First Among Equals (8 page)

When the town
clerk had added tip his little columns of figures for the final time he found
that four votes had changed hands.

He explained to
Simon and Alf Abbott the procedure he intended to adopt in view of the outcome.
He told both candidates that he had spoken to Lord Elwyn Jones at nine that
morning and the Lord Chancellor had read out the relevant statute in election
law that was to be followed in such an extraordinary circumstance.

The town clerk
walked up on to the stage with Simon Kerslake and Alf Abbott in his wake, both
looking anxious.

Everyone in the
room stood to be sure of a better view of the proceedings. When the pushing
back of chairs, the coughing and the nervous chattering had stopped, the town
clerk began. First he tapped the microphone that stood in front of him to be
sure it was working. The metallic scratch was audible throughout the silent
room. Satisfied, he began to speak.

“I, the
returning officer for the district of Coventry Central, hereby declare the
total number of votes cast for each candidate to be as follows:

ALF ABBOTT, (LABOUR) 18,437

NIGEL BAINBRIDGE, (LIBERAL) 5,714

SIMON KERSLAKE,
(CONSERVATIVE) 18,437

The supporters
of both the leading candidates erupted into a noisy frenzy.

It was several
minutes before the town clerk’s voice could be heard above the babble of
Midland accents.

“In accordance
with Section Sixteen of the Representation of the People Act of 1949 and Rule
Fifty of the Parliamentary Election Rules in the second schedule to that Act, I
am obliged to decide between tied candidates by lot,” be announced. “I have
spoken with the Lord Chancellor and he has confirmed that the drawing of straws
or the toss of a coin may constitute decision by lot for this purpose. Both
candidates have agreed to the latter course of action.”

Pandemonium
broke out again as Simon and Abbott stood motionless on each side of the town
clerk waiting for their fate to be determined.

“Last night I
borrowed from Barclay’s Bank,” continued the town clerk, aware that ten million
people were watching him on television for the first and probably the last time
in his life, “a golden sovereign. On one side is the head of King George the Third,
on the other Britannia. I shall invite the sitting member, Mr. Kerslake, to
call his preference.” Abbott curtly nodded his agreement. Both men inspected
the coin.

The town clerk
rested the golden sovereign on his thumb, Simon and Abbott still standing on
either side of him. He turned to Simon and said, “You will call, Mr. Kerslake,
while the coin is in the air.”

The silence was
such that they might have been the only three people in the room. Simon could
feel his heart thumping in his chest as the town clerk spun the coin high above
him.

“Tails,” he
said clearly as the coin was at its zenith.

The sovereign
hit the floor and bounced, turning over several times before settling at the
feet of the town clerk.

Simon stared
down at the coin and sighed audibly. The town clerk cleared his throat before
declaring, “Following the decision by lot, I declare the aforementioned Mr.
Simon Kerslake to be the duly elected Member of Parliament for Coventry
Central.”

Simon’s
supporters charged forward and on to the stage and carried him on their
shoulders out of the City Hall and through the streets of Coventry.

Simon’s eyes
searched for Elizabeth but she was lost in the crush.

Barclay’s Bank
presented the golden sovereign to the member the next day, and the editor of
the Coventry Evening Telegraph rang to ask if there had been any particular
reason why he had selected tails.

“Yes,” Simon
replied. “George the Third lost America for us. I wasn’t going to let him lose
Coventry for me.”

Raymond Gould
increased his majority to 12,413 in line with Labour’s massive nationwide
victory, and Joyce was ready for a week’s rest.

Charles Hampton
could never recall accurately the size of his own majority because, as Fiona
explained to the old earl the following morning, “They don’t count the
Conservative vote in Sussex Downs, darling, they weigh it.”

Simon spent the
day after the election traveling around the constituency hoarsely thanking his
supporters for the hard work they had put in. For his most loyal supporter, he
could manage only four more words: “Will you marry me?”

I
N MOST DEMOCRATIC COUNTRIEs a newly elected leader enjoys a
transitional period during which he is able to announce the policies he intends
to pursue and whom he has selected to implement them. But in Britain, MPs sit
by their phones and wait for forty-eight hours immediately after the election
results have been declared. If a call comes in the first twelve hours, they
will be asked to join the Cabinet of twenty, during the second twelve given a
position as one of the thirty Ministers of State, and the third twelve, made
one of the forty Under Secretaries, of State, and during the final twelve, a
parliamentary private secretary to a Cabinet Minister.

If the phone
hasn’t rung by then, they remain on the back benches.

Raymond
returned from Leeds the moment the count was over, leaving Joyce to carry out
the traditional “thank you” drive across the constituency-

When he wasn’t
sitting by the phone the following day fie was walking around it, nervously
pushing his glasses back up on his nose. The first call came from his mother,
who had rung to congratulate him.

“On what?” he
asked. “Have you heard something?”

“No, love,” she
said, “I just rang to say how pleased I was about your increased majority.”

460h.”

“And to add how
sorry we were not to see you before you left the constituency, especially as
you had to pass the shop on the way to the highway.”

Raymond
remained silent. Not again, Mother, he wanted to say.

The second call
was from a colleague inquiring if Raymond had been offered a job.

“Not so far,”
he said before learning of his contemporary’s promotion.

The third call
was from one of Joyce’s friends.

“When will she
be back?” another Yorkshire accent inquired
..

“I’ve no idea,”
said Raymond, desperate to get the cafler off the line.

“I’D caH again
this afternoon, then.”

“Fine,” said
Raymond putting the phone down quickly.

He disappeared
into the kitchen to make himself a cheese sandwich, but there wasn’t any
cheese, so he ate stale bread smeared with three-week-old butter. He was
halfway through a second slice when the phone rang.

“Raymond?”

He held his
breath.

“Noel.
Brewster.”

He exhaled in
exasperation as he recognized the vicar’s voice.

“Can you read
the second lesson when you’re next up in Leeds? We had rather hoped you would
read it this morning-your dear wife...”

“Yes,” he
promised. “The first weekend I am back in Leeds.” The phone rang again as soon
as he placed it back on the receiver.

“Raymond
Gould?” said an anonymous voice.

“Speaking,” he
said.

“The Prime
Minister will be with you in one moment.”

Raymond waited.
The front door opened and another voice shouted, “It’s only me. I don’t suppose
you found anything to eat. Poor love.” Joyce joined Raymond in the drawing
room.

Without looking
at his wife, he waved his hand at her to keep quiet.

“Raymond,” said
a voice on the other end of the line.

“Good
afternoon, Prime Minister,” he replied, rather formally, in response to Harold
Wilson’s more pronounced Yorkshire accent.

“I was hoping you
would feel able to join the new team as Under Secretary for Employment?”

Raymond
breathed a sigh of relief. It was exactly what he’d hoped for. “I’d be
delighted, sir,” replied the new Minister.

“Good, that
will give the trade union leaders something to think about.”

The phone went
dead.

Raymond Gould,
Under Secretary of State for Employment, sat motionless on the next rung of the
ladder.

As Raymond left
the house the next morning, he was greeted by a driver standing next to a
gleaming black Austin Westminster. Unlike
his own
secondhand Volkswage n, it glowed in the morning light. The rear door was
opened and Raymond climbed in to be driven off to the department. By his side
on the back seat was a red leather box the size of a very thick briefcase with
gold lettering running along the edge.
“Under Secretary of
State for Employment.”
Raymond turned the small key, knowing what Alice
must have felt like on her way down the rabbit hole.

When Charles
Hampton returned to the Commons on Tuesday there was a note from the Whip’s
office waiting for him on the members’ letter board. One of the Environment
team had lost his seat in the General Election and Charles had been promoted to
number two on the Opposition bench in that department, to shadow the Government
Minister of State.

“No more
preservation of trees. You’ll be on to higher things now,” chuckled the Chief
Whip.

“Pollution,
water shortage, exhaust fumes...”

Charles smiled
with pleasure as he walked through the Commons, acknowledging old colleagues
and noticing a considerable number of new faces. He didn’t stop to talk to any
of the newcomers as he could not be certain if they were Labour or
Conservative, and, given the election results, most of them had to be the
former.

As for his
older colleagues, many wore forlorn looks on their faces.

For some it
would be a considerable time before they were offered the chance of office
again, while others knew they had served as Ministers for the last time. In
politics, he’d quickly
learned,
the luck of age and
timing could play a vital part in any man’s career, however able he might be.
But at thirty-five, Charles could easily dismiss such thoughts.

Charles
proceeded to his office to check over the constituency mail.

Fiona had
reminded him of the eight hundred letters of thanks to the party workers that
had to be sent out. He groaned at the mere thought of it.

“Mrs.
Blenkinsop, the chairman of the Sussex Ladies’ Luncheon Club, wants you to be
their guest speaker for their annual lunch,” his secretary told him once he had
settled.

“Reply yes –
what’s the date?” asked Charles, reaching for his diary.

“June
sixteenth.”

“Stupid women,
that’s Ladies Day at Ascot.

Tell her that
I’m delivering a speech at an environmental conference, but I’ll be certain to
make myself free for the function next year.”

The secretary
looked up anxiously.

“Don’t worry,”
said Charles. “She’ll never find out.” The secretary moved on to the next
letter.

Simon had
placed the little sapphire ring surrounded by diamonds on the third finger of
her left hand. Three months later a wide gold band joined the engagement ring.

After Mr. and
Dr. Kerslake had returned home from their honeymoon in Italy they both settled
happily into Beaufort Street. Elizabeth found it quite easy to fit all her
possessions into the little Chelsea house, and Simon knew after only a few
weeks that he had married a quite exceptional woman.

In the
beginning the two of them had found it difficult to mesh their demanding
careers, but they soon worked out a comfortable routine. Simon wondered if this
could continue as smoothly if they decided to start a family or he was made a
Minister. But the latter could be years away; the Tories would not change their
Leader until Heath had been given a second chance at the polls.

Simon began
writing articles for the Spectator and for the Sunday Express center pages in
the hope of building a reputation outside the House while at the same time
supplementing his parliamentary salary of three thousand four hundred pounds.

Even with
Elizabeth’s income as a doctor, he was finding it difficult to make ends meet,
and yet he didn’t want to worry his wife. He envied the Charles Hamptons of
this world who did not seem to give a second thought about expenditure. Simon
wondered if the damn man had any problems at all. He ran a finger down his own
bank account: as usual there was a figure around five hundred pounds in the
right-hand margin, and as usual it was in red.

He pressed on
with demanding questions to the Prime Minister each Tuesday and Thursday. Even
after this became routine, he prepared himself with his usual thoroughness, and
on one occasion he even elicited praise from his normally taciturn Leader. But
he found as the weeks passed that his thoughts continually returned to
finance...or his lack of it.

That was before
he met Ronnie Nethercote.

Raymond’s
reputation was growing. He showed no signs of being overcome by his major role
in a department as massive as Employment. Most civil servants who came in contact
with Raymond thought of him as brilliant, demanding, hardworking and, not that
it was ever reported to him, arrogant.

His ability to
cut a junior civil servant off in mid-sentence or to correct his principal
private secretary on matters of detail did not endear him even to his closest
staff members, who always want to be loyal to their Minister.

Raymond’s work
load was prodigious, and even the Permanent Secretary experienced Gould’s
unrelenting “Don’t make excuses” when he tried to trim one of Raymond’s private
schemes. Soon senior civil servants were talking of when, not whether, he would
be promoted. His Secretary of State, like all men who were expected to be in
six places at once, often asked Raymond to stand in for him, but even Raymond
was surprised when he was invited to represent the Department as guest of honor
at the annual Confederation of British Industries dinner.