First Among Equals

by Jeffrey Archer

  The date chosen for the leadership election was just five days later. During that time Simon Kerslake and Charles Seymour worked almost round the clock but, despite many national papers’ commissioned polls, columns of newsprint offering statistics and opinions, no one seemed certain of the outcome, other than to predict that Powell would come third.

  Charles and Simon began avoiding each other and Fiona started referring to Kerslake, first in private then in public, as “that pushy self-made man.” She stopped using the expression when Alec Pimkin asked in all innocence whether she was referring to Edward Heath.

  On the morning of the secret ballot Simon and Charles voted early and spent the rest of the day pacing the corridors of the Commons trying to assess the result. By lunchtime they were both outwardly exuberant, while inwardly despondent.

  At two-fifteen they were seated in the large committee room to hear the chairman of the 1922 Committee make the historic announcement:

  “The result of the first election for leader of the Conservative parliamentary party,” said Sir William Anstruther-Gray, “is as follows:

  Edward Heath 150 votes

  Reginald Maudling 133 votes

  Enoch Powell 15 votes.”

  An hour later Reginald Maudling, who had been lunching in the City, telephoned Heath to say he would be happy to serve under him as the new leader. Charles and Fiona opened a bottle of Krug while Simon took Elizabeth to the Old Vic to see The Royal Hunt of the Sun. He slept the entire way through Robert Stephens’s brilliant performance, before Elizabeth drove him home.

  “How come you didn’t fall asleep? After all, you’ve been just as busy as I have the last few weeks,” Simon asked.

  Elizabeth smiled. “It was my turn to want to be involved with what was happening on the center of the stage.”

  Two weeks later, on 4 August, Edward Heath announced his Shadow team. Reggie Maudling was to be deputy leader. Sir Alec accepted the Foreign Office brief while Powell went to Defense. Charles Seymour received an invitation to join the Housing and Local Government team as its junior spokesman, thus becoming the first of the new intake to be given front-bench responsibilities.

  Simon Kerslake received a handwritten letter from Reggie Maudling thanking him for his valiant efforts.

  BOOK TWO

  1966-1974 JUNIOR OFFICE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WHEN ALISON McKENZIE moved into Andrew Fraser’s Cheyne Walk flat everyone, including her father, the Minister of State for Scotland, assumed they would soon announce their engagement.

  For the previous three months Andrew had had his head down in committee helping out with the public bills relating exclusively to Scotland which were referred to the committee from the House itself. He found much of the committee work boring, as so many members repeated the views of their colleagues, less and less articulately, and for some time only his doodling improved. Even so, Andrew’s energy and charm made him a popular companion through the long summer months and he quickly gained enough confidence to suggest first minor and later major changes to amendments considered by the committee. The disparity between penalties under English and Scottish law had long worried him, and he pressed hard for changes that would bring the two systems closer together. He soon discovered that the Scottish Labour members were more traditional and clannish than even the most hidebound of Tories.

  When the session came to an end Andrew invited Alison to spend a long weekend with his parents at their country home in Stirling at the end of the recess.

  “Do you expect me to sleep under the same roof as a former Conservative Lord Provost of Edinburgh?” she demanded.

  “Why not? You’ve been sleeping with his son for the past six months.”

  “Well, the same roof perhaps, but there’s one weekend we won’t be able to sleep in the same bed.”

  “Why not? The Tories may be snobs but they’re not hypocrites.”

  Alison didn’t want to admit that she was actually quite nervous about spending the weekend with Andrew’s father, as she had heard him continually maligned at her parents’ breakfast table for over twenty years.

  When she did meet “Old Dungheap,” as her father referred to the former Lord Provost, Alison liked him immediately. He reminded her so much of her own father, while Lady Fraser was not at all the snobbish little battle-ax her mother had prepared her for.

  It was immediately agreed that during the weekend nobody would talk politics. Andrew and Alison spent most of the Friday afternoon walking through the heather-covered hills and discussing in detail how they saw their future. On the Saturday morning the minister telephoned Sir Duncan and invited them over to Bute House—the official residence of the Secretary of State for Scotland—for dinner.

  After so many years of opposing each other both families were nervous of the social get-together, but it seemed the children were to bridge the political gap they had failed to build for themselves. The McKenzies had invited two other Edinburgh families to dinner in the hope that it would ease the tension of the occasion, a branch of the Forsyths who owned the departmental store in Princes Street, and the Menzies, who ran the largest chain of newsagents in the country.

  Andrew had decided to use the gathering to make an announcement at the end of dinner, and having spent longer shopping than he originally intended was the last to arrive at Bute House.

  After they had all found their place cards around the long dining room table the fourteen guests remained silent as a lone piper played a lament before the chef entered carrying a silver salver which bore on it a large haggis for the minister’s inspection. Sir Duncan’s opinion was sought: “Warm—reekin rich!” he declared. It was the first occasion the two men had wholeheartedly agreed on anything.

  Andrew did not eat as much as the others because he couldn’t take his eyes off the guest who had been placed opposite him. She didn’t pay much attention to Andrew, but seemed always to be smiling or laughing, making those around her enjoy her company. When Andrew had last seen Louise Forsyth it had been scoring goals on a hockey pitch. She had been a dumpy little girl with long pigtails and a tendency to go for one’s ankles rather than for the ball. Now the jet black hair was short and curly, while the body had become slim and graceful. After dinner Andrew mixed among the guests and it was well after one o’clock when the party broke up: he never managed a moment alone with her. Andrew was relieved to discover that Alison wanted to spend the night with her parents at Bute House while the Frasers traveled back to their home in Stirling.

  “You’re very silent for a Socialist,” his father said in the car on the way home.

  “He’s in love,” said his mother fondly.

  Andrew made no reply.

  The next morning he rose early and traveled into Edinburgh to see his agent. The minister had caught the first flight back to London but had left a message asking if Andrew would be kind enough to see him at ten o’clock in Dover House, the London headquarters of the Scottish Office, the following day, “on an official matter.”

  Andrew was delighted but it didn’t change his attitude.

  Having answered his local post and dealt with some constituents’ problems he left his office and made his way over to the New Club to make a private phone call. He was relieved to find her still at home. She reluctantly agreed to join him for lunch. Andrew sat alone for forty minutes, checking the grandfather clock every few moments while pretending to read the Scotsman. When she was eventually ushered in by the steward, Andrew knew this was the woman with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life. He would have laughed, if he had been told—before the previous evening—that he could change his well-ordered plans on what was nothing more than a casual meeting. But then he had never met anyone like Louise before and was already convinced he never would again.

  “Miss Forsyth,” said the man wearing the green livery uniform of the club. He inclined his head slightly and left them alone.

  Louise smiled and Andrew guided her to a table in the corner.


  “It was kind of you to come at such short notice,” he said nervously.

  “No,” she said. “It was very stupid of me.”

  Over a lunch which he ordered but didn’t eat Andrew learned that Louise Forsyth was engaged to an old friend of his from university days and that they planned to be married the following spring. By the end of lunch he had convinced her they should at least meet again.

  Andrew caught the five-ten flight back to London and sat alone in his flat and waited. Alison returned a little after nine o’clock and asked why he hadn’t traveled down from Scotland with her or at least phoned. Andrew immediately told her the truth. She burst into tears while he stood helplessly by. Within the hour she had moved all her possessions out of Andrew’s flat and left.

  At ten-thirty he phoned Louise again.

  The next morning Andrew dropped into the Commons to collect his mail from the Members’ Post Office, and to check with the Whips’ office as to what time they were anticipating the votes that day.

  “One at six and two at ten,” shouted a junior Whip from behind his desk. “And we could lose the second so be certain you’re not far away if we need you.”

  Andrew nodded and turned to leave.

  “By the way, congratulations.”

  “On what?” queried Andrew.

  “Oh hell, another indiscretion to start the week on. It’s penciled in on the morning sheet,” said the Whip, tapping a piece of paper in front of him.

  “What is?” asked Andrew impatiently.

  “Your appointment as Parliamentary Private Secretary to Hugh McKenzie. For pity’s sake don’t let him know I told you.”

  “I won’t,” promised Andrew, breathing a sigh of relief. He checked his watch: perfect timing to stroll over to Dover House and keep his appointment with the minister.

  He whistled as he walked down Whitehall and the doorman saluted as he entered the ministry. They had obviously been briefed as well. He tried not to show too much anticipation. He was met at the top of the stone steps by the minister’s secretary.

  “Good morning,” Andrew said, trying to sound as if he had no idea what was in store for him.

  “Good morning, Mr. Fraser,” replied the secretary. “The minister has asked me to apologize for not being available to see you, but he has been called away to a Cabinet committee to discuss the new IMF standby credit.”

  “I see,” said Andrew. “Has the minister rearranged my appointment?”

  “Well, no, he hasn’t,” replied the secretary, sounding a little surprised. “He simply said that it was no longer important, and he was sorry to have wasted your time.”

  Charles Seymour was enjoying the challenge of his new appointment as a junior Opposition spokesman. Even if he was not actually making decisions on future policy he was listening to them, and at least he felt he was near the center of affairs. Whenever a debate on housing took place in the Commons he was allowed to sit on the front bench along with the rest of the team. He had already caused the defeat of two amendments on the Town and Country Planning Bill in standing committee, and had added one of his own, relating to the protection of trees, during the report stage of the bill on the floor of the House. “It isn’t preventing a world war,” he admitted to Fiona, “but in its own way it’s quite important because if we win the election I’m confident of being offered junior office and then I’ll have a real chance to shape policy.”

  Fiona continued to play her part, hosting monthly dinner parties at their Eaton Square house. By the end of the year every member of the Shadow Cabinet had dined with the Seymours at least once and Fiona never wore the same dress twice or allowed a menu to be repeated.

  When the parliamentary year began again in October Charles was one of the names continually dropped by the political pundits. Here was someone to watch. “He makes things happen,” was the sentiment that was expressed again and again. He could barely cross the Members’ Lobby without a correspondent trying to solicit his views on everything from butter mountains to rape. Fiona cut out of the papers every mention of her husband and couldn’t help noticing that, if any new member was receiving more press coverage than Charles, it was a young Socialist from Leeds called Raymond Gould.

  Raymond’s name began to disappear from political columns soon after his success on the budget debate; his colleagues assumed it was because he was busy building a career at the bar. Had they passed his room at the Temple they would have heard the continual tap of a typewriter and been unable to contact him on his off-the-hook phone.

  Each night Raymond could be found in chambers writing page after page, checking then rechecking his proofs, and often referring to the piles of books that cluttered his desk. When his Full Employment at Any Cost? Reflections of a Worker Educated After the Thirties was published it caused an immediate sensation. The suggestion that the unions would become impotent and the Labour party would need to be more radical to capture the young vote was never likely to endear him to the party activists. Raymond had anticipated that it would provoke a storm of abuse from union leaders, and even among some of his more left-wing colleagues. But A. J.P. Taylor suggested in The Times that it was the most profound and realistic look at the Labour party since Anthony Crosland’s The Future of Socialism, and had given the country a politician of rare honesty and courage. Raymond soon became aware that his strategy and hard work was paying dividends. He found himself a regular topic of conversation at political dinner parties in London.

  Joyce thought the book a magnificent piece of scholarship and she spent a considerable time trying to convince trade unionists who had only read out-of-context quotations from it in the Sun or Daily Mirror that it in fact showed a passionate concern for the trade union movement, while at the same time realistically considering the Labour party’s future in the next decade.

  The Labour Chief Whip took Raymond on one side and told him, “You’ve caused a right stir, lad. Now keep your head down for a few months and you’ll probably find every Cabinet member quoting you as if it was party policy.”

  Raymond took the Chief Whip’s advice, but he did not have to wait months. Just three weeks after the book’s publication the Prime Minister quoted a whole passage at the Durham Miners’ Rally. A few weeks later Raymond received a missive from No. 10 requesting him to check over the Prime Minister’s speech to the TUC conference and add any suggestions he might have.

  Simon Kerslake had sulked for about twenty-four hours after Maudling’s defeat for the leadership. He then decided to turn his anger and energy toward the Government benches. It hadn’t taken him long to work out that there was a fifteen-minute period twice a week when someone with his skills of oratory could command notice. At the beginning of a new session each week he would carefully study the order paper and in particular the first five questions listed for the Prime Minister on the Tuesday and Thursday. Every Monday morning he would prepare a supplementary for at least three of them. These he worded, then reworded, so that they were biting and witty and always likely to embarrass the Government. Although preparation of such supplementary questions could take several hours Simon would make them sound as though they had been jotted down on the back of the order paper during question time—and in fact would even do so. Elizabeth teased him about how long he took on something she considered trivial. He reminded her of Churchill’s comment after being praised for a brilliant rejoinder, “All my best off-the-cuff remarks had been worked on days before.”

  Even so Simon was surprised at how quickly the House took it for granted that he would be there on the attack, probing, demanding, harrying the Prime Minister’s every move. Whenever he rose from his seat the party perked up in anticipation, and many of his interruptions reached the political column of the daily newspapers the following day.

  Unemployment was the subject of that day’s question. Simon was on his feet leaning forward jabbing a finger in the direction of the Government front bench.

  “With the appointment of four extra Secretaries of
State this week the Prime Minister can at least claim he has full employment—in the Cabinet.”

  The Prime Minister sank lower into his seat, looking forward to the recess.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WHEN THE QUEEN opened Parliament the talk was not of the contents of her speech, which traditionally lists the aims of the Government of the day, but of how much of the legislation could possibly be carried out while the Labour party retained a majority of only four. Any contentious legislation was likely to be defeated at the committee stage and everyone knew it. The Conservatives were convinced they could win the forthcoming election whatever date the Prime Minister chose until the by-election held in Hull increased the Labour majority from 1,100 to 5,350. The Prime Minister couldn’t believe the result and asked the Queen to dissolve Parliament immediately and to call a general election. The date announced from Buckingham Palace was 31 March.

  Simon Kerslake began spending most of his spare time in his Coventry constituency. The local people seemed pleased with the apprenticeship of their new member, but the disinterested statisticians pointed out that a swing of less than one percent would remove him from the House for another five years. By then his rivals would be on the second rung of the ladder.

  The Tory Chief Whip advised Simon to stay put in Coventry and not to participate in any further parliamentary business. “There’ll be no more three-line whips between now and the election,” he assured him. “The most worthwhile thing you can do is pick up votes in Coventry, not give them in Westminster.”

  Elizabeth could only manage two weeks’ leave of absence from St. Mary’s, and yet between the two of them they covered the entire constituency before election day. Simon’s opponent was the former member, Alf Abbott, who became progressively confident of victory as the national swing to Labour accelerated during the campaign. The slogan “You know Labour Government works” was sounding convincing after only eighteen months in power. The Liberals fielded a third candidate, Nigel Bainbridge, but he admitted openly that he only hoped to save his deposit.