When asked at a press conference why his defeated rival would not be serving in the team Simon explained that he had offered Charles Seymour the deputy leadership and any portfolio of his choice, but Charles had turned the offer down, saying he preferred to return to the back benches for the present time.
Charles had left for Scotland the same morning for a few days’ rest by the river Spey, taking his son with him. Although he spent much of their short holiday feeling depressed about the final outcome of the leadership struggle, Harry’s original efforts at fishing helped deaden some of the pain. Harry even ended up with the biggest fish.
Amanda, on the other hand, realizing how slim her chances were of coaxing any more cash out of her husband, reopened negotiations over her life story with the News of the World.
When Nick Lloyd, the editor, read through Amanda’s notes he decided on two things. She would require a ghostwriter and the paper would have to halve their original offer.
“Why?” demanded Amanda.
“Because we daren’t print the better half of your story.”
“Why not?”
“No one would believe it.”
“But every word is true,” she insisted.
“I’m not doubting the veracity of the facts,” said Lloyd, “only readers’ ability to swallow them.”
“They accepted that a man climbed the walls of Buckingham Palace and found his way into the Queen’s bedroom.”
“Agreed,” replied Lloyd, “but only after the Queen had confirmed the story. I’m not so sure that Charles Seymour will be quite as cooperative.”
Amanda remained silent long enough for her agent to close the deal.
The watered-down version of “My Life with Charles Seymour” appeared a few months later to coincide with Charles’s much-publicized divorce, but it made no more than a faint ripple in political circles. Now that Charles had no prospect of leading his party it was very much yesterday’s news.
Amanda came out of the divorce settlement with another £50,000 but lost custody of Harry, which was all Charles really cared about. He prayed her irresponsible remarks reported in the papers concerning the boy’s claim to the title had been quickly forgotten.
Then Rupert phoned from Somerset and asked to see him privately.
A week later they sat facing each other in Charles’s drawing room at Eaton Square.
“I am sorry to broach such an embarrassing subject,” said Rupert, “but I feel it is my duty to do so.”
“Duty, poppycock,” said Charles, stubbing out his cigarette. “I tell you Harry is my son, and as such will inherit the title. He’s the spitting image of great-grandfather and that ought to be enough proof for anyone.”
“In normal circumstances I would agree with you, but the recent publicity in the News of the World has been brought to my notice and I feel …”
“That sensationalist tabloid,” said Charles sarcastically, his voice rising. “Surely you don’t take their word before mine?”
“Certainly not,” said Rupert, “but if Amanda is to be believed Harry is not your son.”
“How am I meant to prove he is?” asked Charles, trying to control his temper. “I didn’t keep a diary of the dates when I slept with my wife.”
“But it seems Amanda did so I have had to take legal advice on the matter,” continued Rupert, “and am informed that a blood test is all that will prove necessary to verify Harry’s claim to the title. We both share a rare blood group as did our father and grandfather, and if Harry is of that group I shall never mention the subject again. If not, then the title will eventually be inherited by our second cousin in Australia.”
“And if I don’t agree to put my son through this ridiculous test?”
“Then the matter must be placed in the hands of our family solicitors,” said Rupert, sounding unusually in control. “And they must take whatever course they consider fit.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
SIMON’S FIRST YEAR as leader was one of unbounded energy and ideas which bore fruit as the Conservatives picked up three seats at by-elections and whittled away the Government’s majority. The press were already predicting that the Socialists wouldn’t be able to complete their full five-year term, which moved Simon to goad Central Office into a perpetual state of readiness for an election.
Raymond continued to gain respect at the Treasury as his policies began to show results. He had to cut back on some of the more ambitious projects as his gloomy predictions about American interest rates and the drop in the production of North Sea oil proved daily more accurate. After his second budget the financial press felt he had done all that was possible, given the world situation. When unemployment fell below two million and strikes to their lowest level since the Second World War some members hailed Raymond as the unions’ Messiah, while others noted that he had been shrewd enough to steal some of the Opposition’s co-inflation clothes in the absence of Charles Seymour.
As Raymond entered his third year as Chancellor the opinion polls showed the two main parties neck and neck again, with a surprising proportion of people saying that they would vote for the Alliance for the first time.
The Liberals still held sixteen seats in the Commons but, as in the past three elections, they had decided to fight under the collective banner as the Social Democrats during the general election campaign.
As the time for election drew near both small parties knew they would have to declare their choice for overall leader if a combination of Liberals and Social Democrats ever held the balance of power in Parliament. When the pollsters dug a little deeper it transpired that Andrew Fraser had become the most popular political leader in the country despite the fact he only led forty-two members in the Commons.
Andrew spent a lot of his time addressing meetings all over the country trying to convince the voters that at the next election the political balance would change. He said it so often he began to believe it himself, and two good by-election victories early in 1990 helped his supporters feel it was possible, too. The press began to take such claims seriously when at the local election in May the Alliance captured 102 council seats at the expense of both the major parties.
“Daddy, Daddy, open my school report.”
Charles left the morning mail unopened as he held Harry in his arms. He knew nothing could ever part them now but he dreaded Harry finding out that he might not be his real father.
“Please open it,” pleaded Harry, wriggling free.
The school doctor had been asked to take a sample of Harry’s blood along with six other boys from his form so that he would not consider the request unusual. Even the doctor hadn’t been told the full significance of the action.
Harry extracted the envelope from the pile by Charles’s side—the one with the school crest in the top left-hand corner—and held it out for his father to open. He looked excited and seemed hardly able to contain himself. Charles had promised he would phone his brother as soon as the result of the blood test was confirmed. He had wanted to phone the doctor a hundred times during the past week but had always stopped himself, knowing it would only add to the man’s curiosity.
“Come on, Dad, read the report and youll see it’s true.”
Charles tore open the letter and removed the little book which would reveal the result of all Harry’s efforts during the term. He flicked through the pages—Latin, English, History, Geography, Art, Divinity, Games, Form master, Headmaster. He reached the last page, a small yellow sheet headed: “Term medical report.” It started: Harry Seymour, age eleven, height four feet nine inches—he’s suddenly sprung up, thought Charles—weight five stone four pounds. He glanced up at Harry who looked as if he was about to burst.
“it is true, Dad, isn’t it?”
Charles read on without answering the boy’s question. At the foot of the page was a typewritten note signed by the school doctor. Charles read it twice before he understood its full significance and then a third time. “As requested I took a sample of Ha
rry’s blood and analyzed it. The result shows that Harry shares a rare blood group …”
“Is it true, Dad?” asked Harry yet again.
“Yes, my son, it’s true.”
“I told you, Dad—I knew I’d be top in the class. That means I’ll be captain of the school next term. Just like you.”
“Just like me,” said his father, as he picked up the phone by his side and began to dial his brother’s number in Somerset.
When the Prime Minister went into hospital for a minor operation the press immediately started to speculate on his resignation. Ten days later when he walked out looking better than ever the rumors ceased immediately. In the Prime Minister’s absence as deputy leader Raymond chaired Cabinet meetings and stood in for him during questions in the Commons. This gave the lobby correspondents a chance to proclaim, like Caesarian soothsayers plucking at entrails, that Raymond was Primus inter pares.
Raymond enjoyed presiding over the Cabinet, but was surprised that the civil servants expected him to spend his entire Tuesday and Thursday mornings preparing for Prime Minister’s questions.
Both Simon Kerslake and Andrew Fraser had gained formidable reputations during Prime Minister’s questions, and Raymond found the fifteen-minute encounter more demanding than a full winding-up speech in a major debate; in retrospect, he was relieved that he had prepared so thoroughly. The lobby correspondents seemed to be in agreement that Raymond had held his own on both occasions and that, if anything, Simon Kerslake had underestimated him.
The Prime Minister returned to Downing Street the following week and assured Raymond that the operation had been a success and the likelihood of any recurrence of the trouble was, in the surgeon’s opinion, minimal. He admitted to Raymond that he hoped to lead the party to a second victory at the polls, by which time he would be within a few years of his seventieth birthday and ready to bow out quietly. He told Raymond bluntly that he hoped he would be his successor. But Raymond couldn’t help remembering that Neil Kinnock was eight years younger than he was.
Raymond returned to the Treasury to prepare for what looked like his final budget before the general election. His stewardship had made it possible to loosen the reins slightly with an election in mind. He described the loosening to the Cabinet as no more than a percentage point or two; he had no intention, he assured them, of letting three years’ hard work be sacrificed at the altar of vote-catching. Some of his colleagues round the Cabinet table wished he were not quite so unbending at times.
Whenever Raymond spoke around the country more and more people approached him about standing for the leadership. He always thanked them courteously but maintained his loyalty to the Prime Minister, which loyalty, he added, would remain constant until he chose to resign.
Simon and Andrew also spent every weekend in planes, cars, or trains fulfilling speaking engagements right up until the party conferences in October.
Andrew, in his summing-up speech to the SDP conference at Weston-super-Mare, told the delegates that they should expect to hold the balance of power between the two major parties after the next election. For the first time, he told them, they would have the chance to participate in a national Government. He sent the delegates home warning them to prepare for an election within the coming twelve months, by which time they would be able to welcome SDP Members of Parliament who would already be playing a major role in the running of the nation. Andrew’s supporters left the West Country keyed up for battle.
The Labour party conference followed a week later at Brighton and Raymond delivered a keynote speech on the state of the nation’s finances. He pressed the unions to continue supporting their Government by keeping the twin evils of inflation and unemployment at acceptable levels. “Let us not pass on three years of achievement to be squandered by a Conservative Government,” he told the cheering delegates. “Brothers, I look forward to presenting five more Labour budgets that will make it impossible for the Tories to imagine a future victory at the polls.”
Raymond received one of the rare standing ovations to be given to any Cabinet minister at a Labour party conference. The delegates had never doubted his ability, but over the years they had grown to respect his sincerity as well as his judgment.
Seven more days passed before Simon addressed the Tory faithful at the Conservative party conference. in Blackpool. By tradition, the leader always receives a four-to-six-minute standing ovation after he completes his speech on the final day. “He’d still get four minutes,” said Pimkin to a colleague, “if he read them Das Kapital.”
Simon had spent six weeks preparing for the occasion since, like Andrew, he was convinced this would be the last conference before the election. He was pleasantly surprised to find Charles Seymour coming forward with new ideas on tax reform which he hoped might be considered for inclusion in the leader’s speech to the conference.
Charles had recently been making useful contributions in the House during finance debates, and Simon hoped that it would not be long before he would be willing to return to the front bench. His main preoccupation in the House had been as a member of the Chairmen’s Panel from which committee chairmen were recruited for each bill. Charles had mellowed considerably during his time on the back benches and many of his friends feared he had lost his ambition for high office and might not even stand at the next election. Simon hoped this wasn’t the case as he desperately needed someone of Charles’s ability to counter Raymond Gould at the Treasury. Simon included Charles’s suggestions in the final draft of his speech and dropped him a handwritten note of thanks.
On that Friday morning in Blackpool, in front of 2,000 delegates and millions more watching on television, Simon presented a complete and detailed plan of what he hoped to achieve when the Conservatives were returned to Government.
“Power is what we want and power is what we seek,” he told a mesmerized audience. “For without power we cannot serve.”
After the peroration the delegates duly rose for a genuine six-minute ovation. When the noise had died down Pimkin was heard to remark, “I think I made the right decision.”
The conference season over, members made their way back from the three seasides to Westminster. Sadness overcame the House in their first week back when the aging Mr. Speaker Weatherill suffered a minor heart attack and retired to the Lords. The Government’s overall majority was only two at the time and the Labour party Chief Whip feared that if they supplied the new Speaker from their own ranks and the Conservatives were to retain the old Speaker’s safe seat the Government majority would cease to exist.
Simon reluctantly agreed that the Speaker should come from his own benches and asked his Chief Whip to suggest a suitable candidate.
When Charles Seymour asked to be granted a private interview with the leader Simon agreed immediately.
Charles arrived at the Opposition leader’s office the following morning. It was the first time they had talked alone since the leadership battle. A head of white hair had grown from the roots of Charles’s once Odyssean locks, and the deeper lines in Charles’s face gave him a more gentle look. Simon couldn’t help noticing a slight stoop had replaced his ramrod bearing. Looking at them now no one would have suggested they were contemporaries. Charles’s request came as a shock to Simon for he had never once considered his great rival as a candidate for that particular job.
“But I want you to return to the front bench and be my Chancellor,” said Simon. “You must know I would be delighted to have you back in the team.”
“That’s considerate of you,” said Charles. “But I would prefer the more restful life of being an arbitrator rather than an antagonist. I’ve lost that desire always to be on the attack. For over twenty years you’ve had the advantage of Elizabeth and two sons to keep your feet on the ground. It’s only quite recently that Harry has done the same for me.”
All men are thought to have one great moment in their careers in the House, and for Alec Pimkin it was to be that day. The election of a Speaker in the Co
mmons is a quaint affair. By ancient tradition no one must appear to want the honor, and it is rare for more than one person to be proposed for the post. During Henry Vl’s reign three Speakers were beheaded within a year, although in modern times it has been more the heavy burden of duties that has often led to an early grave. This tradition of reluctance has carried on through the ages, and for that reason a future Speaker frequently does not know who has sponsored him. Dressed in a smart blue suit, sporting a red carnation and his favorite pink-spotted bow tie, Alec Pimkin rose from his seat on the back benches to move that “the Right Honorable Charles Seymour does take the chair of this House as Speaker.” His speech was serious yet witty, informed but personal. Pimkin held the House in his grasp for nine minutes and never once let it go. “He’s done his old friend proud,” one member muttered to another across the gangway when Pimkin sat down, and indeed the look on Charles’s face left no doubt that he felt the same way, whatever had taken place in the past.
After Charles had been seconded the tradition of dragging the Speaker-elect to the chair was observed. This normally humorous affair, usually greeted with hoots of laughter and cheering, became even more of a farce with the sight of the small, portly Pimkin and his Labour seconder dragging the six-foot-four former Guards’ officer from the third row of the back benches all the way to the chair.
Charles surveyed the Commons from his new vantage point. He began by expressing his grateful thanks for the high honor the House had bestowed on him. From the moment he rose and stood his full height, every member knew they had selected the right man to guide them through the parliamentary calendar. The sharpness of his tongue may have gone but there remained a firm delivery and natural authority that left none of his colleagues in any doubt that Mr. Speaker Seymour intended to keep “order” for many years to come.
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