“You at the university as well?”
“As well as what?” he asked, without looking directly at her.
“As well as your friend,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied, looking up at a girl he guessed was about his age.
“I’m from Bradford.”
“I’m from Leeds,” he admitted, aware he was going redder by the second.
“My name is Joyce,” she volunteered.
“Mine’s Ray—Raymond,” he said.
“Like to dance?”
He wanted to tell her that he had rarely been on a dance floor before in his life but he didn’t have the courage. Like a puppet he found himself standing up and being guided by her toward the jivers. So much for his assumption that he was one of nature’s leaders.
Once they were on the dance floor he looked at her properly for the first time. She wasn’t half bad, any normal Yorkshire boy might have admitted. She was about five-foot-seven, and her auburn hair was tied up in a ponytail, matching the dark brown eyes that had a little too much makeup round them. She wore pink lipstick, the same color as her short skirt from which emerged two very attractive legs. They looked even more attractive when she twirled to the music of the four-piece student band. Raymond discovered that if he twirled Joyce very fast he could see the tops of her stockings, and he remained on the dance floor for longer than he would ever have thought possible. After the quartet had put their instruments away Joyce kissed him goodnight. He walked slowly back to his small room above the butcher’s shop.
The following Sunday, in an attempt to gain the upper hand, he took Joyce rowing on the Aire, but his performance was no better than his dancing, and everything on the river overtook him, including a hardy swimmer. He watched out of the side of his eyes for a mocking laugh but Joyce only smiled and chatted about missing Bradford and wanting to return home to nurse. After only a few weeks at university Raymond knew he wanted to get away from Leeds, but he didn’t admit it to anyone. When he eventually returned the boat Joyce invited him back to her digs for tea. He went scarlet as they passed her landlady. Joyce hustled him up the worn stone staircase to her room.
Raymond sat on the end of the narrow bed while Joyce made two milkless mugs of tea. After they had both pretended to drink she sat beside him, her hands in her lap. He found himself listening intently to an ambulance siren as it faded away in the distance. She leaned over and kissed him, taking one of his hands and placing it on her knee.
She parted his lips and their tongues touched: he found it a peculiar sensation, an arousing one; his eyes remained closed as she gently led him through each new experience, until he was unable to stop himself committing what he felt sure his mother had once described as a mortal sin.
“It will be easier next time,” she said shyly, maneuvering herself from the narrow bed to sort out the crumpled clothes spread across the floor. She was right: he wanted her again in less than an hour, and this time his eyes remained wide open.
It was another six months before Joyce talked about their future and by then Raymond was bored with her and had his sights set on a bright little mathematician in her final year. The mathematician hailed from Surrey.
Just at the time Raymond was summoning up enough courage to let her know the affair was over Joyce told him she was pregnant. His father would have taken a meat ax to him had he suggested an illegal abortion. His mother was only relieved that she was a Yorkshire girl; like the county cricket selection committee, Mrs. Gould did not approve of outsiders.
Raymond and Joyce were married at St. Mary’s in Bradford during the long vacation. When the wedding photos were developed Raymond looked so distressed and Joyce so happy they resembled father and daughter rather than husband and wife. After a reception given at the church hall the newly married couple traveled down to Dover to catch the night ferry. Their first night as Mr. and Mrs. Could was a disaster. Raymond turned out to be a particularly bad sailor. Joyce only hoped that Paris would prove to be memorable—and it was. She had a miscarriage on the second night of their honeymoon.
“Probably caused by all the excitement,” his mother said on their return. “Still, you can always have another, can’t you? And this time folk won’t be able to call it a little …”
She checked herself.
Raymond showed no interest in having another. Ten years had passed since that memorable honeymoon; he had escaped to London and become a barrister, but had long since accepted that he was tethered to her for life. Although Joyce was only thirty-two she already needed to cover those once-slim legs that had first so attracted him. How could he be so punished for such a pathetic mistake? Raymond wanted to ask the gods. How mature he had thought he was: how immature he had turned out to be. Divorce made sense, but it would have meant the end of his political ambitions: Yorkshire folk would not have considered selecting a divorced man. To be fair, it hadn’t all been a disaster: he had to admit that the locals adored her, and his parents seemed every bit as proud of Joyce as they did of their son. She mixed with the trade unionists and their frightful wives far better than he ever managed. He also had to acknowledge that Joyce had been a major factor in his winning the seat by over 10,000 votes. He wondered how she could sound so sincere the whole time: it never occurred to him that it was natural.
“Why don’t you buy yourself a new dress for Downing Street?” Raymond said as they rose from the breakfast table. She smiled: he had not volunteered such a suggestion for as long as she could remember. Joyce had been left with no illusions about her husband and his feelings for her, but hoped that eventually he would realize she could help him achieve his unspoken ambition.
On the night of the reception at Downing Street Joyce made every effort to look her best. She had spent the morning at Harvey Nichols searching for an outfit appropriate for the occasion, finally returning to a suit she had liked the moment she had walked in to the store. It was not the perfect fit but the sales assistant assured Joyce that “Modom looked quite sensational in it.” She only hoped that Raymond’s remarks would be half as flattering. By the time she reached home she realized she had nothing to match the unusual color.
Raymond was late returning from the Commons and was pleased to find Joyce ready when he leaped out of the bath. He bit back a remark about the incongruity of her shoes and new suit. As they drove toward Westminster he rehearsed the names of every member of the Cabinet with her, making Joyce repeat them as if she were a child.
The air was cool and crisp that night so Raymond parked his Sunbeam in New Palace Yard and they strolled across Whitehall together to No. 10. A solitary policeman stood guard at the door. Seeing Raymond approach, the officer banged the brass knocker once and the door was opened for the young member and his wife.
Raymond and Joyce stood awkwardly in the hall as if they were waiting outside a headmaster’s study. Eventually they were directed to the first floor. They walked slowly up the staircase, which turned out to be less grand than Raymond had anticipated, passing photographs of former Prime Ministers. “Too many Tories,” muttered Raymond as he passed Chamberlain, Churchill, Eden, Macmillan, and Home, with Attlee the only framed compensation.
At the top of the stairs stood Harold Wilson, pipe in mouth, waiting to welcome his guests. Raymond was about to introduce his wife when the Prime Minister said, “How are you, Joyce? I’m so glad you could make it.”
“Make it? I’ve been looking forward to the occasion all week.” Her frankness made Raymond wince; he failed to notice that it made Wilson chuckle.
Raymond chatted to the Prime Minister’s wife about the difficulty of getting poetry published until she turned away to greet the next guest. He then moved off into the drawing room and was soon talking to Cabinet ministers, trade union leaders, and their wives, always keeping a wary eye on Joyce, who seemed engrossed in conversation with the General Secretary of the Trades Union Congress.
Raymond moved on to the American Ambassador, who was telling Andrew Fraser how much he had e
njoyed the Edinburgh Festival that summer. Raymond envied Fraser his relaxed clubbable manner and had already worked out that the Scotsman would be a formidable rival among his contemporaries.
“Good evening, Raymond,” said Andrew. “Do you know David Bruce?” he asked, as if they were old friends.
“No,” Raymond replied, rubbing his palm on his trousers before shaking hands. “Good evening, Your Excellency,” he said, glad to see Andrew slipping away. “I was interested to read Johnson’s latest communiqué on Vietnam and I must confess the escalation …”
Andrew had spotted the Minister of State for Scotland arriving and went over to chat to him.
“How are you, Andrew?” Hugh McKenzie asked.
“Never better.”
“And your father?”
“In great form.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said the minister, grinning. “He’s giving me a lot of trouble over the Highlands and Islands Development Board.”
“He’s a sound chap basically,” said Andrew, “even if his views are a little misguided.” They both laughed as a slight, attractive woman with long brown hair came up to the minister’s side. She wore a white silk blouse and a McKenzie tartan skirt.
“Do you know my daughter Alison?”
“No,” Andrew said, holding out his hand. “I’ve not had that pleasure.”
“I know who you are,” she said, in a slight lowland accent, her eyes flashing. “Andrew Fraser, the man who makes Campbells look trustworthy. The Tories’ secret mole.”
“It can’t be much of a secret if the Scottish Office know about it,” said Andrew.
A waiter, wearing the smartest dinner-jacket in the room, approached them carrying a silver tray of thinly-cut sandwiches.
“Would you care for a smoked salmon sandwich?” Alison asked mockingly.
“No, thank you. I gave them up with my Tory background. But beware—if you eat too many you won’t appreciate your dinner tonight.”
“I wasn’t thinking of having dinner.”
“Oh, I thought you might enjoy a bite at Sigie’s,” teased Andrew.
Alison hesitated, then said, “It’ll be the first time anyone’s picked me up at No. 10.”
“I hate to break with tradition,” said Andrew. “But why don’t I book a table for eight?”
“Is Sigie’s one of your aristocratic haunts?”
“Good heavens no, it’s far too good for that lot. Why don’t we leave in about fifteen minutes? I must have a word with one or two people first.”
“I’ll bet.” She grinned as she watched Fraser comb the room. His years as a Tory party fellow-traveler had taught Andrew all he needed to know about how to make the best use of a cocktail party. His trade union colleagues would never understand that it was not in pursuit of endless smoked salmon sandwiches drowned by whisky. When he arrived back at Alison McKenzie’s side she was chatting to Raymond Could about Johnson’s landslide victory at the polls.
“Are you trying to pick up my date?” asked Andrew.
Raymond laughed nervously and pushed his spectacles back up his nose. A moment later Andrew was guiding Alison toward the door to say their farewells, and Raymond, watching them, wondered if he would ever learn to be that relaxed. He looked around for Joyce: it might be wise not to be the last to leave.
Andrew was ushered discreetly to a corner table at Sigie’s Club and it became quickly evident to Alison that he had been there several times before. The waiters ran around him as if he were a Tory Cabinet minister, and she had to admit to herself that she enjoyed the experience. After an excellent dinner of roast beef that wasn’t burnt and a crème brûlèe that was they strolled over to Annabel’s where they danced until the early morning. Andrew drove Alison back to her Chelsea flat a little after two a.m.
“Care for a nightcap?” she asked casually.
“Daren’t,” he replied. “I’m making my maiden speech tomorrow.”
“So this maiden is to be rejected,” she said to his retreating back.
The House of Commons was well attended at five o’clock the following afternoon when Andrew rose to address his fellow members. The Speaker had allowed him to follow the front-bench contributions, an honor Andrew would not be granted again for some considerable time. His father and mother looked down over the railings from the Strangers’ Gallery as he informed the commoners that the Lord Provost of Edinburgh had spent a lifetime teaching him all he knew about the constituency he was now proud to represent. The Labour party chuckled at the Opposition’s obvious discomfort, but they abided by tradition and made no interruption during a maiden speech.
Andrew had chosen as his subject the question of whether Scotland should remain part of the United Kingdom despite the recent oil discoveries. He delivered a well-argued case, assuring members that he saw no future for his country as a tiny independent state. His rhetoric, and his relaxed turn of phrase, had members laughing on both sides of the House. When he came to the end of his argument, never having once referred to a note, he sat down to loud cheers from his own benches and generous acknowledgment from the Tory side. In his moment of glory he glanced up toward the Strangers’ Gallery. His father was leaning forward, following every word. To his surprise sitting in front of his mother on the benches reserved for distinguished visitors was Alison McKenzie, her arms folded on the balcony. He smiled.
Andrew’s success was considerably enhanced when later that afternoon another member from the Labour benches rose to address the House for the first time. Tom Carson cared nothing for convention and even less for keeping to tradition and made no attempt to avoid controversy in his maiden speech. He began with an attack on what he described as “the Establishment conspiracy,” pointing an accusing finger as much at the ministers on his own front bench as at those opposite him, describing them all as “puppets of the capitalist system.”
Members present in the Chamber restrained themselves from interrupting the scowling Liverpudlian, but the Speaker stirred several times as the accusing finger appeared to cross his path as well. He was painfully aware that the member from Liverpool Dockside was going to cause all sorts of problems if this was the way he intended to conduct himself in the House.
When Andrew left the Chamber three speeches later he went to look for Alison, but she had already left; so he took the members’ lift up to the Public Gallery and invited his parents to join him for tea in the Harcourt Rooms.
“The last time I had tea here was with Ainslie Munro …” Sir Duncan began.
“Then it may be a very long time before you’re invited again,” Andrew interrupted.
“That may depend on whom we select as Tory candidate to oppose you at the next election,” retorted his father.
Several members from both sides of the House came up one by one to congratulate Andrew on his speech. He thanked them all individually but kept glancing hopefully over his father’s shoulder; but Alison McKenzie did not appear.
After his parents had finally left to catch the last flight back to Edinburgh Andrew returned to the Chamber to hear Alison’s father summing up the debate on behalf of the Government. The Minister of State described Andrew’s contribution as one of the finest maiden speeches the House had heard in years. “Maiden it may have been but virginal it was not,” concluded Hugh McKenzie.
Once the debate was over and the usual ten o’clock division had been declared by the tellers Andrew left the Chamber. One final vote on a prayer detained members for a further forty-five minutes and Andrew found the tea room—the traditional haunt of the Labour party—as crowded as it had been earlier in the afternoon.
Members jostled for the remains of unappetizing-looking lettuce leaves that any self-respecting rabbit would have rejected, accompanied by blobs of plastic-covered sweating cheese, described optimistically on the billboard as salad. Andrew contented himself with a cup of Nescafé.
Raymond Gould sat alone, slumped in an armchair in the far corner of the tea room, apparently engrossed in a
week-old copy of the New Statesman. He stared impassively as several of his colleagues went over to Andrew to congratulate him. His own maiden speech the previous week had not been as well received and he knew it. He believed just as passionately about war widows’ pensions as Andrew did about the future of Scotland but reading from a prepared manuscript he had been unable to make members hang on his every word. He consoled himself with the thought that Andrew would have to choose the subject for his next speech very carefully as the Opposition would no longer treat him with kid gloves.
Andrew was not concerning himself with such thoughts as he slipped into one of the many internal telephone booths and after checking in his diary dialed a London number. Alison was at home, washing her hair.
“Will it be dry by the time I arrive?”
“It’s very long,” she reminded him.
“Then I’ll have to drive slowly.”
When Andrew appeared on the Chelsea doorstep he was greeted by Alison in a housecoat, her newly dry hair falling down well below shoulder level.
“The victor come to claim his spoils?”
“No, only last night’s coffee,” he said.
“But won’t that keep you awake?”
“I certainly hope so.”
By the time Andrew left Alison’s home at eight the next morning he had already decided he wanted to see a lot more of Hugh McKenzie’s daughter. He returned to his own flat in Cheyne Walk, showered, and changed before making breakfast for himself and going over his mail. There were several more messages of congratulations including one from the Secretary of State for Scotland, while The Times and the Guardian carried brief but favorable comments.
Before leaving for the Commons Andrew checked over an amendment he wanted to move in committee that morning. When he had reworded his efforts several times he picked up his papers and headed off toward Westminster.