First Among Equals

by Jeffrey Archer

  “No, no, I’d rather you didn’t,” said Charles, fearing he sounded a little too insistent. “I consider it my responsibility. I’ll speak to him and see that it doesn’t happen again.”

  “All right, Charles, if that’s the way you want to play it. Thank God it can’t last much longer and the damn thing will soon be law, but we must remain vigilant over every clause. The Labour party know only too well that if they defeat us on certain key clauses they can still scupper the whole bill, and if I lost one of those by a single vote I would cut Kerslake’s throat. Or anyone else’s who was responsible.”

  “I’ll make sure he gets the message,” said Charles.

  “How’s Fiona reacting to all these late nights?” the Chief Whip asked, finally relaxing.

  “Very well, considering. In fact now that you mention it I have never seen her looking better.”

  “Can’t say my wife is enjoying ‘the prep school antics,’ as she describes our continual late-night sittings. I’ve had to promise to take her to the West Indies this winter to make up for it. Well, I’ll leave you to deal with Kerslake then. Be firm, Charles. Just remember, we can’t afford to lose a vote at this late stage.”

  “Norman Edwards?” repeated Raymond in disbelief. “The General Secretary of the Haulage Union?”

  “Yes,” said Fred Padgett, getting up from behind his desk.

  “But he burned Full Employment at Any Cost? on a public bonfire with every journalist he could lay his hands on to witness the conflagration.”

  “I know,” said Fred, returning a letter to the filing cabinet. “I’m only your agent, I’m not here to explain the mysteries of the universe.”

  “When does he want to see me?” asked Raymond.

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Better ask him if he can come for a drink back at the house round six o’clock.”

  Raymond had had a heavy Saturday morning surgery and thanks to the still imminent Martians had only found time to grab a sandwich at the pub before going off to pursue his favorite pastime. This week Leeds were playing Liverpool at Elland Road. Sitting in the directors’ box every other week in full view of his constituents while he supported his local football team killed 30,000 birds with one stone. Later, when talking to the lads in the dressing room after the match, he found himself lapsing into a pronounced Yorkshire accent that bore no resemblance to the one he used to address high court judges during the week.

  Leeds won three-two and after the match Raymond joined the directors for a drink in the boardroom. He became so impassioned about an off-side decision that could have lost them a point that he nearly forgot about his meeting with Norman Edwards.

  Joyce was in the garden showing the union leader her early snowdrops when Raymond returned.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he shouted, as he hung up his yellow and blue scarf. “I’ve been to the match.”

  “Who won?” asked Edwards.

  “Leeds, of course, three-two.”

  “Damn,” said Norman, his accent leaving the other in no doubt that he had not spent many nights outside of Liverpool.

  “Come on in and have a beer,” said Raymond.

  “I’d prefer a vodka.”

  The two men went into the house while Joyce continued with her gardening.

  “Well,” said Raymond, pouring his guest a Smirnoff. “What brings you all the way from Liverpool if it wasn’t to watch the football? Perhaps you want a signed copy of my book for your next union bonfire.”

  “Don’t give me any hassle, Ray. I came all this way because I need your help, simple as that.”

  “I’m all ears,” said Raymond.

  “We had a full meeting of the General Purposes Committee yesterday, and one of the brothers has spotted a clause in the European Bill which could put us all out of work.”

  Norman passed over a copy of the bill to Raymond with the relevant clause marked in red. It gave the minister power to make new haulage and lorry regulations which would come before the House as statutory instruments and thus could not be amended.

  “If that gets through the House my boys are in deep trouble.”

  “Why?” said Raymond.

  “Because those bloody Frogs know only too well that there’s a Channel between us and them, and if my lads are forced by law to sleep a night each side the only people who’ll end up making money on the deal will be the guest-house proprietors.”

  “What’s behind it?” asked Raymond.

  “They want us to drop the stuff our end, so they can pick it up on the other side.”

  “But wouldn’t that also be true when they need to deliver goods to us?”

  “No. Their journeys are much longer to the coast, and they have to stay overnight anyway, not to mention the fact that there are eight of them to one of us. It’s diabolical, nothing less.”

  Raymond studied the wording in detail while Edwards helped himself to another vodka.

  “The clause doesn’t stop you from going over the next day.”

  “And how much do you think that will add to your costs?” asked Raymond.

  “I’ll tell you, enough to make us uncompetitive, that’s how much,” replied the trade union leader.

  “Point taken,” said Raymond. “So what’s wrong with asking your own member to put the case?”

  “Don’t trust him. He’s pro-European at any price.”

  “And what about your sponsored trade union representative in the House?”

  “Tom Carson? You must be joking. He’s so far to the left that even his own side are suspicious when he supports a cause. We lost the ‘tachograph’ clause because he championed it. In any case I only put him in the House to get him off my back.” Raymond laughed. “Now, all my General Purposes Committee want to know is: would you be willing to fight this clause in the House for us? Not that we can afford the sort of fees you’re used to at the bar,” he added.

  “There would be no fee involved,” said Raymond, “but I’m sure you’ll be able to repay me in kind sometime in the future.”

  “Got the picture,” said Edwards, touching the side of his nose with a forefinger. “What do I do next?”

  “You go back to Liverpool and hope that I am better on an away pitch than your team.”

  Norman Edwards put on an old raincoat and started to button it up. He smiled at Raymond. “I may have been appalled by your book, Ray. But it doesn’t mean I didn’t admire it.”

  The Speaker looked down at the front bench. “Mr. Andrew Fraser.”

  “Number seventeen, sir,” said Andrew.

  The Speaker looked down to check over the question, seeking a Home Office answer.

  Simon rose to the dispatch box, opened his file, and said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Andrew Fraser,” called the Speaker again.

  Andrew rose from his place on the Opposition front bench to put his supplementary.

  “May I thank the minister for agreeing to an inquiry so quickly, and ask him that, if he discovers an injustice has been done to my constituent Mr. Paddy O’Halloran, that the Home Secretary will order a retrial immediately?”

  Simon rose again.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I am grateful to the Honorable Gentleman,” said Andrew, half-rising from his place.

  All over in less than a minute, but older members who listened to the brief exchange between Fraser and Kerslake in the House that day had no doubt that considerable preparation had gone into that minute from both sides.

  “The damn man missed another three-line whip, Charles. It must be the last time. You’ve been protecting him for far too long.”

  “It won’t happen again,” promised Charles convincingly. “I would like to give him one more chance. Allow him that.”

  “You’re very loyal to him,” said the Chief Whip. “But next time I’m going to see Kerslake myself and get to the bottom of it.”

  “It won’t happen again,” repeated Charles.

  “Hm,” said the Chief Whip. “Ne
xt problem is, are there any clauses on the European Bill that we should be worried about next week?”

  “Yes,” replied Charles. “This haulage clause that Raymond Gould is fighting. He made a brilliant case on the floor of the House, and got all his own side and half of ours backing him.”

  “He’s not the sponsored MP for the Haulage Union,” said the Chief Whip, surprised.

  “No, the unions obviously felt Tom Carson wouldn’t help the cause and he’s hopping mad at the slight.”

  “Clever of them to pick Gould. He improves as a speaker every time I hear him, and no one can fault him when it comes to a point of law.”

  “So we’d better face the fact that we’re going to lose the clause?”

  “Never. We’ll redraft the damn thing so that it’s acceptable and seen to be compassionate. It’s not a bad time to be the defender of the union interests. That way we’ll keep Gould from getting all the credit. I’ll speak to the PM tonight—and don’t forget what I said about Kerslake.”

  Charles returned to his office and realized that in future he would have to be more careful about telling Simon Kerslake when he was paired for the European Bill. He suspected he had carried this ploy as far as he could for now.

  Simon had read the final report prepared by his department on the O’Halloran case while Elizabeth was trying to get to sleep. He only had to go over the details once to realize that he would have to order a retrial and institute a full investigation into the past record of the police officers who had been involved in the case.

  When Andrew heard the news, and that the retrial would be held in London, he asked Raymond Gould to represent O’Halloran.

  “Praise indeed,” said Raymond, who still considered Andrew among the Commons’ finest orators. He somehow managed to fit O’Halloran into his busy schedule.

  The trial was in its third day when Mr. Justice Comyns, after listening to Mrs. Bloxham’s evidence, stopped proceedings and instructed the jury to return a verdict of not guilty.

  Andrew received praise from all quarters of the House, but he was quick to acknowledge the support given him by Simon Kerslake and the Home Office. The Times even wrote a leader the next day on the proper use of influence by a constituency MP.

  Some months later the court awarded O’Halloran £25,000 in compensation. The only drawback Andrew’s success caused was that every convict’s mother north of Hadrian’s wall queued to tell him about her innocent son at his fortnightly surgery. But during the year he took only one seriously and once again began to check into the details.

  During the long hot summer of 1972 clause after clause of the European Bill was voted on, often through the night. On some occasions the Government managed majorities of only five or six but somehow the bill remained intact.

  Charles would often arrive home at Eaton Square at three in the morning to find Fiona asleep, only to leave again before she had woken. Veterans of the House, both servants and elected, confirmed they had never experienced anything like it since the Second World War.

  And, just as suddenly, the last vote was taken and the marathon was over. The European Bill was through the Commons and on its way to the Upper House to receive their lordships’ approval. Charles wondered what he would do with all the hours that were suddenly left him in the day.

  When the bill finally received the Royal Assent in October the Chief Whip held a celebration lunch at the Carlton Club in St. James’s to thank all his team. “And in particular, Charles Seymour,” he said, raising his glass during an impromptu speech. When the lunch broke up the Chief Whip offered Charles a lift back to the Commons in his official car. They traveled along Piccadilly, down Haymarket, through Trafalgar Square, and into Whitehall. Just as the Commons came into sight the black Rover turned into Downing Street, as Charles assumed, to drop the Chief Whip at No. 12. But as the car stopped the Chief Whip said, “The Prime Minister is expecting you in five minutes.”

  “What? Why?” said Charles, as he joined his colleague outside No. 10.

  “Timed it rather well, didn’t I?” said the Chief Whip—and headed off toward No. 12.

  Charles stood alone in front of No. 10. The door was opened by a man in a long black coat. “Good afternoon, Mr. Seymour.”

  The Prime Minister saw Charles in his study and, as ever, wasted no time on small talk.

  “Thank you for all the hard work you have put in on the European Bill.”

  “It was a tremendous challenge,” said Charles, searching for words.

  “As will be your next job,” said Mr. Heath. “I want you to take over as one of the Ministers of State at the Department of Trade and Industry.”

  Charles was speechless.

  “With all the problems we are going to encounter with the trade unions during the next few months, that should keep you fully occupied.”

  “It certainly will,” said Charles.

  He still hadn’t been asked to sit down, but as the Prime Minister was now rising from behind his desk it was clear that the meeting was over.

  “You and Fiona must come and have dinner at No. 10 as soon as you’ve settled into your new department,” said the Prime Minister as they walked toward the door.

  “Thank you,” Charles said.

  As he stepped back on to Downing Street a driver opened the back door of a shiny Austin Westminster. It was several moments before Charles realized the car was his.

  “The Commons, sir?”

  “No, I’d like to return to Eaton Square for a few minutes,” he said, sitting back and enjoying the thought of tackling his new job.

  The car drove past the Commons, up Victoria Street, and on to Eaton Square. He wanted to tell Fiona that all the hard work had been rewarded. He felt guilty about how little he had seen of her lately, although he could not believe it would be much better now that he was to be involved in trade union legislation. How much he still hoped for a son, perhaps even that would prove possible now. The car came to a halt outside the Georgian house. Charles ran up the steps and into the hall. He could hear his wife’s voice from the first floor. He took the wide staircase in bounds of two and three at a time, and threw open the bedroom door.

  “I’m the new Minister of State at the Department of Trade and Industry,” he announced to Fiona, who was lying in bed.

  Alexander Dalglish looked up. He showed no sign of interest in Charles’s elevation.

  When Andrew rang Angus Sinclair at the Procurator Fiscal’s office to find that nothing was known of Ricky Hodge and that Sinclair was able to confirm that he had no criminal record, Andrew felt he had stumbled on a case with international implications.

  As Ricky Hodge was in a Turkish jail any inquiries had to be made through the Foreign Office. Andrew did not have the same relationship with the Foreign Secretary as he did with Simon, so he felt the direct approach would be best and put down a question to be answered in the House. He worded it carefully: “What action does the Foreign Secretary intend to take over the confiscation of a British passport from a constituent of the Honorable member for Edinburgh Carlton, details of which have been supplied to him?”

  When the question came in front of the House on the following Wednesday the Foreign Secretary rose to answer the question himself. He stood at the dispatch box and peered over his half-moon spectacles and said:

  “Her Majesty’s Government are pursuing this matter through the usual diplomatic channels.”

  Andrew was quickly on his feet. “Does the Right Honorable Gentleman realize that my constituent has been in a Turkish prison for six months and has still not been charged?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the Foreign Secretary. “I have asked the Turkish Embassy to supply the Foreign Office with more details of the case.”

  Andrew leaped up again. “How long will my constituent have to be forgotten in Ankara before the Foreign Secretary does more than ask for the details of his case?”

  The Foreign Secretary rose again showing no sign of annoyance. “I will report those fi
ndings to the Honorable member as quickly as possible.”

  “When? Tomorrow, next week, next year?” Andrew shouted angrily.

  “When?” joined in a chorus of Labour back-benchers, but the Speaker called for the next question above the uproar.

  Within the hour Andrew received a handwritten note from the Foreign Office. It read: “If Mr. Fraser would be kind enough to telephone, the Foreign Secretary would be delighted to make an appointment to see him.”

  Andrew phoned from the Commons and was invited to join the Foreign Secretary in Whitehall immediately.

  The Foreign Office, known as “The Palazzo” by its inmates, has an atmosphere of its own. Although Andrew had worked in a Government department as a minister he was still struck by its grandeur. He was met at the courtyard entrance and guided along yards of marble corridors before climbing a fine double staircase at the top of which he was greeted by the Foreign Secretary’s Principal Private Secretary.

  “Sir Alec will see you immediately, Mr. Fraser,” he said, and led Andrew past the magnificent pictures and tapestries which lined the way. He was taken into a beautifully proportioned room. The Foreign Secretary stood in front of an Adam fireplace over which hung a portrait of Lord Palmerston.

  “Fraser, how kind of you to come at such short notice. I do hope it has not caused you any inconvenience.” Platitudes, thought Andrew. Next the silly man will be mentioning my father. “I don’t think we have met before, but of course I have known your father for many years. Won’t you sit down?”

  “I realize you are a busy man. Can we get down to the point at issue, Foreign Secretary?” Andrew demanded.

  “Of course,” Sir Alec said courteously. “Forgive me for taking up so much of your time.” Without a further word, he handed Andrew a file marked “Richard M. Hodge—Confidential.” “Although Members of Parliament are not subject to the Official Secrets Act I know you will respect the fact that this file is classified.”