Jeffrey Archer - First Among Equals

As Lord Broadstairs, the former Prime Minister, wrote in the center page of the Sunday Express that weekend, “The Labour party in selecting their leader resembled nothing less than the old-fashioned magic circle of Lord Rosebery in their determination to prove unity.” The only leak he had managed to gather from the meeting was that Raymond Gould’s acceptance speech had impressed every one present.

But Lord Broadstairs went on to point out that if the Labour party should lose the general election Raymond Gould could be the shortest serving leader in the Labour party’s history, as under standing order five (four) of the constitution his appointment had to be confirmed by the delegates at the next party conference in October.

It had been two hours before Raymond was able to leave Transport House and escape the press. When he eventually got away he went straight to Westminster Hospital to visit the Prime Minister. The operation had visibly aged him. He was in good spirits, but admitted that he was glad not to be facing a grueling election campaign. After he had congratulated Raymond on his new post he went on to say: “You’re dining with the Queen tonight?”

“Yes, to celebrate her sixty-fifth birthday,” said Raymond.

“There’s more to it than that,” said the Prime Minister gravely and he then revealed the private conversation that he had had with the monarch the previous day.

“And will her decision depend on the four people in that room?”

“I suspect it will.”

“And what’s your attitude?”

“That’s no longer relevant because I shall resign as Prime Minister the day after the election, so it’s more important the new Prime Minister considers what is best for the country.”

For the first time Raymond felt like the leader of the party.

Elizabeth straightened Simon’s white tie and took a pace back to look at him.

“Well, at least you look like a Prime Minister,” she said, smiling.

Her husband checked his watch. Still a few minutes to spare before he needed to be at the Speaker’s private apartments — not that he was willing to risk being late for this particular birthday celebration. Elizabeth helped him on with his overcoat and after a search realized he had lost another pair of gloves.

“I do hope you can take care of the nation’s belongings a little better than you do your own.” She sighed.

“I’m sure I’ll find it hard to lose a whole country,” said Simon.

“Do remember that Raymond Gould will be trying to help you,” said Elizabeth.

“Yes, that’s true. I only wish I was fighting Kinnock.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because Could was born into the wrong party,” said Simon as he kissed his wife and walked toward the front door, “and a lot of the electorate have already reached the same conclusion.”

The policeman on the gates of New Palace Yard saluted as Simon was driven into the courtyard and dropped at the Members’ Entrance. He glanced at his watch again: ten minutes to spare. He never could resist checking how many people were in the Chamber or what the latest news was on the ticker-tape machine.

He put his head round the door of the smoking room. A few members were scattered around, mainly from safe seats they felt did not need nursing. Pimkin, surrounded by his usual cronies, hailed him. His face lit up when he saw Simon formally dressed. “I say, waiter, mine’s a double gin and tonic.” His companions duly laughed. Simon responded by asking the barman to give Mr. Pimkin a large gin and tonic and to charge it to his account.

He spent a few minutes moving from group to group chatting to members about how the election might go in their constituencies. Pimkin assured Simon that the Tories would return in triumph. “I wish everyone was as confident as you are,” Simon told him before leaving for the Speaker’s private apartments as Pimkin ordered another gin.

He strolled along the library corridor, lined from floor to ceiling with venerable old journals of the House, until he reached the Speaker’s office, which is the route members take to the Speaker’s private rooms. When Simon reached the Grand Stairway dominated by Speaker Addington’s portrait he was met by the Speaker’s train-bearer clad in white tie and black tails.

“Good evening, Mr. Kerslake,” he said and led Simon down the corridor into the antechamber where a relaxed Charles Seymour stood ready to receive his guests. Charles shook Simon’s hand warmly. Simon thought how well his colleague looked compared with their meeting of a few months before.

Andrew Fraser had already arrived and soon the three men were deep into a discussion about the course the election would take when another guest walked in.

“The Right Honorable Raymond Gould,” announced the train-bearer. Charles went over to greet his guest.

“Many congratulations on your election as leader,” were his first words. “You’ve had one hell of a week; you must be exhausted.”

“Exhilarated, to be honest,” replied Raymond.

He moved toward Simon, who in turn offered his congratulations. The two men shook hands and for a moment resembled medieval knights who had lowered their visors before the final joust. The unnatural silence that followed was broken by Andrew.

“Well, I hope it’s going to be a clean fight,” he said. Both men laughed.

The train-bearer came to the Speaker’s side to inform him that Her Majesty had left Buckingham Palace a few moments earlier.

Charles excused himself while the three leaders continued their conversation.

“Has either of you been told the real reason why we are bidden here this evening?” asked Raymond.

“Isn’t the Queen’s sixty-fifth birthday enough?” said Simon.

“No, that’s just an excuse for us to meet without suspicion. I think it might be helpful for you both to know that Her Majesty has a highly sensitive question to put to us.”

Simon and Andrew listened as Raymond revealed the substance of his discussion with the Prime Minister.

Charles waited in the entrance of the courtyard of the Speaker’s House to welcome the Queen.

It was only a few minutes before he spotted two police outriders entering the gates of New Palace Yard followed by the familiar maroon Rolls-Royce, which displayed no number-plate. A tiny white light on the center of the roof blinked in the evening dusk. As soon as the car had come to a halt a footman leaped down and opened the back door.

The Queen stepped out, to be greeted by the commoner history had judged to be the monarch’s man. She was dressed in a simple cocktail dress. The only jewelry she wore was a string of pearls and a small diamond brooch. Charles bowed before shaking hands and taking his guest up the carpeted staircase to his private apartments. Her three party leaders stood in line waiting to greet her. She shook hands first with the new leader of the Labour party and congratulated him on his election that afternoon before inquiring how the Prime Minister was faring. Then she shook hands with her leader of the Opposition and asked how his wife was coping at Pucklebridge General Hospital after the new National Health cutbacks. Simon was always amazed by how much the Queen could recall from her past conversations, few of which could ever last more than a few moments. She then moved on to Andrew whom she teased about his father’s recent speech in Edinburgh on the Social Democrats’ greatest weakness being their lack of leadership.

“He’s very old, ma’am,” insisted Andrew.

“Not as old as Gladstone when he formed his last administration,” she replied.

She removed the gin and tonic offered to her on a silver tray and looked around the magnificent room. “My husband and I are great admirers of the Gothic revival in architecture, though being infrequent visitors to Westminster we are, however, usually forced to view the better examples from the outside of railway stations or from the inside of cathedrals.”