Jeffrey Archer - First Among Equals

Charles walked on down the corridor and found the Chief Whip blocking his own doorway.

“Come on in, Charles. Can I offer you a drink?”

“No, thank you,” replied Charles, not wanting to delay the news any longer.

The Chief Whip poured himself a gin and tonic before sitting down.

“I hope what I’m about to tell you will be looked upon as good news.” The Chief Whip paused and took a gulp of his drink. “The leader thinks you might benefit from a spell in the Whips’ office, and I must say I would be delighted if you felt able to join us...”

Charles wanted to protest but checked himself. “And give up my Housing and Local Government post?”

“Oh yes, and more of course, because Mr. Heath expects all Whips to forgo outside commitments. Working in this office is not a part-time occupation.”

Charles needed a moment to compose his thoughts. “And if I turn it down, will I keep my post at Housing and Local Government?”

“That’s not for me to decide,” said the Chief Whip, “but it is no secret that Ted Heath is planning several changes in the run-up to the election.”

“How long do I have to consider the offer?”

“Perhaps you could let me know your decision by question time tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you,” said Charles. He left the Chief Whip’s office and drove to Eaton Square.

Simon arrived at two-twenty-five, five minutes before his meeting with the party leader. He had tried not to speculate as to why Heath wanted to see him, in case the meeting only resulted in disappointment. Douglas Hurd, the head of the private office, ushered him straight through to the Conservative leader.

“Simon, how would you like to join the Housing and Local Government team in the run-up to the election?” It was typical of Heath not to waste any time on small talk and the suddenness of the offer stunned Simon. He recovered quickly.

“Thank you very much,” he said. “I mean er... yes... thank you.”

“Good, let’s see you put your back into it, and be sure the results at the dispatch box are as effective as they have been from the back benches.”

The door was opened once again by the private secretary; the interview was clearly over. Simon found himself back in the corridor at two-thirty-three. It was several moments before the offer sank in. Then he suddenly felt elated and made a dash for the nearest phone. He dialed the St. Mary’s switchboard and asked if he could be put through to Dr. Kerslake. As he spoke, his voice was almost drowned by the sound of the division bells, signaling the start of the day’s business at two-thirty-five following prayers. A woman’s voice came on the line.

“Is that you, darling?” asked Simon above the din.

“No, sir. It’s the switchboard operator. Dr. Kerslake’s in the operating theater.”

“Is there any hope of getting her out?”

“Not unless you’re expecting a baby, sir.”

“What brings you home so early?” asked Fiona as Charles came charging through the front door.

“I need to talk to someone.” Fiona could never be sure if she ought to be flattered, but she didn’t express any opinion as it was all too rare these days to have his company at all.

Charles repeated to his wife as nearly verbatim as possible his conversation with the Chief Whip. Fiona remained silent when Charles had come to the end of his monologue. “Well, what’s your opinion?” he asked anxiously.

“All because of one bad speech from the dispatch box,” Fiona commented wryly.

“I agree,” said Charles, “but nothing can be gained by tramping over that ground again.”

“We’ll miss the salary you earn as a director of the bank,” said Fiona. “The tax on my private income has made the amount I now receive derisory.”

“I know, but if I turn it down, and we win the next election...?”

“You’ll be left out in the cold.”

“More to the point, stranded on the back benches.”

“Charles, politics has always been your first love,” said Fiona, touching him gently on the cheek. “So I don’t see that you have a choice, and if that means some sacrifices you’ll never hear me complain.”

Charles rose from his chair saying, “Thank you. I’d better go and see Derek Spencer immediately.”

As Charles turned to leave, Fiona added, “And don’t forget, Ted Heath became leader of the party via the Whips’ office.”

Charles smiled for the first time that day.

“A quiet dinner at home tonight?” suggested Fiona.

“Can’t,” said Charles. “I’ve got a late vote.”

Fiona sat alone wondering if she would spend the rest of her life cohabiting with three-line whips.

At last they put him through.

“Let’s have a celebration dinner tonight.”

“Why?” asked Elizabeth.

“Because I’ve been invited to join the front-bench team to cover Housing and Local Government.”

“Congratulations, darling, but what does Housing and Local Government consist of?”

“Housing, urban land, transport, devolution, water, historic buildings, Stansted or Maplin airport, the Channel tunnel, royal parks...”

“Have they left anything for anyone else to do?”

“That’s only half of it, if it’s out of doors it’s mine. I’ll tell you the rest over dinner.”

“Oh, hell, I don’t think I can get away until eight tonight, and we’d still have to get a baby-sitter. Does that come under Housing and Local Government, Simon?”

“Sure does,” he said, laughing. “I’ll fix it and book a table at the Grange for eight-thirty.”

“Have you got a ten o’clock vote?”

“Afraid so.”

“I see, coffee with the baby-sitter,” she said. She paused. “Simon.”

“Yes, darling?”

“I’m very proud of you.”

Derek Spencer sat behind his massive partner’s desk in Cheapside and listened intently to what Charles had to say.

“You will be a great loss to the bank,” were the chairman’s first words. “But no one here would want to hold up your political career, least of all me.”

Charles noticed that Spencer could not look him in the eye as he spoke.

“Can I assume that I would be invited back on the board if for any reason my situation changed at the Commons?”

“Of course,” said Spencer. “There was no need for you to ask such a question.”

“That’s kind of you,” said Charles, genuinely relieved. He stood up, leaned forward, and shook hands rather stiffly.

“Good luck, Charles,” were Spencer’s parting words.

“Does that mean you can no longer remain on the board?” asked Ronnie Nethercote when he heard Simon’s news.

“No, not while I’m in Opposition and only a Shadow spokesman. Only the Chief Whip receives a salary and is therefore disqualified, but if we win the next election and I’m offered a job in Government I would have to resign immediately.”

“So I’ve got your services for another three years?”

“Unless the Prime Minister goes earlier, or we lose the next election.”

“No fear of the latter,” said Ronnie. “I knew I’d picked a winner the day I met you, and I don’t think you’ll ever regret joining my board.”

Over the months that followed Charles was surprised to find how much he enjoyed working in the Whips’ office, although he had been unable to hide from Fiona his anger at Kerslake taking over his shadow post at Housing and Local Government. The order, discipline, and camaraderie of the job brought back memories of his days in the Grenadier Guards. His duties were manifold and ranged from checking that members were all present in their committees to sitting on the front bench in the Commons and picking out the salient points members made in their speeches to the House. He also had to keep an eye out for any signs of dissension or rebellion on his own benches while remaining abreast of what was happening on the other side of the House. In addition he had fifty of his own members from the Midlands area to shepherd, and had to be certain that they never missed a vote unless paired, and only then when the Whips’ office had been informed.