.
As Raymond stood outside the Cabinet room several of his colleagues came over to congratulate him. At exactly ten o’clock the Prime Minister walked in, bade everyone “Good morning,” and took his place at the center of the oblong table, while the other twenty-one members of the Cabinet filed in behind him and took their places. The Leader of the House, Michael Foot, sat on his left, while the Foreign Secretary and Chancellor were placed opposite him. Raymond was directed to a seat at the end of the table between the Secretary of State for Wales and the Secretary of State for Education.