First Among Equals

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Darling,” said Charles. “I don’t think you’ve met Mrs. Blenkinsop.”

  “No, I haven’t,” said Amanda, ignoring Mrs. Blenkinsop’s outstretched hand.

  “Mrs. Blenkinsop,” continued Charles, “was awarded the OBE for her services to the constituency.”

  “OBE?” Amanda asked innocently.

  Mrs. Blenkinsop drew herself up to her full height.

  “Order of the British Empire,” she said.

  “I’ve always wondered,” said Amanda, smiling. “My dad used to tell me it stood for ‘other buggers’ efforts.’”

  “Seen the Persil anywhere?” asked Louise.

  “No, I stopped washing my own pants some time ago,” replied Andrew.

  “Ha, ha,” said Louise. “But if you haven’t taken them who has—two giant packets are missing?”

  “The phantom Persil thief strikes again. Whatever next?” said Andrew. “The Bovril perhaps?”

  “Stop making a fool of yourself and go and fish Clarissa out of the bath.”

  Andrew pulled himself out of the armchair, dropped The Economist on the carpet, and ran upstairs. “Time to get out, young lady,” he said even before he reached the bathroom door. First he heard the sobbing, then when he opened the door he found Clarissa covered from head to toe in soap flakes. Her thick black curly hair was matted with them. Andrew burst out laughing but he stopped when he saw Clarissa’s knees and shins were bleeding. She held a large scrubbing brush in one hand which was covered in a mixture of soap powder and blood.

  “What’s the matter, darling?” asked Andrew, kneeling on the bath mat.

  “It isn’t true,” said Clarissa, not looking at him.

  “What isn’t true?” asked Andrew gently.

  “Look on the box,” she said, pointing at the two empty packets which were standing on the end of the bath. Andrew glanced at the familiar picture on the box of a little fair-haired girl in a white party dress.

  “What isn’t true?” he repeated, still uncertain what Clarissa meant.

  “It isn’t true that Persil washes whiter and can remove even the blackest spots. Two large packets and I’m still black,” she said.

  Andrew had to smile which only made Clarissa cry even more. After he had washed off all the suds and gently dried her he put antiseptic ointment on the cuts and bruises.

  “Why am I so black?” she asked.

  “Because your mother and father were black,” replied Andrew, guiding his daughter through to her bedroom.

  “Why can’t you be my father? Then I’d be white.”

  “I am your father now so you don’t need to be.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the children at school laugh at me,” Clarissa said, clutching firmly on to Andrew’s hand.

  “When I was at school they used to laugh at me because I was small,” said Andrew. “They called me puny.”

  “What did you do about it?” asked Clarissa.

  “I trained hard and ended up as captain of the school rugby team and that made them stop laughing.”

  “But by then you were big. I can’t train to be white.”

  “No, I was still small, and you won’t need to train.”

  “Why?” asked Clarissa, still not letting go of his hand.

  “Because you’re going to be beautiful, and then all those ugly white girls will be oh so jealous.”

  Clarissa was silent for some time before she spoke again.

  “Promise, Daddy?”

  “I promise,” he said, remaining on the edge of the bed.

  “Like Frank Boyle is jealous of you?”

  Andrew was startled. “What do you know about him?”

  “Only what I heard Mummy say, that he’s going to be the Labour man for Edinburgh, but you’ll still beat him.”

  Andrew was speechless.

  “Is he going to be the Labour man, Daddy?” she asked.

  “Yes, he is.”

  “And will you beat him?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Can I help?” Clarissa asked, a tiny smile appearing on her face.

  “Of course. Now off you go to sleep,” said Andrew, getting up and drawing the curtains.

  “Is he black?”

  “Who?” asked Andrew.

  “The nasty Frank Boyle.”

  “No,” said Andrew, laughing, “he’s white.”

  “Then he ought to be made to have my skin then I could have his.”

  Andrew turned off the light, relieved Clarissa could no longer see his face.

  Harry’s second birthday party was attended by all those two-year-olds in the vicinity of Eaton Square whom his nanny considered acceptable. Charles managed to escape from a departmental meeting accompanied by a large paint board and a red tricycle. As he parked his car in Eaton Square he spotted Fiona’s old Volvo driving away toward Sloane Square. He dismissed the coincidence although he still had plans for regaining the priceless Holbein. Harry naturally wanted to ride the tricycle round and round the dining room table. Charles sat watching his son and couldn’t help noticing that he was smaller than most of his friends. Then he remembered that great grandfather had only been five feet eight inches tall.

  It was the moment after the candles had been blown out, and nanny switched the light back on, that Charles was first aware that something was missing. It was like the game children play with objects on a tray: everyone shuts his eyes, nanny takes one away, and then you all have to guess which piece it was.

  It took Charles some time to realize that the missing object was his gold cigar box. He walked over to the sideboard and studied the empty space. He continued to stare at the spot where the small gold box left to him by his great-grandfather had been the previous night. Now all that was left in its place was the matching lighter.

  He immediately asked Amanda if she knew where the heirloom was, but his wife seemed totally absorbed in lining up the children for a game of musical chairs. After checking carefully in the other rooms Charles went into his study and phoned the Chelsea police.

  An inspector from the Crime Squad came round immediately and took down all the details. Charles was able to supply the police officer with a photograph of the box which carried the initials C.G.S. He stopped just short of mentioning Fiona by name. The inspector assured Charles that he would deal with the investigation personally. Charles returned to the party to find nannies arriving to gather their wards.

  When the Edinburgh Carlton Labour party issued a press statement after their AGM announcing that Frank Boyle had been selected to fight the seat as their candidate, Andrew was surprised and touched by the flood of letters and calls of goodwill he received, many from people he didn’t even know. Most of the messages begged him to stand at the next general election as an Independent.

  Twenty Labour MPs and one Conservative had joined the newly formed Social Democratic Party and many others were expected to follow. Andrew knew he would have to make an announcement soon if he didn’t want his supporters to drift away. He spent agonizing hours discussing with Louise the problem of severing the final bonds with the party.

  “What shall I do?” he asked, yet again.

  “I can’t tell you that; I just hope you make up your mind fairly quickly.”

  “Why quickly?”

  “Because I’m going to vote for the Social Democrats at the next election, so you had better be my local candidate.”

  A few days later Roy Jenkins, Andrew’s old chief at the Home Office, phoned to say he was fighting a by-election in Glasgow as the SDP candidate.

  “I do hope you will feel able to join us,” said Jenkins.

  Andrew had always admired Jenkins’s firm stand against the left and felt he was the one man who might break the two-party system.

  “I need a little more time,” he replied.

  A week later Andrew made up his mind and informed the Chief Whip that he was leaving the party and would be joining the SDP. Then he packed a b
ag and traveled to Glasgow.

  Roy Jenkins won the seat at Glasgow Hillhead with a large enough swing to worry both main parties. By Easter, a total of twenty-nine Members of Parliament had broken away to join him, while the alliance of SDP and Liberal MPs together could muster more than forty votes on the floor of the House.

  With opinion polls putting them in second place, it began to look possible that the Social Democrats might hold the balance of power after the next election. The Conservatives were now running a poor third in all the national opinion polls.

  Charles heard nothing for three weeks about the missing gold box and was beginning to despair when the inspector phoned to say that the family heirloom had been found.

  “Excellent news,” said Charles. “Are you able to bring the box round to Eaton Square?”

  “It’s not quite as simple as that, sir,” said the policeman.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I would prefer not to discuss the matter over the phone. May I come and see you, sir?”

  “By all means,” said Charles, slightly mystified.

  He waited impatiently for the inspector to arrive, although the policeman was at the front door barely ten minutes later. His first question took Charles by surprise.

  “Are we alone, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Charles. “My wife and son are away visiting my mother-in-law in Wales. You say you’ve found the gold box,” he continued, impatient to hear the inspector’s news.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well done, Inspector. I shall speak to the Commissioner personally,” he added, guiding the officer toward the drawing room.

  “I’m afraid there’s a complication, sir.”

  “How can there be when you’ve found the box?”

  “We cannot be sure there was anything illegal about its disappearance in the first place.”

  “What do you mean, inspector?”

  “The gold case was offered to a dealer in Grafton Street for £2,500.”

  “And who was doing the selling?” asked Charles impatiently.

  “That’s the problem, sir. The check was made out to Amanda Seymour and the description fits your wife,” said the inspector. Charles was speechless. “And the dealer has a receipt to prove the transaction.” The inspector passed over a copy of the receipt. Charles was unable to steady his shaking hand as he recognized Amanda’s signature.

  “Now, as this matter has already been referred to the Director of Public Prosecutions I thought I ought to have a word with you in private, as I am sure you would not want us to prefer charges.”

  “Yes, no, of course, thank you for your consideration, Inspector,” said Charles flatly.

  “Not at all, sir. The dealer has made his position clear: he would be only too happy to return the cigar box for the exact sum he paid for it. I don’t think that could be fairer.”

  Charles made no comment other than to thank the inspector again before showing him out.

  He returned to his study, phoned Amanda at her mother’s house, and told her to return immediately. She started to protest, but he had already hung up.

  Charles remained at home until they all arrived back at Eaton Square late that night. The nanny and Harry were immediately sent upstairs.

  It took Charles about five minutes to discover that only a few hundred pounds of the money was left. When his wife burst into tears he struck her across the face with such force that she fell to the ground. “If anything else goes missing from this house,” he said, “you will go with it and I will also make sure you spend a very long time in jail.” Amanda ran out of the room sobbing uncontrollably.

  The next day Charles advertised for a full-time governess. He also moved his own bedroom to the top floor so that he could be close to his son. Amanda made no protest.

  Once the governess had settled in Amanda quickly became bored with the child and began disappearing for long periods. Charles couldn’t be sure where she was most of the time, and didn’t care.

  After Pimkin had recounted the latest state of affairs to Alexander Dalglish in well-embroidered detail Fiona remarked to her husband, “I never thought the day would come when I would feel sorry for Charles.”

  On a sleepy Thursday in April 1982 Argentina attacked and occupied two small islands whose 1,800 British citizens were forced to lower the Union Jack for the first time in over a hundred years. Few members returned to their constituency that Friday and the House met unusually on a Saturday morning to debate the crisis while the nation followed every word on the radio.

  The same day Mrs. Thatcher immediately dispatched a task force halfway around the globe to recapture the islands. Her fellow countrymen followed every scrap of news so intently that the London theaters found themselves empty at the height of the season.

  Simon felt exhilarated to be a member of the Defense team at such an historic moment, and Elizabeth didn’t begrudge him those days when he left before she had woken and arrived home after she had fallen asleep.

  Under less public scrutiny but almost equal pressure, Charles beavered away at the Treasury addressing the economic problems that had been presented. He spent day after day in the House helping to put the Government’s case. Like Simon he found he could only snatch moments to be at home but, unlike Elizabeth, his wife remained in bed until midday. When Charles did manage to slip away from the department he spent all his spare time with Harry, whose progress he followed with delighted concern.

  At the time when the Union Jack was raised once again in the Falklands, the budget became an Act.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “PM TO GO in Nov” and “Will Maggie wait till June?” were two of the headlines Andrew read on the first day of the new Parliamentary session.

  Anyone who is defending a marginal seat is always on edge as the statutory five years draws to a close, and the new SDP members all treated their seats as marginal. Andrew was no exception.

  He had worked hard to prove he was worth his place in the group the leader of the Social Democrats was beginning to form in the Commons. When Roy Jenkins had announced the make-up of his Shadow team Andrew was appointed Defense spokesman and enjoyed the challenge of pitting himself against the two main parties in the Commons in the run-up to the election. But once the Falklands crisis was over he knew his real problems were not going to be in Westminster but in Edinburgh, where he spent an increasing amount of his time. Hamish Ramsey phoned to ask him if there was anything he could do to help.

  “Be my chairman for the election campaign,” said Andrew simply.

  Ramsey agreed without hesitation and within a fortnight four members of Andrew’s old Labour party committee had defected to join him. Support for Andrew came from the most surprising quarters, including Jock McPherson, who pledged that the Scottish Nationalists would not be contesting the Edinburgh Carlton seat as they had no desire to see Frank Boyle in Parliament. Sir Duncan Fraser kept very quiet about what the Conservatives were up to until they announced that Jamie Lomax would be their standardbearer.

  “Lomax. Lomax,” repeated Andrew. “He and I were at school together,” he told his father. “He was known as Loopy Lomax. You’ve selected the biggest idiot of his generation.”

  “That’s a disgraceful slur on an able man,” said Sir Duncan, trying to keep a straight face. “I can assure you it took a lot of convincing the committee to make certain Lomax was selected.”

  “How did you fix it?”

  “I must admit it wasn’t easy. We had some very good applicants, but I managed to undermine every one of them and point out how blemish-free Lomax’s political past was,” said Sir Duncan, winking.

  “Nonexistent careers make for the best blemish-free pasts,” said Andrew, and burst out laughing.

  “Yes, I’m afraid one or two of the committee noticed that. But you must admit Lomax is a fine figure of a man,” added his father.

  “What’s that got to do with it?” asked Andrew. “You weren’t looking for a male model as candidate.
”

  “I know, but it did help me to swing the ladies on the Women’s Advisory Committee round to my way of thinking.”

  “You’re a rogue, Father.”

  “No, I’m not. There isn’t a Conservative in Scotland who would rather see Frank Boyle in the House than you, and as we have no chance of winning the seat, why let him in?”

  Louise and Clarissa spent the Christmas recess in Edinburgh. Sir Duncan warned Louise that if Andrew lost this election he could never hope to return to the House of Commons again.

  During 1983 Margaret Thatcher stuck firm to her monetarist policies and brought inflation below four percent, while in parts of Scotland unemployment rose to fifteen percent. She had gradually stifled any opposition from the “wets” and by the end of her first administration they were totally outmaneuvered. But it was the outcome of the Falklands crisis that had kept her ahead in the opinion polls for over a year. The press speculated on the date of the general election all through the month of April, and after the Conservatives’ success in the local elections on 5 May the Prime Minister sought an audience with the Queen. Shortly afterward Margaret Thatcher told the nation that she needed another five years to continue her policies and prove that they worked. The election date was set for 9 June.

  Once the election campaign had begun in earnest Stuart Gray interviewed all three candidates on behalf of the Scotsman and told Andrew he had a plan to help him.

  “You can’t,” said Andrew. “You’re bound to remain neutral and give all three candidates equal column inches during the campaign.”

  “Agreed,” said Stuart. “But on the one hand we know Frank Boyle is sharp and has the looks of an escaped convict, while Jamie Lomax looks like a film star but makes crass statements every time he opens his mouth.”