First Among Equals

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Now the form is,” began the agent, “that we are interviewing six potential candidates and they’ll be seeing you last.” He winked knowingly.

  Simon and Elizabeth smiled uncertainly.

  “I’m afraid they won’t be ready for you for at least another hour, so you have time for a stroll round the town.”

  Simon was glad of the chance to stretch his legs and take a closer look at Redcorn. He and Elizabeth walked slowly round the pretty market town, admiring the Elizabethan architecture that had somehow survived irresponsible or greedy town planners. They even climbed the hill to take a look inside the magnificent perpendicular church which dominated the surrounding area.

  As he walked back past the shops in the high street Simon nodded to those locals who appeared to recognize him.

  “A lot of people seem to know who you are,” said Elizabeth, and then they saw the paper rack outside the local newsagent. They sat on the bench in the market square and read the lead story under a large picture of Simon.

  “Redcorn’s next MP?” ran the headline.

  The story volunteered the fact that although Simon Kerslake had to be considered the favorite, Bill Travers, a local farmer who had been chairman of the county council the previous year, was still thought to have an outside chance.

  Simon began to feel a little sick in the stomach. It reminded him of the day he had been interviewed at Coventry Central nearly eight years before. Now that he was a minister of the Crown he wasn’t any less nervous.

  When he and Elizabeth returned to constituency headquarters they were informed that only two more candidates had been seen and the third was still being interviewed. They walked around the town once again, even more slowly this time, watching the shopkeepers put up their colored shutters and turn “Open” signs to “Closed.”

  “What a pleasant market town,” said Simon, trying to find out how his wife was feeling.

  “And the people seem so polite after London,” she added.

  Simon smiled as they headed back to the party headquarters. As they passed Simon and Elizabeth they bid the strangers “Good evening,” courteous people whom Simon felt he would have been proud to represent. But although they walked slowly Elizabeth and he could not make their journey last more than thirty minutes.

  When they returned a third time to constituency headquarters the fourth candidate was leaving the interview room. She looked very despondent. “It shouldn’t be long now,” said the agent, but it was another forty minutes before they heard a ripple of applause, and a man dressed in a Harris tweed jacket and brown trousers left the room. He didn’t seem happy either.

  The agent ushered Simon and Elizabeth through, and as they entered everyone in the room stood. Ministers of the Crown did not visit Redcorn often.

  Simon waited for Elizabeth to be seated before he took the chair in the center of the room facing the committee. He estimated that there were about fifty people present and they were all staring at him, showing no aggression, merely curiosity. He looked around at the weather-beaten faces. Most of them, male and female, were dressed in tweed. In his dark striped London suit Simon felt out of place.

  “And now,” said the chairman, “we welcome the Right Honorable Simon Kerslake, MP.”

  Simon had to smile at the mistake so many people made in thinking that all ministers were automatically members of the Privy Council, and therefore entitled to the prefix “Right Honorable” instead of the plain “Honorable” accorded to all MPs—and then only when they were present in the House.

  “Mr. Kerslake will address us for twenty minutes, and he has kindly agreed to answer questions after that,” added the chairman.

  Simon felt confident he had spoken well, but even his few carefully chosen quips received no more than a smile, and his more serious comments elicited little response. This was not a group of people given to showing their emotions. When he had finished he sat down to respectful clapping and murmurs.

  “Now the minister will take questions,” said the chairman.

  “Where do you stand on hanging?” said a scowling middle-aged woman in a gray suit seated in the front row.

  Simon explained his reasons for being a convinced abolitionist. The scowl did not move from the questioner’s face and Simon thought to himself how much happier she would be with Ronnie Nethercote as her member.

  A man in a hacking jacket asked: “How do you feel, Mr. Kerslake, about this year’s farm subsidy?”

  “Good on eggs, tough on beef, and disastrous for pig farmers. Or at least that’s what I read on the front page of Farmers Weekly yesterday.” Some of them laughed for the first time. “It hasn’t proved necessary for me to have a great knowledge of farming in Coventry Central, but if I am lucky enough to be selected for Redcorn I shall try to learn quickly, and with your help I shall hope to master the farmers’ problems.” Several heads nodded their approval.

  “Miss Pentecost, chairman of the Women’s s Advisory,” announced a tall, thin spinsterish woman who had stood up to catch the chairman’s eye. “May I be permitted to ask Mrs. Kerslake a question? If your husband were offered this seat, would you be willing to come and live in Northumbertand?”

  Elizabeth had dreaded the question because she knew that if Simon was offered the constituency she would be expected to resign her post at the hospital. Simon turned and looked toward his wife.

  “No,” she replied directly. “I am a doctor at St. Mary’s Hospital, Paddington, where I practice gynecology. I support my husband in his career but, like Margaret Thatcher, I believe a woman has the right to a good education and then the chance to use her qualifications to their best advantage.”

  A ripple of applause went round the room and Simon smiled at his wife.

  The next question was on Europe, and Simon gave an unequivocal statement as to his reasons for backing the Prime Minister in his desire to see Britain as part of the Common Market.

  Simon continued to answer questions on subjects ranging from trade union reform to violence on television before the chairman asked, “Are there any more questions?”

  There was a long silence and just as he was about to thank Simon the scowling lady in the front row, without being recognized by the chair, asked what Mr. Kerslake’s views were on abortion.

  “Morally, I’m against it,” said Simon. “At the time of the Abortion Act many of us believed it would stem the tide of divorce. We have been proved wrong: the rate of divorce has quadrupled. Nevertheless, in the cases of rape or fear of physical or mental injury arising from birth I would have to support the medical advice given at the time. Elizabeth and I have two children and my wife’s job is to see that babies are safely delivered,” he added.

  The lips moved from a scowl to a straight line.

  “Thank you,” said the chairman. “It was good of you to give us so much of your time. Perhaps you and Mrs. Kerslake would be kind enough to wait outside.”

  Simon and Elizabeth joined the other hopeful candidates, their wives, and the agent in a small dingy room at the back of the building. When they saw the half-empty trestle table in front of them they both remembered they hadn’t had any lunch and devoured what was left of the curling cucumber sandwiches and the cold sausage rolls.

  “What happens next?” Simon asked the agent between mouthfuls.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. They’ll have a discussion, allowing everyone to express their views, and then vote. It should all be over in twenty minutes.”

  Elizabeth checked her watch: it was seven o’clock and the last train was at nine-fifteen.

  “Ought to make the train comfortably,” said Simon.

  An hour later when no smoke had emerged from the chimney the agent suggested to all the candidates who had a long journey ahead of them that they might like to check into the Bell Inn just over the road.

  When Simon looked around the room it was clear that everyone else had done so in advance.

  “You had better stay put in case you’re called again
,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll go off and book a room and at the same time call and see how the children are getting on.”

  “Probably eaten the poor baby-sitter by now,” said Simon.

  Elizabeth smiled before slipping out and making her way to the small hotel.

  Simon opened his red box and tried to complete some work. The man who looked like a farmer came over and introduced himself.

  “I’m Bill Travers, the chairman of the new constituency,” he began. “I only wanted to say that you’ll have my full support as chairman if the committee select you.”

  “Thank you,” said Simon.

  “I had hoped to represent this area, as my grandfather did. But I shall understand if Redcorn prefers to choose a man destined for the Cabinet rather than someone who would be happy to spend his life on the back benches.”

  Simon was touched by his opponent’s goodwill, and would have liked to respond in kind but Travers quickly added, “Forgive me, I’ll not waste any more of your time. I can see”—he looked down at the red box—“that you have a lot of work to catch up on.”

  Simon felt guilty as he watched the man walk away. A few minutes later Elizabeth returned and tried to smile. “The only room left is smaller than Peter’s and it faces the main road, so it’s just about as noisy.”

  “At least no children to say ‘I’m hungry’,” he said, touching her hand.

  It was a little after nine when a weary chairman came out and asked all the candidates if he could have their attention. Husbands and wives all faced him. “My committee want to thank you for going through this grim procedure. It has been hard for us to decide something that we hope not to have to discuss again for twenty years.” He paused. “The committee are going to invite Mr. Bill Travers to fight the Redcorn seat at the next election.”

  In a sentence it was all over. Simon’s throat went dry.

  He and Elizabeth didn’t get much sleep in their tiny room at the Bell Inn, and it hadn’t helped that the agent told them the final vote had been twenty-five—twenty three.

  “I don’t think Miss Pentecost liked me,” said Elizabeth, feeling guilty. “If I had told her that I would have been willing to live in the constituency I think you’d have been offered the seat.”

  “I doubt it,” said Simon. “In any case it’s no use agreeing to their terms at the interview and then imposing your own when you have been offered the constituency. My guess is you’ll find Redcorn has chosen the right man.”

  Elizabeth smiled at her husband, grateful for his support.

  “There will be other seats,” said Simon, only too aware that time was now running out. “You’ll see.”

  Elizabeth prayed that he would prove right, and that next time the choice of a constituency would not make her have to face the dilemma she had so far managed to avoid.

  When Raymond took silk, the second Tuesday after the Easter holiday, and became a Queen’s Counsel, Joyce made one of her periodic trips to London. The occasion she decided warranted another visit to Harvey Nichols. She recalled her first trip to the store so many years before when she had accompanied her husband to meet the Prime Minister. Raymond had come so far since then although their relationship seemed to have progressed so little. She had given up hope of being a mother, but still wanted him to believe she was a good wife. She couldn’t help thinking how much better-looking Raymond had become in middle age, and feared the same could not be said of her.

  She enjoyed watching the legal ceremony as her husband was presented in court before the judges. Latin words spoken but not understood. Suddenly her husband was Raymond Could, QC, MP.

  She and Raymond arrived late in chambers for the celebration party. Everyone seemed to have turned out in her husband’s honor. Raymond felt full of bonhomie and was chatting to the chief clerk when Sir Nigel handed him a glass of champagne. Then he saw a familiar figure by the mantelpiece and remembered that the trial in Manchester was over. He managed to circle the room speaking to everyone but Stephanie Arnold. To his horror he turned to see her introducing herself to his wife. Every time he glanced toward them they seemed deeper in conversation.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Sir Nigel, banging a table. He waited for silence. “We are always proud in chambers when one of our members takes silk. It is a comment not only on the man but also on his chambers. And when it is the youngest silk—still under forty—it adds to that pride. All of you, of course, know that Raymond also serves in another place in which we expect him to rise to even greater glory. May I add finally how pleasant it is to have his wife Joyce among us tonight. Ladies and gentlemen,” he concluded. “The toast is Raymond Gould, QC.”

  “Raymond Gould, QC,” said everyone in chorus. Then, “Speech, speech.”

  “I would like to thank all those people who made this great honor possible,” began Raymond. “My producer, my director, the other stars, and not forgetting the criminals, without whom I would have no profession to profess. And finally,” he said, “to those of you who want to see the back of me, I direct you all to work tirelessly to ensure the return of a Labour Government at the next election. Thank you.”

  The applause was sustained and genuine and many of his colleagues were impressed by how relaxed Raymond had become of late. As they came up to congratulate him Raymond couldn’t help noticing that Stephanie and Joyce had resumed their conversation. Raymond was handed another glass of champagne just as an earnest young pupil called Patrick Montague who had recently joined them from chambers in Bristol engaged him in conversation. Although Montague had been with them for some weeks Raymond had never spoken to him at length before. He seemed to have very clear views on criminal law and the changes that were necessary. For the first time in his life Raymond felt he was no longer a young man.

  Suddenly both women were at his side.

  “Hello, Raymond.”

  “Hello, Stephanie,” he said awkwardly and looked anxiously toward his wife. “Do you know Patrick Montague?” he asked, absentmindedly.

  The three of them burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Raymond.

  “You do embarrass me sometimes, Raymond,” said Joyce. “Surely you realize Stephanie and Patrick are engaged?”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “WITH OR WITHOUT civil servants?” asked Simon as Andrew entered the minister’s office.

  “Without, please.”

  “Fine,” said Simon and pressed a switch on the intercom by his desk.

  “I don’t want to be disturbed while I’m with Mr. Fraser,” he said and ushered his colleague toward a comfortable seat in the corner.

  “Elizabeth was asking me this morning to find out how Robert was getting on.”

  “It’s his second birthday next month and he’s overweight for a scrum-half,” replied Andrew. “And how’s your search for a seat working out?”

  “Not too good. The last three constituencies to come up haven’t even asked to see me. I can’t put a finger on why, except they all seem to have selected local men.”

  “It’s still a long time to the next election. You’re sure to find a seat before then.”

  “It might not be so long if the Prime Minister decides to go to the country and test his strength against the unions.”

  “That would be a foolish thing to do,” said Andrew. “He might defeat us but he still wouldn’t defeat the unions.”

  A young woman came into the room with two cups of coffee, put them on the low Formica table, and left the two men alone.

  “Have you had time to look at the file?” Andrew continued.

  “Yes, I went over it last night between checking over Peter’s prep and helping Michael to build a model galleon.”

  “And how do you feel?” Andrew asked.

  “Not very good. I can’t get to grips with this new maths they’re now teaching, and my mast was the only one that fell off when Elizabeth launched the galleon in the bath.”

  Andrew laughed.

  “I think you�
�ve got a case,” said Simon, sounding serious.

  “Good,” said Andrew. “Now the reason I wanted to see you privately is because I feel there are no party political points to be made out of this case for either of us. I’ve no plans to try to embarrass your department, and I consider it’s in the best interest of my constituents to cooperate as closely as I can with you.”

  “Thank you,” said Simon. “So where do you want to go from here?”

  “I’d like to table a planted question for your department in the hope that you would consider opening an inquiry. If the inquiry comes to the same conclusion as I have, I would expect you to order a retrial.”

  Simon hesitated. “And if the inquiry goes against you will you agree to no reprisals for the Home Office?”

  “You have my word on it.”

  “Shall I ask the civil servants to come in now?”

  “Yes, please do.”

  Simon returned to his desk and pressed a button. A moment later three men in almost identical suits, white shirts with stiff collars, and discreet ties entered the room. Between them they could have ruined any police identification parade.

  “Mr. Fraser,” began Simon, “is asking the Home Office to consider …”

  “Can you explain why Simon Kerslake missed a vote yesterday?”

  Charles looked across the table at the Chief Whip.

  “No, I can’t,” he said. “I’ve been distributing the weekly whip to him the same as every member of my group.”

  “What’s behind it then?”

  “I think the poor man has been spending a lot of his time traipsing around the country looking for a seat to fight at the next election.”

  “That’s no excuse,” said the Chief Whip. “Duties in the House must come first, every member knows that. He missed a vote on a vital clause during the European Bill last Thursday while everyone else in your group has proved reliable. Despite our majority we seem to be in single figures for almost every clause. Perhaps I should have a word with him?”