First Among Equals (31 page)

Elizabeth
didn’t move from the corridor for another day and another night, and she didn’t
return home until the surgeon told her the news.

When she heard
she fell on her knees and wept.

Simon would
live; they had saved her husband’s life. She continued to weep. Her son Peter
had died a few minutes before. They had tried everything.

“
G
OT TIME FOR A QUICK ONE’ asked Alexander Dalglish.

“If you press
me,” said Pimkin.

“Fiona,”
shouted Alexander. “It’s Alec Pimkin; he’s dropped in for a dfink.”

Fiona came in
to join them. She was dressed in a bright yellow frock and had allowed her hair
to grow down to her shoulders.

“It suits you,”
said Pimkin, tapping his bald head.

“Thank you,”
said Fiona. “Why don’t we all go through to the drawing room?”

Pimkin happily
obeyed and had soon settled himself into Alexander’s favorite chair.

“What will you
have?” asked Fiona, as she stood by the bar cabinet.

“A large gin with just a rumor of tonic.”

“Well, how’s
the constituency faring since my resignation?” asked Alexander.

“It ticks
along, trying hard to survive the biggest sex scandal since Profumo,”
chuckled
Alec.

“I only hope it
hasn’t harmed you politically,” said Alexander.

“Not a bit of
it, old fellow,” said Pimkin, accepting the large Beefeater-and-tonic Fiona
handed him.

“On the
contrary, it’s taken their minds off me for a change.”

Alexander
laughed.

“In fact,”
continued Pimkin, “interest in the date of your wedding has been eclipsed only
by that of Charles and Lady Di. Gossips tell me,” he continued, clearly
enjoying himself, “that my Honorable friend, the Member for Sussex Downs, made
you wait the full two years before you could place an announcement in The
Times.”

“Yes that’s
true,” said Fiona. “Charles didn’t even answer my letters during that period,
but lately, when any problem’s arisen, he’s been almost friendly.”

“Could that be
because he also wants to place an announcement in The Times?” said Pimkin,
downing his gin quickly in the hope of being offered a second.

“What do you
mean?”

“The fact that he has lost his heart to Amanda Wallace.”

“Amanda’?” said
Fiona in disbelief.

“Surely, he’s
got more sense than that.”

“I don’t think
it has much to do with sense,” said Pimkin, holding out his glass.
“More to do with sexual attraction.”

“But he’s old
enough to be her father.

Besides, Amanda
is hardly his type.”

“That may well
be the case, but I am informed by a reliable source that marriage is being
proposed.”

“You can’t be
serious,” said Fiona flatly.

“The subject
has most certainly been broached, for she is undoubtedly pregnant and Charles
is hoping for a son,” said Pirakin in triumph as he accepted his second double
gin.

“That’s not
possible,” said Fiona. “I can assure you – -2’ She caught herself and stopped.

“And I can
assure you that some of the more ungener-301 ous of our brethren are already
suggesting the names of several candidates for the role of father.”

“Alec, you’re
incorrigible.”

“My dear, it is
common knowledge that Amanda has slept with half the Cabinet and a considerable
cross section of backbenchers.”

“Stop
exaggerating,” said Fiona.

“And what’s
more,” continued Pimkin as if he hadn’t heard her, “she has only stopped short
of the Labour front bench because her mother told her they were common and she
might catch something from them.”

Alexander
laughed, “But surely Charles hasn’t fallen for the pregnancy trick?”

“Hook, line and sinker.
He’s like an Irish-man who’s been
locked into a Guinness brewery over a weekend. Dear Amanda has my Honorable
friend uncorking her at every opportunity.”

“But she’s just
plain stupid,” said Alexander. “The only time I met her she assured me that
David Frost was turning out to be an excellent chairman of the Conservative
Party.”

“Stupid she may
be, but plain she is not.

I’m told they
are updating the Kama Sutra together.”

“Enough, Alec,
enough,” said Fiona, laughing.

“You’re right,”
said Pimkin, aware that his glass was nearly empty once again. “A man of my
impeccable reputation cannot afford to be seen associating with people living
in sin. I must leave immediately, darlings,” he said, rising to his feet.
Pimkin put his glass down and Alexander accompanied him to the front door.

As it closed,
Alexander turned to Fiona.

“Never short of
useful information, our member,”
he
said.

“I agree,” said
Fiona.
“So much gleaned for such a small investment in
Beefeater.”

As Alexander walked
back into the drawing room he added, “So what have you done about the Holbein?”

“I signed the
final documents this morning, after we both agreed that at last Charles had
come to his senses. He even wanted to rush the proceedings through.”

“And now we
know why,” said Alexander.

“So I see no
reason why we should fall in so conveniently with his little plan.”

“What do you
have in mind?” asked Fiona.

“Have you seen
this’?” he asked, passing her a copy of Sotheby’s latest catalogue of Old
Master paintings.

Three weeks
after the bombing, Simon left the Westminster Hospital on crutches, Elizabeth
by his side. His fight leg had been so shattered that he had been told he would
never walk properly again. As he stepped out onto Horseferry Road, a hundred
cameras flashed to meet editors’ demands to capture the tragic hero. None of
the photographers asked Simon and Elizabeth to smile. Normally cynical
journalists were moved by the simple dignity with which both the Minister and
his wife conducted themselves. The pictures the press carried the next day
showed clearly they had lost their only son.

After a month
of complete rest, Simon returned to his Irish Charter against doctor’s orders,
knowing the document was still due to be debated in the House in only two
weeks’ time.

The Secretary
of State and the Under Secretary for Northern Ireland visited Simon at home on
several occasions, and it was agreed that the Under Secretary would take over
Simon’s responsibilities temporarily and deliver the winding-up speech. During
his absence the whole Northern Ireland office came to realize just how much
work Simon had put into the Charter, and no one was complacent about taking his
place.

The attempt on
Simon’s life and the death of his son had turned the special debate on the Charter
into a national media event, the BBC scheduling a broadcast of the entire
proceedings on Radio Four from three-thirty to the vote at ten o’clock.

On the
afternoon of the debate, Simon sat up in bed, listening to every word on the
radio as if it were the final episode in a dramatic serial, desperate to learn
the outcome. The speeches opened with a clear and concise presentation of the
Charter by the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, which left Simon
feeling confident that the whole House would support his plan. The Opposition
spokesman followed with a fair-minded speech, raising one or two queries about
the controversial Patriots’ Clause with its special rights for Protestants in
the South and Catholics in the North, and about how it would affect the
Catholics unwilling to register in Northern Ireland. Otherwise, he reassured
the House that the Opposition supported the Char-ter and would not call for a
division vote.

Simon began to
relax for the first time as the debate continued, but his mood changed as some
back-bench members started to express more and more anxiety over the Patriots’
Provision. One or two of them were even insisting that the Charter should not
be sanctioned by the House until the need for the Patriots’ Provision was fully
explained by the Government.

Simon realized
that a few narrow-minded men were simply playing for time in the hope the
Charter would be held up and in later months forgotten. For generations such
men had succeeded in stifling the hopes and aspirations of the Irish people
while they allowed bigotry to undermine any real progress toward peace.
Elizabeth came in and sat on the end of the bed.

“How’s it
going?” she asked.

“Not well,”
said Simon. “It will now all depend on the Opposition spokesman.” They both
listened intently.

No sooner had
the Opposition spokesman
risen
than Simon realized
that this man had misunderstood the real purpose of the Patriots’ Provision and
that what Simon had agreed to with both sides in Dublin and Belfast was not
being accurately explained to the House.

There was no
malice in the speech. The man was clearly following what had been agreed to
through the usual channels, but Simon could sense that his lack of conviction
was sowing doubts in the minds of members. A division vote might be called
after all.

After one or
two members raised further questions about the Patriots’

Clause, the
Shadow Minister finally suggested, “Perhaps we should wait until the Minister
of State is fully recovered and able to report to the House himself.”

Simon felt sick.
He was going to lose the Charter if it didn’t get through the House tonight.
All the hard work and good will would count for nothing.

His son’s death
would count for nothing.

Simon made a
decision. “I’d love a hot cup of cocoa,” he said, trying to sound casual.

“Of course, darling.
I’ll just go and turn the kettle on.
Would you like a biscuit while I’m
up7
”

Simon nodded,
Once the bedroom door was closed, he slipped quietly out of bed and dressed as
quickly as he could. He picked up his blackthorn stick, a gift from Dr.
Fitzgerald, the Irish Prime Minister, which had been among the dozens of
presents sent to his home awaiting his return from the hospital. Then he
hobbled silently down the stairs and across the hall, hoping Elizabeth and Lucy
would not hear him. He eased the front door open.

When the
policeman on duty saw him, Simon put a finger to his lips and closed the door
very slowly behind him.

He made his way
laboriously up to the police car, lurched into the back and said, “Switch on
the radio, please, and drive me to the House as quickly as possible.”

Simon continued
to listen to the Opposition spokesman as the police car weaved in and out of
the traffic on a route he hadn’t traveled before. They arrived at the St. Stephen’s
entrance to the Commons at nine twenty-five.

Visitors stood
to one side as they might for royalty. But Simon didn’t notice. He hobbled on
as quickly as he 305 could through the central lobby, oblivious to the
awkwardness of his gait, turning left past the policeman and on toward the
entrance of the House.

He prayed he
would reach the chamber before the Government spokesman rose to deliver his
winding-up speech. Simon passed an astonished chief doorkeeper and arrived at
the bar of the House as the new digital clock showed 9:29.

The Opposition
spokesman was resuming his place on the front bench to muffled cries of “Hear,
hear.” The Speaker rose, but before he had time to call upon the Minister of
State to reply, Simon stepped slowly forward onto the green carpet of the
Commons. For a moment there was a stunned silence; then the cheering began. It
had reached a crescendo by the time Simon arrived at the front bench. His
blackthorn stick fell to the floor as he clutched the dispatch box. The Speaker
called out his name sotto voce.

Simon waited
for the House to come to complete silence.

“Mr. Speaker, I
must thank the House for its generous welcome. I return this evening because,
having listened to every word of the debate on the radio, I feel it necessary
to explain to Honorable Members what was behind my thinking on the Patriots’
Provision. This was not some superficial formula for solving an intractable
problem, but an act of good faith to which the representatives from all sides
felt able to put their names. It may not be perfect, since words can mean
different things to different people-as lawyers continually demonstrate to us.”

The laughter
broke the tension that had been building in the House.

“But if we
allow this opportunity to pass today, it will be another victory for those who
revel in the mayhem of Northern Ireland, whatever their
reason,
and a defeat for all men of good will.”

The House was
silent as Simon went on to explain in 306
detail
the
theory behind the Patriots’ Provision and the effect it would have on both
Protestants and Catholics in North and South. He also covered the other salient
clauses in the Charter, answering the points that had been raised during the
debate until, in glancing up at the clock above the Speaker’s
chair,
he realized he had less than a minute left.

“Mr. Speaker,
we in this great House, who have in the past decided the fate of nations,
are
now given an opportunity to succeed today where our
predecessors have failed. I ask you to support this Charter-not unreservedly,
but to show the bombers and the murderers that here in Westminster we can cast
a vote for the children of tomorrow’s Ireland. Let the twenty-first century be
one in which the Irish problem is only a part of history. Mr. Speaker, I seek
the support of the whole House.”

The motion on
the Charter was agreed to without a division.

Simon
immediately returned home, and on arrival silently crept upstairs. He closed
the bedroom door behind him and fumbled for the switch. The light by the side
of the bed went on, and Elizabeth sat up.