Jeffrey Archer: First Among Equals

Two years later Simon met Elizabeth Drummond when “Panorama” carried out an investigation into the National Health Service and she had been invited to be a participant. Over drinks before the program Elizabeth made it perfectly clear to Simon that she distrusted media men and detested politicians. They were married a year later. Elizabeth had since given birth to two sons, and with only a small break on each occasion she had continued her career as a doctor.

Simon had left the BBC somewhat abruptly when, in the summer of 1964, he had been offered the chance to defend the marginal constituency of Coventry Central. He held on to the seat at the general election by a majority of 918.

Simon drove up to the gates of St. Mary’s and checked his watch. He was a few minutes early. He pushed back the mop of brown hair from his forehead and thought about the evening ahead. He was taking Elizabeth out to celebrate their fourth wedding anniversary, and had prepared one or two surprises for her. Dinner at Mario & Franco, followed by dancing at the Establishment Club, and then home together for the first time in weeks.

“Um,” he said, savoring the thought.

“Hi, stranger,” said the lady who jumped in beside him and gave him a kiss. Simon stared at the woman with a perfect smile and long fair hair that turned up at the shoulder. He had stared at her when she had first arrived at the “Panorama” studio that night nearly five years before and he had hardly stopped staring since.

He switched on the ignition. “Want to hear some good news?” he asked, and answered his own question before she could reply. “I’m paired for tonight. That means dinner at Mario & Franco, dancing at the Establishment, home and...”

“Do you want to hear the bad news?” asked Elizabeth, also not waiting for a reply. “There’s a shortage of staff because of the flu epidemic. I have to be back on duty by ten o’clock.”

Simon switched off the ignition. “Well, which would you prefer?” he asked. “Dinner, dancing, or straight home?”

Elizabeth laughed. “We’ve got three hours,” she said. “So we might even find time for dinner.”

Raymond Gould stared down at the invitation. He had never seen the inside of No. 10 Downing Street. During the last thirteen years few Socialists had. He passed the embossed card across the breakfast table to his wife.

“Should I accept or refuse, Ray?” she asked in her broad Yorkshire accent.

She was the only person who still called him Ray, and even her attempts at humor now annoyed him. The Greek tragedians had based their drama on “the fatal flaw,” and he had no doubt what his had been.

He had met Joyce at a dance given by the nurses of Leeds General Infirmary. He hadn’t wanted to go but a second-year undergraduate friend from Roundhay convinced him it would make an amusing break. At school he had shown little interest in girls as his mother kept reminding him that there would be occasion enough for that sort of thing once he had taken his degree. By the time he graduated he felt certain that he was the only virgin left at the university.

He had ended up sitting on his own in the corner of a room decorated with wilting balloons and Day-Glo orange crêpe paper. He sucked disconsolately at a shandy through a bent straw. Whenever his school friend turned round from the dance floor — each time with a different partner — Raymond would smile broadly back. With his National Health spectacles tucked away in an inside pocket, he couldn’t always be certain he was smiling at the right person. He began contemplating at what hour he could possibly leave without having to admit the evening had been a total disaster. He wouldn’t even have answered her question if it hadn’t been for that familiar accent.

“You at the university as well?”

“As well as what?” he asked, without looking directly at her.

“As well as your friend,” she said.

“Yes,” he replied, looking up at a girl he guessed was about his age.

“I’m from Bradford.”

“I’m from Leeds,” he admitted, aware he was going redder by the second.

“My name is Joyce,” she volunteered.

“Mine’s Ray — Raymond,” he said.

“Like to dance?”

He wanted to tell her that he had rarely been on a dance floor before in his life but he didn’t have the courage. Like a puppet he found himself standing up and being guided by her toward the jivers. So much for his assumption that he was one of nature’s leaders.

Once they were on the dance floor he looked at her properly for the first time. She wasn’t half bad, any normal Yorkshire boy might have admitted. She was about five-foot-seven, and her auburn hair was tied up in a ponytail, matching the dark brown eyes that had a little too much makeup round them. She wore pink lipstick, the same color as her short skirt from which emerged two very attractive legs. They looked even more attractive when she twirled to the music of the four-piece student band. Raymond discovered that if he twirled Joyce very fast he could see the tops of her stockings, and he remained on the dance floor for longer than he would ever have thought possible. After the quartet had put their instruments away Joyce kissed him goodnight. He walked slowly back to his small room above the butcher’s shop.

The following Sunday, in an attempt to gain the upper hand, he took Joyce rowing on the Aire, but his performance was no better than his dancing, and everything on the river overtook him, including a hardy swimmer. He watched out of the side of his eyes for a mocking laugh but Joyce only smiled and chatted about missing Bradford and wanting to return home to nurse. After only a few weeks at university Raymond knew he wanted to get away from Leeds, but he didn’t admit it to anyone. When he eventually returned the boat Joyce invited him back to her digs for tea. He went scarlet as they passed her landlady. Joyce hustled him up the worn stone staircase to her room.

Raymond sat on the end of the narrow bed while Joyce made two milkless mugs of tea. After they had both pretended to drink she sat beside him, her hands in her lap. He found himself listening intently to an ambulance siren as it faded away in the distance. She leaned over and kissed him, taking one of his hands and placing it on her knee.

She parted his lips and their tongues touched: he found it a peculiar sensation, an arousing one; his eyes remained closed as she gently led him through each new experience, until he was unable to stop himself committing what he felt sure his mother had once described as a mortal sin.

“It will be easier next time,” she said shyly, maneuvering herself from the narrow bed to sort out the crumpled clothes spread across the floor. She was right: he wanted her again in less than an hour, and this time his eyes remained wide open.

It was another six months before Joyce talked about their future and by then Raymond was bored with her and had his sights set on a bright little mathematician in her final year. The mathematician hailed from Surrey.

Just at the time Raymond was summoning up enough courage to let her know the affair was over Joyce told him she was pregnant. His father would have taken a meat ax to him had he suggested an illegal abortion. His mother was only relieved that she was a Yorkshire girl; like the county cricket selection committee, Mrs. Gould did not approve of outsiders.

Raymond and Joyce were married at St. Mary’s in Bradford during the long vacation. When the wedding photos were developed Raymond looked so distressed and Joyce so happy they resembled father and daughter rather than husband and wife. After a reception given at the church hall the newly married couple traveled down to Dover to catch the night ferry. Their first night as Mr. and Mrs. Could was a disaster. Raymond turned out to be a particularly bad sailor. Joyce only hoped that Paris would prove to be memorable — and it was. She had a miscarriage on the second night of their honeymoon.