Jeffrey Archer - First Among Equals

Andrew, Louise, and Robert took the plane to London on the Sunday night to find the red box awaiting them and a message that the Prime Minister wanted Andrew to continue as Minister of State at the Home Office.

Simon had a glorious campaign. He and Elizabeth had started moving into their new cottage the day the election was announced, thankful that, now she had to commute, her salary at the hospital had made it possible for them to employ a nanny. A double bed and a couple of chairs sufficed as Elizabeth cooked on an old Aga from provisions still packed in tea chests. They seemed to use the same two forks for everything. During the campaign Simon covered the 200-square-mile constituency for a second time and assured his wife that she need only take the final week off from from her duties at St. Mary’s.

The voters of Pucklebridge sent Simon Kerslake back to Parliament with a majority of 18,419, the largest in the constituency’s history. The local people had quickly come to the conclusion that they now had a member who was destined to have a Cabinet career.

Kate kept her remarks very gentle as it became obvious by the Monday night that the Prime Minister was not going to offer Raymond a job in the new administration. She cooked his favorite meal of roast beef — overdone — and Yorkshire pudding in the flat that night, but he didn’t comment on it and hardly spoke.

After Simon had been back at the Commons for a week he felt a sense of déjà vu, a feeling that most members returning to the House for a second or even third time often experience. The sense was heightened by finding everything unchanged, even the policeman who greeted him at the Members’ Entrance. When Edward Heath announced his Shadow team Simon was not surprised that he wasn’t included, as he never had been a known supporter of the Tory leader. He was, however, mystified but not displeased to discover Charles Seymour was not-among the names to be found in the Shadow Cabinet.

“Do you regret turning him down now the full team has been published?” asked Fiona, looking up from her copy of the Daily Mail.

“It wasn’t an easy decision but I think it’ll prove right in the long run,” replied Charles, buttering another piece of toast.

“What did he offer in the end?”

“Shadow Minister of Industry.”

“That sounds rather interesting,” said Fiona.

“Everything about it was interesting except the salary, which would have been nothing. Don’t forget the bank pays me £40,000 a year while I’m chairman.”

Fiona folded her paper. “But you’ve just appointed a full-time chief executive, so your responsibilities at the bank should be only part-time compared with when you took the chair over. So what’s your real reason?”

Charles accepted that he could rarely fool Fiona. “The truth is that I’m far from certain Ted will be leading the party at the next election.”

“Then who will if he doesn’t?” asked Fiona.

“Whoever’s got the guts to oppose him.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” said Fiona, beginning to clear away the plates.

“Everyone accepts that he has to allow his name to go forward for reelection now that he’s lost twice in a row.”

“That’s fair enough,” agreed Fiona.

“But as he has appointed all possible contenders to the Cabinet or Shadow Cabinet over the last ten years, someone he has selected in the past will have to oppose him. No one of lesser stature would stand a chance.”

“Is there a member of the Shadow Cabinet willing to stand?” asked Fiona, returning to her seat at the end of the table.

“One or two are considering it, but the problem is that if they lose it could easily end their political career,” said Charles, folding his napkin.

“But if they win?”

“They will undoubtedly be the next Prime Minister.”

“Interesting dilemma. And what are you going to do about it?”

“I’m not supporting anyone at the moment, but I’ve got my eyes wide open,” said Charles, folding his copy of The Times and rising from the table.

“Is there a front runner?” asked Fiona, looking up at her husband.

“No, not really. Although Kerslake is trying to rally support for Margaret Thatcher, but that idea is doomed from the start.”

“A woman leading the Tory party? Your lot haven’t got the imagination to risk it,” said Elizabeth, tasting the sauce. “The day that happens I shall eat my one and only Tory hat in full view of all the delegates at the party conference.”

“Don’t be so cynical, Elizabeth. She’s the best bet we’ve got at the moment.”

“But what are the chances of Ted Heath standing down? I always thought the leader of the party stayed on until he was hit by the mythical bus. I don’t know Heath very well, but I can never imagine him resigning.”

“I agree,” said Simon. “So the 1922 Committee will have to change the rules.”

“You mean the back-benchers will put pressure on him to go?”

“No, but a lot of the committee in their present mood would be willing to volunteer as driver for that bus.”

“If that’s true, he must realize that his chances of holding on are slim?”

“I wonder if any leader ever knows that,” said Simon.

“You ought to be in Blackpool next week,” said Kate, resting her elbow on the pillow.

“Why Blackpool?” Raymond asked, staring up at the ceiling.

“Because, Carrot Top, that’s where they are holding this year’s Labour party conference.”

“What do you imagine I could hope to accomplish there?”

“You’d be seen to be alive. At present you’re just a rumor in trade union circles.”

“But if you’re not a minister or a trade union leader all you do at a party conference is spend four days eating foul food, sleeping in seedy guest houses, and applauding second-rate speeches.”

“I’ve no interest in where you put your weary head at night but I do want you to revive your contacts with the unions during the day.”

“Why?” said Raymond. “That lot can’t influence my career.”

“Not at the moment,” said Kate. “But I predict that, like my fellow Americans at their conventions, the Labour party will one day select their leader at the party conference.”

“Never,” said Raymond. “That is and will always remain the prerogative of elected members of the House of Commons.”

“That’s the sort of crass, short-sighted, pompous statement I would expect a Republican to make,” she said, before plonking a pillow over his head. Raymond feigned death, so she lifted up a corner and whispered in his ear, “Have you read any of the resolutions to be debated at this year’s conference?”

“A few,” came back Raymond’s muffled reply.

“Then it might serve you well to note Mr. Anthony Wedgwood Benn’s contribution,” she said, removing the pillow.

“What’s he up to this year?”

“He’s calling on ‘conference,’ as he insists on describing your gathering of the brothers, to demand that the next leader be chosen by a full vote of the delegates, making up an electoral college from all the constituencies, the trade union movement, and Parliament — I suspect in that order.”

“Madness. But what do you expect? He’s married to an American.”

“Today’s extremist is tomorrow’s moderate,” said Kate blithely.

“A typical American generalization.”

“Benjamin Disraeli, actually.”

Raymond placed the pillow back over his head.

Andrew always attended the party conference, although he would never have voted for Tony Benn’s resolution on the method of selecting a leader. He feared that if the trade unions were given that sort of power a leader who was totally unacceptable to his colleagues in the House of Commons could be selected. He was relieved when the motion was defeated but he noted that the majority against was far from overwhelming.