First Among Equals

by Jeffrey Archer

  “That’s not possible,” said Fiona under her breath.

  “And I am also informed,” continued Pimkin, “that some of the more ungenerous of our brethren are already suggesting the name of several candidates for the role of father.”

  “Alec, you’re incorrigible.”

  “My dear, it is common knowledge that Amanda has slept with half the Cabinet and a considerable cross section of back-benchers.”

  “Stop exaggerating,” said Fiona.

  “And what’s more,” continued Pimkin as if he hadn’t heard her, “she has only stopped short of the Labour front bench because her mother told her they were common and she might catch something from them.”

  Alexander laughed again. “But surely Charles hasn’t fallen for the pregnancy trick?”

  “Hook, line, and sinker. He’s like an Irishman who’s been locked into a Guinness brewery over the weekend. Dear Amanda has my Honorable friend uncorking her at every opportunity.”

  “But she’s plain stupid,” said Alexander. “The only time I met her she assured me that Michael Parkinson was turning out to be an excellent chairman of the party.”

  “Stupid she may well be,” said Pimkin, “but plain she is not and together, I’m told, they are updating the Kama Sutra.”

  “Enough, Alec, enough,” said Fiona, laughing.

  “You’re right,” said Pimkin, aware that his glass was nearly empty once again. “A man of my impeccable reputation cannot afford to be seen associating with people living in sin. I must leave immediately, darlings,” he said, rising to his feet. Pimkin put his glass down and Alexander accompanied him to the front door.

  As it closed Alexander turned to Fiona. “Never short of useful information, our former member,” he said.

  “I agree,” said Fiona. “So much gleaned for such a small investment in Beefeaters.”

  As Alexander walked back into the drawing room he added, “Does it change your plans for the return of the Holbein?”

  “Not in any way,” said Fiona.

  “So you’ll still be at Sotheby’s next week for their Old Masters sale?”

  Fiona smiled. “Certainly. And if the price is right we won’t have to worry about what we give Charles for a wedding present.”

  Three weeks after the bombing Simon left the Westminster Hospital on crutches, Elizabeth by his side. His right leg had been so shattered that he had been told he would never walk properly again. As he stepped out on to Horseferry Road a hundred cameras flashed to meet their editors’ demand to capture the instant hero. He smiled as if there were no pain. “Don’t let those murderers think they got to you,” he was warned by both sides. Elizabeth’s smile showed only relief that her husband was still alive.

  After three weeks of complete rest Simon returned to his Irish Charter against doctor’s orders, knowing the document was still due to be debated in the House in less than a fortnight. The Secretary of State and the other Minister of State for Northern Ireland visited him at home on several occasions and it was agreed that the Minister of State would take over Simon’s responsibilities temporarily and deliver the winding-up speech. During his absence the whole Northern Ireland office grew to realize just how much work Simon had put into the Charter, and no one was at all complacent about taking his place.

  The attempt on Simon’s life and the build up to the special debate on the Charter became of such national interest that the BBC decided to broadcast the entire proceedings on Radio Four from three-thirty to the vote at ten o’clock.

  On the afternoon of the debate Simon sat up in bed listening to every word on the radio as if it were the final episode in his favorite serial and he was desperate to know the outcome. The speeches opened with a clear and concise presentation of the Charter by the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, which left Simon feeling confident that the whole House would support him. The Opposition spokesman followed with a fair-minded speech, raising one or two queries he had over the controversial Patriots’ Clause with its special rights for Protestants in the south and Catholics in the north, and also how it would affect the Catholics unwilling to register in Northern Ireland. Otherwise he reassured the House that the Opposition supported the Charter and would not be calling for a division.

  Simon began to relax for the first time as the debate continued, but his mood changed as some back-bench members started to express more and more anxiety over the Patriots’ Provision. One or two back-benchers were even insisting that the Charter should not be sanctioned by the House until the need for the Patriots’ Provision was fully explained by the Government. Simon realized that a few narrow-minded men were simply playing for time in the hope the Charter would be held up and later forgotten. For generations such men had succeeded in stifling the hopes and aspirations of the Irish people while they allowed bigotry to undermine any real desire for peace.

  Elizabeth came in and sat on the end of the bed. “How’s it going?” she asked.

  “Not well,” said Simon, “it will all depend on the Opposition spokesman.”

  They both sat and listened. But no sooner had the Opposition spokesman risen that Simon realized that he too had misunderstood the real purpose of the Patriots’ Provision and that what Simon had agreed to with both sides in Dublin and Belfast was not being accurately explained to the House. There was no malice in the speech and he was clearly following what had been agreed through the usual channels but Simon could sense that his lack of conviction was sowing doubts in the minds of his fellow members. He feared a division might be called after all.

  After one or two members had interrupted to voice further doubts about the Patriots’ Clause the Shadow minister suggested: “Perhaps we should wait until the Minister of State is fully recovered and able to report to the House himself.” A few “hear, hears” could be heard around the Chamber.

  Simon felt sick. He was going to lose the Charter if it didn’t get through the House tonight. All the hard work and goodwill would count for nothing. He made a decision.

  “I’d love a hot cup of cocoa,” he said, trying to sound casual.

  “Of course, darling. I’ll just go and turn the kettle on. Would you like a biscuit while I’m up?”

  Simon nodded. Once the bedroom door was closed, he slipped quietly out of bed and dressed as quickly as possible. He picked up his blackthorn stick, a gift from Dr. Fitzgerald, the Irish Prime Minister, which had been among the dozens of presents awaiting his return from hospital. Then he hobbled silently down the stairs and across the hall, hoping Elizabeth would not hear him. He eased the front door open. When the policeman on duty saw him Simon put a finger to his lips and closed the door very slowly behind him. He made his way laboriously up to the police car, lurched into the back, and said, “Switch on the radio, please, and drive me to the House as quickly as possible.”

  Simon continued to listen to the Opposition spokesman as the police car weaved in and out of the traffic on a route he hadn’t traveled before. They arrived at the St. Stephen’s entrance to the Commons at nine-twenty-five.

  Visitors stood to one side as they might for royalty but Simon didn’t notice. He hobbled on through the Central Lobby, oblivious to the awkwardness of his gait, turning left past the policeman and on toward the entrance of the House. He prayed he would reach the Chamber before the Government spokesman rose to deliver his winding-up speech. Simon passed an astonished chief doorkeeper and arrived at the bar of the House as the new digital clock showed nine-twenty-nine.

  The Opposition spokesman was resuming his place on the front bench to muffled cries of “Hear, hear.” The Speaker rose but before he had time to call upon the Minister of State to reply Simon stepped slowly forward on to the green carpet of the Commons. For a moment there was a stunned silence; then the cheering began. It had reached a crescendo by the time Simon arrived at the front bench. His blackthorn stick fell to the floor as he clutched the dispatch box. The Speaker called out his name sotto voce.

  Simon waited for the House to co
me to complete silence.

  “Mr. Speaker, I must thank the House for its generous welcome. I return this evening because having listened to every word of the debate on the radio I feel it necessary to explain to Honorable members what was behind my thinking with the Patriots’ Provision. This was not some superficial formula for solving an intractable problem, but an act of good faith to which the representatives from all sides felt able to put their names. It may not be perfect, since words can mean different things to different people—as lawyers continually demonstrate to us.”

  The laughter broke the tension that had been building up in the House.

  “But if we allow this opportunity to pass today it will be another victory for those who revel in the mayhem of Northern Ireland whatever their reason, and a defeat for all men of goodwill.”

  The House was silent as Simon went on to explain in detail the thinking behind the Patriots’ Provision and the effect it would have on both Protestants and Catholics in north and south. He also covered the other salient clauses in the Charter, answering the points that had been raised during the debate until, in glancing up at the clock above the Speaker’s chair, he realized he had less than a minute left.

  “Mr. Speaker, we in this great House, who have in the past decided the fate of nations, are now given an opportunity to succeed today where our predecessors have failed. I ask you to support this Charter—not unreservedly, but to show the bombers and the murderers that here in Westminster we can cast a vote for the children of tomorrow’s Ireland. Let the twenty-first century be one in which the Irish problem is only a part of history. Mr. Speaker, I seek the support of the whole House.”

  The motion on the Charter was agreed without division.

  Simon immediately returned home and on arrival silently crept upstairs. He closed the bedroom door behind him and fumbled for the switch. The light by the side of the bed went on and Elizabeth sat up.

  “Your cocoa’s gone cold and I’ve eaten all the biscuits,” she said, grinning, “but thank you for leaving the radio on, at least I knew where you were.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHARLES AND AMANDA were married at the most inconspicuous register office in Hammersmith. They then departed for a long weekend in Paris. Charles had told his bride that he preferred her not to let anyone learn of the marriage for at least another week. He didn’t want Fiona to find yet a further excuse for not returning the Holbein. Amanda readily agreed, and then remembered—but surely Alec Pimkin didn’t count.

  Paris turned out to be fun, even though Charles was sensitive about Amanda’s obvious pregnancy—never more so than when they arrived on the Friday night at the Plaza Athenée and were escorted to a suite overlooking the courtyard. Later, over dinner, Amanda astonished the waiters with her appetite as well as the cut of her dress.

  Over breakfast in bed the next day Charles read in the Herald Tribune that Mrs. Thatcher was considering a reshuffle that very weekend. He cut the honeymoon short and returned to London on the Saturday, two days earlier than planned. Amanda was not overjoyed. Her husband spent the whole of Sunday at Eaton Square alongside a phone that never rang.

  That same Sunday evening the Prime Minister called for Simon Kerslake and told him that he was to be made a Privy Councillor and would be moved from the Northern Ireland Office to Defense as Minister of State.

  He had started to protest, but Mrs. Thatcher forestalled any discussion. “I don’t want any more dead heroes, Simon,” she said sharply.

  Elizabeth was relieved when she heard the news, although it took her some time to get used to her husband being referred to as “the Right Honorable Simon Kerslake.” For some weeks the old joke of “rarely right and never honorable” had to be suffered by both of them from countless well-meaning constituents who imagined they were the only people who had thought of the quip.

  Mrs. Thatcher called Charles Seymour on the Monday morning while he was waiting in Eaton Square for the return of the Holbein. Both sides’ solicitors had agreed that the first Earl of Bridgwater should be back at Charles’s home by eleven that morning. Only the Queen or Mrs. Thatcher could have kept Charles from being there to receive it.

  The Prime Minister’s call came long after he thought the reshuffle was over, but then Mrs. Thatcher had been informed that Charles was in Paris on his honeymoon and wouldn’t be back until the Monday morning.

  Charles took a taxi to Downing Street and was quickly ushered into the Prime Minister’s study. Mrs. Thatcher began by complimenting him on the work he had carried out on successive Finance Bills in Opposition and in Government. She then invited him to join the front-bench team as the Financial Secretary to the Treasury.

  Charles accepted gracefully, and after a short policy discussion with the Prime Minister drove back to Eaton Square to celebrate both his triumphs. Amanda met him at the door to tell him the Holbein had been returned. Fiona had kept her part of the bargain: the painting had been delivered at eleven o’clock sharp.

  Charles strode confidently into his drawing room and was delighted to find the bulky package awaiting him. He was by no means so pleased to be followed by Amanda, a cigarette in one hand and a glass of gin in the other; but this was not a day for quarrels, he decided. He told her of his appointment, but she didn’t seem to take in its significance until her husband opened a bottle of champagne.

  Charles poured out two glasses and handed one to his bride.

  “A double celebration. What fun,” she said, first draining the gin.

  Charles took a quick sip of the champagne before he began to untie the knots and tear away the smart red wrapping paper that covered his masterpiece. Once the paper had been removed he pulled back the final cardboard covers. Charles stared with delight at the portrait.

  The first Earl of Bridgwater was back home. Charles picked up the gold frame he knew so well to return it to its place in his study but he noticed that the picture had come a little loose. “Damn,” he said.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Amanda, still leaning against the door.

  “Nothing important, only I shall have to get the frame fixed. I’ll drop it into Oliver Swann on the way to the bank. I’ve waited nearly three years; another couple of days won’t make any difference.”

  Now that Charles had accepted the post of Financial Secretary to the Treasury he knew there was one little arrangement he had to clear up before the appointment became public knowledge. With that in mind, he left Eaton Square and dropped the Holbein off at the framer. He then went on to the bank and summoned Clive Reynolds to his office. It was clear from Reynolds’s manner that the news of Charles’s ministerial appointment had not yet leaked out.

  “Clive,” Charles called him for the first time. “I have a proposition to put to you.”

  Clive Reynolds remained silent.

  “The Prime Minister has offered me a post in the Government.”

  “Congratulations,” said Reynolds, “and well deserved, if I may say so.”

  “Thank you,” said Charles. “Now: I’m considering offering you the chance to stand in for me as chairman during my absence.”

  Clive Reynolds looked surprised.

  “On the clear understanding that if the Conservatives were to return to Opposition or I were to lose my appointment in Government I would be reinstated as chairman immediately.”

  “Naturally,” said Reynolds. “I should be delighted to fill the appointment for the interim period.”

  “Good man,” said Charles. “It can’t have escaped your notice what happened to the last chairman in the same situation.”

  “I shall make certain that will not happen again.”

  “Thank you,” said Charles. “I shall not forget your loyalty when I return.”

  “And I shall also endeavor to carry on the traditions of the bank in your absence,” said Reynolds, his head slightly bowed.

  “I feel sure you will,” said Charles.

  The board accepted the recommendation that Clive Reynolds be
appointed as temporary chairman and Charles vacated his office happily to take up his new post at the Treasury.

  Charles considered it had been the most successful week of his life and on the Friday evening on the way back to Eaton Square he dropped into Oliver Swann’s gallery to pick up the Holbein.

  “I’m afraid the picture didn’t quite fit the frame,” said Mr. Swann.

  “Oh, I expect it’s worked loose over the years,” Charles said noncommittally.

  “No, Mr. Seymour, this frame was put on the portrait quite recently,” said Swann.

  “That’s not possible,” said Charles. “I remember the frame as well as I remember the picture. The portrait of the first Earl of Bridgwater has been in my family for over 400 years.”

  “Not this picture,” said Swann.

  “What do you mean?” said Charles, beginning to sound anxious.

  “This picture came up for sale at Sotheby’s about three weeks ago.”

  Charles went cold as Swann continued.

  “It’s the school of Holbein, of course,” he said, “probably painted by one of his pupils around the time of his death. I should think there are a dozen or so in existence.”

  “A dozen or so,” repeated Charles, the blood drained from his face.

  “Yes, perhaps even more. At least it’s solved one mystery for me,” said Swann, chuckling.

  “What’s that?” asked Charles, choking out the words.

  “I couldn’t work out why Lady Fiona was bidding for the picture, and then I remembered that your family name is Bridgwater.”

  “At least this wedding has some style,” Pimkin assured Fiona between mouthfuls of sandwich at the reception after her marriage to Alexander Dalglish. Pimkin always accepted wedding invitations as it allowed him to devour mounds of smoked salmon sandwiches and consume unlimited quantities of champagne. “I particularly enjoyed that short service of blessing in the Guards’ Chapel; and Claridges can always be relied on to understand my little proclivities.” He peered round the vast room and only stopped to stare at his reflection in a chandelier.