First Among Equals

by Jeffrey Archer

  “When they saw all the figures they would at worst rap me over the knuckles.”

  “I doubt if the Director of Public Prosecutions would take the same lenient attitude if he saw these documents,” said Charles, holding up the papers that had been resting on his lap.

  “You’d ruin the bank’s name.”

  “And you would probably spend the next ten years in jail. If, however, you did get away with it you would be finished in the City, and by the time your legal fees had been paid there wouldn’t be much left of that nest-egg in Zurich.”

  “So what do you want this time?” demanded Spencer, sounding exasperated.

  “Your job,” said Charles.

  “My job?” said Spencer in disbelief. “Do you imagine because you’ve been a junior minister you’re capable of running a successful merchant bank?” he added scornfully.

  “I didn’t say I would run it. I can buy a competent chief executive to do that.”

  “Then what will you be doing?”

  “I shall be the chairman of Seymour’s which will convince City institutions that we wish to continue in the traditions of generations of my family.”

  “You’re bluffing,” stammered Spencer.

  “If you are still in this building in twenty-four hours’ time,” said Charles, “I shall send these to the DPP.”

  There was a long silence.

  “If I agreed,” said Spencer at last, “I would expect two years’ salary as compensation.”

  “One year,” said Charles. Spencer hesitated, then nodded slowly. Charles rose to his feet and put the papers resting on his lap back into his inside pocket.

  They consisted of nothing more than the morning mail from Sussex Downs.

  Simon felt the interview had gone well but Elizabeth was not so sure. They sat huddled in a room with five other candidates and their wives, patiently waiting.

  He thought back to his answers, and to the eight men and four women on the committee.

  “You must admit it’s the most ideal seat I’ve been considered for,” said Simon.

  “Yes, but the chairman kept eyeing you suspiciously.”

  “But Millburn mentioned that he had been at Eton with Charles Seymour.”

  “That’s what worries me,” whispered Elizabeth.

  “A 15,000 majority at the last election and only forty minutes from London. We could even buy a little cottage …”

  “If they invite you to represent them.”

  “At least this time you were able to tell them you would be willing to live in the constituency.”

  “So would anyone in their right mind,” said Elizabeth.

  The chairman came out and asked if Mr. and Mrs. Kerslake would be kind enough to return once more to see the committee.

  Oh, God, thought Simon. What else can they want to know?

  “It’s too near London to be my fault this time,” chuckled Elizabeth.

  The committee sat and stared at them with long faces.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the chairman. “After our lengthy deliberations, I formally propose that Mr. Simon Kerslake be invited to contest Pucklebridge at the next election. Those in favor …?”

  All twelve hands went up.

  “Those against … ?”

  “Carried unanimously,” said the chairman. He then turned to Simon. “Do you wish to address your committee?”

  The prospective Conservative Member of Parliament for Pucklebridge rose. They all waited expectantly.

  “I don’t know what to say, except that I’m very happy and honored and I can’t wait for a general election.”

  They all laughed and came forward and surrounded them. Elizabeth dried her eyes before anyone reached her.

  About an hour later the chairman accompanied Simon and Elizabeth back to their car and bade them good night. Simon wound down his window.

  “I knew you were the right man,” Millburn said, “as soon as Charles Seymour phoned”—Simon smiled—“and warned me to avoid you like the plague.”

  “Could you tell Miss Trubshaw to come in?” Charles asked his secretary.

  Margaret Trubshaw arrived a few moments later and remained standing in front of his desk. She couldn’t help but notice the change of furniture in the room. The modern Conran suite had been replaced by a leather clublike sofa. Only the picture of the eleventh Earl of Bridgwater remained in place.

  “Miss Trubshaw,” began Charles, “since Mr. Spencer has felt it necessary to resign so suddenly I think it important for the bank to keep some continuity now that I’m taking over as chairman.”

  Miss Trubshaw stood like a Greek statue, her hands hidden in the sleeves of her dress.

  “With that in mind, the board has decided to extend your contract with the bank for a further five years. Naturally, there will be no loss in your pension rights.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Charles.”

  “Thank you, Miss Trubshaw.”

  Miss Trubshaw almost bowed as she left the room.

  “And Miss Trubshaw?”

  “Yes, Mr. Charles,” she said, holding on to the door knob.

  “I believe my wife is expecting a call from you. Something about inviting you to lunch at the Savoy Grill.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “A BLUE SHIRT,” said Raymond, looking at the Turnbull and Asser label with suspicion. “A blue shirt,” he repeated.

  “A fortieth-birthday present,” shouted Kate from the kitchen.

  I shall never wear it, he thought, and smiled to himself.

  “And what’s more, you’ll wear it,” she said, her Boston accent carrying a slight edge.

  “You even know what I’m thinking,” he complained as she came in from the kitchen. He always thought how elegant she looked in her tailored office suit.

  “It’s because you’re so predictable, Carrot Top.”

  “Anyway, how did you know it was my birthday?”

  “A massive piece of detective work,” said Kate, “with the help of an outside agent and a small payment.”

  “An outside agent. Who?”

  “The local paper shop, my darling. In the Sunday Times they tell you the name of every distinguished person celebrating a birthday in the following seven days. In a week during which only the mediocre were born, you made it.”

  Raymond had to laugh.

  “Now listen, Carrot Top.”

  Raymond pretended to hate his new nickname. “Do you have to call me by that revolting name?”

  “Yes. I can’t stand Raymond.”

  He scowled. “In any case, carrot tops are green.”

  “No comment. Try on your shirt.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  He took off his black coat and waistcoat, removed his white shirt, and eased the stud on his stiff collar, leaving a small circle above his Adam’s apple. Curly red hairs stuck up all over his chest. He quickly put on the new gift. The fabric had a pleasant soft feel about it. He started to do up the buttons, but Kate walked over and undid the top two.

  “You know what? You’ve brought a whole new meaning to the word ‘uptight.’”

  Raymond scowled again.

  “But in the right clothes you could even pass for good looking. Now. Where shall we go to celebrate your birthday?”

  “The House of Commons?” suggested Raymond.

  “Good God,” said Kate. “I said celebrate, not hold a wake. What about Annabel’s?”

  “I can’t afford to be seen in Annabel’s.”

  “With me, you mean?”

  “No, no, you silly woman, because I’m a Socialist.”

  “If members of the Labour party are not allowed to indulge in a good meal then perhaps it’s time for you to change parties. In my country one only sees the Democrats in the best restaurants.”

  “Oh, do be serious, Kate.”

  “I intend to be. Now what have you been up to in the House lately?”

  “Not a lot,” said Raymond sheepishly. “I’ve been snow
ed under in court and …”

  “Precisely. It’s time you did something positive before your colleagues in Parliament forget you exist.”

  “Have you anything particular in mind?” asked Raymond, folding his arms across his chest.

  “As a matter of fact, I have,” said Kate. “I read in the same Sunday paper as the one in which I discovered your best-kept secret that it is proving difficult for the Labour party to repeal the Tories’ trade union legislation. It appears there are long-term legal implications which the front bench are still trying to find a way round. Why don’t you set that so-called ‘first class’ mind of yours to working out the legal niceties?”

  “Not such a stupid idea.” Raymond had become used to Kate’s political sense, and when he had remarked on it she had only said, “Just another bad habit I picked up from my ex-husband.”

  “Now, where do we celebrate?” she asked.

  “Compromise,” said Raymond.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “The Dorchester.”

  “If you insist,” said Kate, not sounding over-enthusiastic.

  Raymond started to change his shirt.

  “No, no, no, Carrot Top, people have been known to wear blue shirts at the Dorchester.”

  “But I haven’t got a tie to match,” said Raymond triumphantly.

  Kate thrust her hand into the Turnbull and Asser bag and drew out a dark blue silk tie.

  “But it’s got a pattern on it,” said Raymond in disgust. “What will you expect next?”

  “Contact lenses,” said Kate.

  Raymond stared at her, and blinked.

  On the way out of the door Raymond’s gaze fell upon the brightly wrapped package that Joyce had posted from Leeds earlier in the week. He had completely forgotten to open it.

  “Damn,” said Charles, putting down The Times and draining his coffee.

  “What’s the problem?” asked Fiona as she poured out another cup.

  “Kerslake’s been selected for Pucklebridge, which means he’s back in the House for life. Obviously my chat to Archie Millburn had no effect.”

  “Why have you got it in for Kerslake?” asked Fiona.

  Charles folded the paper and considered the question. “It’s quite simple really, old girl. I think he’s the only one of my contemporaries who could stop me leading the party.”

  “Why him in particular?”

  “I first came across him when he was President of the Union at Oxford. He was damn good then, and now he’s better. He had rivals, but he brushed them aside like flies. No, despite his background, Kerslake’s the one man left who frightens me.”

  “It’s a long race yet, my darling, and he could still stumble.”

  “So could I, but what he doesn’t realize is that I shall be putting out some of his hurdles.”

  Andrew worded the letter very carefully. He assured Jock McPherson and his colleagues that he had been flattered by their approach, but explained that he had decided his loyalties were still firmly based in the Labour party.

  He accepted the point Jock had made about the left trying to gain control, but felt that every democratic party was bound to have a maverick element within its ranks, which was not necessarily unhealthy. He added that he considered the offer to have been confidential on both sides.

  “Why add that postscript?” asked Louise when she had read the letter through.

  “It’s only fair to Jock,” said Andrew. “If it gets around I turned him down it will have the opposite effect to the one they were trying to create.”

  “I’m not so sure they will act in the same magnanimous way when the next election comes round.”

  “Ah, Jock will make a lot of noise, but he’s all right underneath …”

  “That isn’t what your father says about him,” said Louise. “He’s sure they’ll want revenge.”

  “Father always sees grubs under even the greenest leaf.”

  “So if we’re not about to celebrate your leadership of the Scottish Nationalists we’ll have to be satisfied with celebrating your fortieth birthday.”

  “But that’s not for at least—”

  “—another month, a week before Robert’s fourth birthday.”

  “How would you like to commemorate the occasion, darling?”

  “I thought we might have a week in the Algarve on our own.”

  “Why don’t we have two weeks? Then we can celebrate your fortieth birthday as well?”

  “Andrew Fraser, you just lost yourself one vote in Edinburgh Carlton.”

  Simon listened intently to Ronnie’s report at the monthly board meeting. Two tenants had not paid their quarterly rent, and another quarter date was fast approaching. Ronnie’s solicitors had sent firm reminders, followed a month later by writs, but this action had also failed to elicit any money.

  “It only proves what I feared most,” said Ronnie.

  “What’s that?” asked Simon.

  “They just haven’t got the cash.”

  “So we will have to replace them with new tenants.”

  “Simon, when you next travel from Beaufort Street to Whitechapel start counting the To Let’ signs on office blocks along the way. When you’ve passed a hundred you’ll find you still haven’t reached the City.”

  “So what do you think we should do about it?”

  “Try and sell one of our larger properties to secure cash flow. We can at least be thankful that even at these prices they are still worth a lot more than our borrowings. It’s the companies who are the other way around that have to call in the receiver.”

  Simon thought about his overdraft, now approaching £100,000, and was beginning to wish he had accepted Ronnie’s generous offer to buy back his shares. He accepted reluctantly that the opportunity had now passed.

  When the board meeting was over he drove to St. Mary’s to pick up Elizabeth. It was to be one of their three-times-a-week journeys to Pucklebridge as Simon tried to get round all the villages before Wilson called an election.

  Archie Millburn was turning out to be a conscientious chairman who had accompanied them on nearly every trip.

  “He’s been very kind to us,” said Elizabeth, on their way down.

  “He certainly has,” said Simon. “Remember he also has to run Millburn Electronics. But, as he reminds us so often, once he’s introduced us to every village chairman we’ll be on our own.”

  “Have you ever discovered why he and Charles Seymour didn’t see eye to eye?”

  “No, he hasn’t mentioned his name since that night. All I know for certain is that they were at school together.”

  “So what do you intend to do about Seymour?”

  “Not a lot I can do,” said Simon. “Except keep my eyes very wide open.”

  “The man who has deserted Edinburgh once too often”—Andrew read the Scottish Nationalist leaflet that had been sent to him that morning by his father. It was full of half-truths and innuendos.

  “Andrew Fraser, the man who has forgotten Edinburgh, should no longer be allowed to represent a Scottish seat.” It went on to declare: “He now lives far away from the problems of his constituents in a smart apartment building in fashionable Chelsea among his Tory friends. He visits the City of Edinburgh only a few times a year to make well-publicized appearances … Has being a minister gone to his head?”

  “How dare they?” cried Louise in a rage. Andrew had never seen his wife so angry. “How dare they come to my home, offer you the leadership of their dreadful little party, and then write such a pack of lies? And did you read this?” she added, pointing to the last paragraph, “‘His wife Louise, née Forsyth’,” she read out aloud, “‘comes from one of the wealthiest families in Scotland. She is a close relation of the owners of Forsyth’s in Princes Street.’ I’m a second cousin once removed, and they don’t even give me a discount in the main store.”

  Andrew started to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He took her in his arms. “I always su
ffered under the illusion that you would inherit the Forsyth empire and I would never have to work again,” he mocked. “Now we shall have to live off Robert’s earnings as a star football player.”

  “Don’t joke, Andrew. It won’t seem funny when the election comes round.”

  “I’m far more concerned about the extreme left trying to infiltrate my General Management Committee,” he said, his voice changing, “than I am by Jock McPherson’s band of mad little islanders. But at this moment of time my red box is too full to worry about either of them.”

  Raymond made such a penetrating speech during the second reading of the new Trade Union Bill that the Whips put him on the standing committee, the perfect medium for him to display his skills as the committee debated each clause, point by point. He was able to show his colleagues where the legal pitfalls were and how to find a way round them. The rest of the committee soon learned from Raymond the meaning of “mastering a brief,” and it was not long before trade union leaders were calling him at the House and even at his flat to learn his views on how their members should react to a host of different legal problems. Raymond showed patience with each of them and, more important, gave them excellent professional advice for the price of a phone call. He found it ironic how quickly they chose to forget that he was the author of Full Employement at Any Cost? Snippets began to appear in the national press, ranging from laudatory comments from those involved with the bill to a pointed suggestion in the Guardian that, whatever had happened in the past, it would be insupportable if Raymond Gould were not made a member of the Government in the near future.

  “If they were to offer you a job, would it make any difference to our relationship?” Kate asked.

  “Certainly,” said Raymond. “I shall have found the perfect excuse not to wear your blue shirts.”

  Harold Wilson held the crumbling edifice together for a further six months before finally having to call a general election. He chose 10 October 1974.