Jeffrey Archer - First Among Equals

Simon began to feel a little sick in the stomach. It reminded him of the day he had been interviewed at Coventry Central nearly eight years before. Now that he was a minister of the Crown he wasn’t any less nervous.

When he and Elizabeth returned to constituency headquarters they were informed that only two more candidates had been seen and the third was still being interviewed. They walked around the town once again, even more slowly this time, watching the shopkeepers put up their colored shutters and turn “Open” signs to “Closed.”

“What a pleasant market town,” said Simon, trying to find out how his wife was feeling.

“And the people seem so polite after London,” she added.

Simon smiled as they headed back to the party headquarters. As they passed Simon and Elizabeth they bid the strangers “Good evening,” courteous people whom Simon felt he would have been proud to represent. But although they walked slowly Elizabeth and he could not make their journey last more than thirty minutes.

When they returned a third time to constituency headquarters the fourth candidate was leaving the interview room. She looked very despondent. “It shouldn’t be long now,” said the agent, but it was another forty minutes before they heard a ripple of applause, and a man dressed in a Harris tweed jacket and brown trousers left the room. He didn’t seem happy either.

The agent ushered Simon and Elizabeth through, and as they entered everyone in the room stood. Ministers of the Crown did not visit Redcorn often.

Simon waited for Elizabeth to be seated before he took the chair in the center of the room facing the committee. He estimated that there were about fifty people present and they were all staring at him, showing no aggression, merely curiosity. He looked around at the weather-beaten faces. Most of them, male and female, were dressed in tweed. In his dark striped London suit Simon felt out of place.

“And now,” said the chairman, “we welcome the Right Honorable Simon Kerslake, MP.”

Simon had to smile at the mistake so many people made in thinking that all ministers were automatically members of the Privy Council, and therefore entitled to the prefix “Right Honorable” instead of the plain “Honorable” accorded to all MPs — and then only when they were present in the House.

“Mr. Kerslake will address us for twenty minutes, and he has kindly agreed to answer questions after that,” added the chairman.

Simon felt confident he had spoken well, but even his few carefully chosen quips received no more than a smile, and his more serious comments elicited little response. This was not a group of people given to showing their emotions. When he had finished he sat down to respectful clapping and murmurs.

“Now the minister will take questions,” said the chairman.

“Where do you stand on hanging?” said a scowling middle-aged woman in a gray suit seated in the front row.

Simon explained his reasons for being a convinced abolitionist. The scowl did not move from the questioner’s face and Simon thought to himself how much happier she would be with Ronnie Nethercote as her member.

A man in a hacking jacket asked: “How do you feel, Mr. Kerslake, about this year’s farm subsidy?”

“Good on eggs, tough on beef, and disastrous for pig farmers. Or at least that’s what I read on the front page of Farmers Weekly yesterday.” Some of them laughed for the first time. “It hasn’t proved necessary for me to have a great knowledge of farming in Coventry Central, but if I am lucky enough to be selected for Redcorn I shall try to learn quickly, and with your help I shall hope to master the farmers’ problems.” Several heads nodded their approval.

“Miss Pentecost, chairman of the Women’s s Advisory,” announced a tall, thin spinsterish woman who had stood up to catch the chairman’s eye. “May I be permitted to ask Mrs. Kerslake a question? If your husband were offered this seat, would you be willing to come and live in Northumbertand?”

Elizabeth had dreaded the question because she knew that if Simon was offered the constituency she would be expected to resign her post at the hospital. Simon turned and looked toward his wife.

“No,” she replied directly. “I am a doctor at St. Mary’s Hospital, Paddington, where I practice gynecology. I support my husband in his career but, like Margaret Thatcher, I believe a woman has the right to a good education and then the chance to use her qualifications to their best advantage.”

A ripple of applause went round the room and Simon smiled at his wife.

The next question was on Europe, and Simon gave an unequivocal statement as to his reasons for backing the Prime Minister in his desire to see Britain as part of the Common Market.

Simon continued to answer questions on subjects ranging from trade union reform to violence on television before the chairman asked, “Are there any more questions?”

There was a long silence and just as he was about to thank Simon the scowling lady in the front row, without being recognized by the chair, asked what Mr. Kerslake’s views were on abortion.

“Morally, I’m against it,” said Simon. “At the time of the Abortion Act many of us believed it would stem the tide of divorce. We have been proved wrong: the rate of divorce has quadrupled. Nevertheless, in the cases of rape or fear of physical or mental injury arising from birth I would have to support the medical advice given at the time. Elizabeth and I have two children and my wife’s job is to see that babies are safely delivered,” he added.

The lips moved from a scowl to a straight line.

“Thank you,” said the chairman. “It was good of you to give us so much of your time. Perhaps you and Mrs. Kerslake would be kind enough to wait outside.”

Simon and Elizabeth joined the other hopeful candidates, their wives, and the agent in a small dingy room at the back of the building. When they saw the half-empty trestle table in front of them they both remembered they hadn’t had any lunch and devoured what was left of the curling cucumber sandwiches and the cold sausage rolls.

“What happens next?” Simon asked the agent between mouthfuls.

“Nothing out of the ordinary. They’ll have a discussion, allowing everyone to express their views, and then vote. It should all be over in twenty minutes.”

Elizabeth checked her watch: it was seven o’clock and the last train was at nine-fifteen.

“Ought to make the train comfortably,” said Simon.

An hour later when no smoke had emerged from the chimney the agent suggested to all the candidates who had a long journey ahead of them that they might like to check into the Bell Inn just over the road.

When Simon looked around the room it was clear that everyone else had done so in advance.

“You had better stay put in case you’re called again,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll go off and book a room and at the same time call and see how the children are getting on.”

“Probably eaten the poor baby-sitter by now,” said Simon.

Elizabeth smiled before slipping out and making her way to the small hotel.

Simon opened his red box and tried to complete some work. The man who looked like a farmer came over and introduced himself.

“I’m Bill Travers, the chairman of the new constituency,” he began. “I only wanted to say that you’ll have my full support as chairman if the committee select you.”

“Thank you,” said Simon.

“I had hoped to represent this area, as my grandfather did. But I shall understand if Redcorn prefers to choose a man destined for the Cabinet rather than someone who would be happy to spend his life on the back benches.”

Simon was touched by his opponent’s goodwill, and would have liked to respond in kind but Travers quickly added, “Forgive me, I’ll not waste any more of your time. I can see” — he looked down at the red box — “that you have a lot of work to catch up on.”