Jeffrey Archer - First Among Equals

“Then why not come in with us?” asked Ronnie.

“Because I’m a committed politician,” said Simon, “and I no longer want to involve myself in any commercial activities.”

“That might stop you becoming Prime Minister?”

Simon hesitated at the bluntness of Ronnie’s question then said, “Frankly, yes. I’ve got a better than outside chance and I’d be foolish to lengthen the odds by becoming involved in anything else right now.”

“But everyone knows that as soon as Margaret announces she’s going to pack up you’ll be the next leader. It’s as simple as that.”

“No, Ronnie, it’s never as simple as that.”

“Then tell me, who could beat you?”

“Charles Seymour, for one.”

“Seymour? He’s a toffee-nosed git,” said Ronnie.

“He has a lot of friends in the party, and his patrician background still counts for something with the Tories. Sir Alec remains the best loved of our most recent Prime Ministers.”

“Yes, but he was given the leadership by the magic circle,” said Ronnie. “You’d kill Seymour with every elected member of the party having a vote.”

“Time will tell,” said Simon, bored with a conversation he had had with so many people lately. “But what have you been up to?” he asked, deliberately changing the subject.

“I’ve been working my backside off in preparation for going public in about a year’s time, which is why I wanted you on the board.”

“You never give up.”

“No, and I hope you haven’t given up your one percent of the company.”

“Elizabeth has it locked away somewhere.”

“Then you had better find the key.”

“Why?” asked Simon.

“Because when I put out ten million shares on the market at three quid a time, your one original share will be exchanged for 100,000 shares of common stock. I know you weren’t ever Chancellor but that’s £300,000 of anyone’s money.”

Simon was speechless.

“Well, say something,” said Ronnie.

“Frankly I’d forgotten the share existed,” Simon finally managed.

“Well, I think I can safely say,” said Ronnie, parodying one of Mrs. Thatcher’s favorite phrases, “that’s not a bad investment for a pound, and one you will never regret.”

As the budget debate drew nearer Raymond found twenty-four hours each day were not enough, even without sleep. He discussed the changes he required with the Treasury mandarins, but it became more obvious as each week passed that he would have to make sacrifices. He was sick of being told that there would always be next year, feeling he had waited far too long already. He often went over to Transport House to discuss with his party researchers those promises in the manifesto which they considered the top priorities. Raymond had been pleased by the party’s decision to leave Walworth Road and return to Transport House as the party headquarters soon after their victory at the polls.

As the weeks passed, compromises were reached and cutbacks agreed but Raymond managed to cling to the changes about which he felt most passionate. By the Friday morning before the budget the mandarins had handed him his speech. It ran to 143 pages and they estimated it would keep him at the dispatch box for two and a half hours.

On the Tuesday morning of Budget Day he spelled out his tax changes to the Cabinet, who traditionally did not hear the full details until a few hours before the budget was presented to the House.

Budget Day in the House of Commons is a traditional affair. Ambassadors, diplomats, bankers, and members of the House of Lords rub shoulders with the general public in the tiny Strangers’ Gallery. The queue for seats often stretches for a quarter of a mile from St. Stephen’s to Westminster Bridge, but only half a dozen people at the front of the line actually hear the Chancellor’s speech, because every other place has been allocated even before the queue has begun to form. The Chamber itself is usually packed by two-thirty although the, Chancellor does not rise until an hour later. The Press Gallery is equally overcrowded with correspondents ready to run to the nearest phone as soon as any change in taxation is announced. Back-benchers, who because of the size of the Chamber cannot be guaranteed their normal places, are mostly seated by two-twenty-five. Conservatives can reserve their seats by filling in a small prayer card during the morning and leaving it on the place they wish to occupy. Socialists, who consider the system undemocratic, refuse to use the prayer cards and make a mad rush for places at two-thirty. The atheists on both sides wait for the chaplain to finish prayers before they charge in, hoping to find their usual places free.

Budget Day is also traditionally one for eccentric dress. A few top hats can be observed on the Conservative benches and the odd miner’s helmet rests on a Labour head. Tom Carson arrived in a boiler suit with a Liverpool scarf around his neck, while Alec Pimkin satisfied himself with a red silk waistcoat and a white carnation in the buttonhole of his morning coat.

The green leather of the two front benches begins to disappear long before three o’clock, and by then any straggling back-bencher will be relegated to the floor or to the upstairs galleries, known as the “Members’ Side Galleries,” which lack the atmosphere of the House and from which members traditionally do not rise to interrupt or make a speech.

At ten past three Raymond stepped out of No. 11 and held the famous battered budget box, first used by Gladstone, high above his head, so that the press photographers could take the traditional picture before he was driven off to the Commons.

By three-fifteen, when the Prime Minister rose to answer questions, the Chamber had taken on the look of an opening night in the West End, for what members were about to experience was pure theater.

At three-twenty-five Raymond entered the Chamber to be greeted by cheers from his own side. Every place in the Commons except his had been filled. He looked up to see Joyce in the Strangers’ Gallery, and smiled. At three-thirty, when the Prime Minister had finished answering questions, the chairman of Ways and Means — who traditionally takes the Speaker’s place for a budget debate as the Speaker, being “the King’s man,” does not preside over money matters — rose from his chair and called:

“Budget statement, Mr. Chancellor of the Exchequer.”

Raymond rose and placed his speech in front of him. He began with a review of the world economic position and went on to inform the House of the philosophy behind his first budget, namely to bring down unemployment without driving up inflation. He spoke for the first hour and a half without divulging to the House any of the fiscal changes that he would be making, so abiding by the tradition that no irreversible decisions could be considered until the Stock Exchange had closed, but also giving him the opportunity to tease the House with the odd hint or suggestion.

Raymond took a sip from the glass of water by his side when he had turned page seventy-eight. He had finished with the theory and was now ready to start on the practice.

“Old-age pensions will be raised to a record level,” he declared, “as will allowances for single-parent families and disablement grants.” Raymond paused and taking a faded sheet from his inside pocket read from the first speech he had ever delivered in public. “No woman whose husband has sacrificed his life for his country shall be allowed to suffer because of an ungrateful nation. War widows’ pensions will go up by fifty percent and war bonds will be honored at their full face value.” The cheering after this statement lasted for some considerable time. Once the House had settled again he continued. “The tax on beer, cigarettes, petrol, and perfume will go up by five percent. Taxes on salaries of more than £30,000 a year will be raised to eighty-five percent and capital gains tax to fifty percent.” Several Conservatives looked glum. The Chancellor went on to announce an expansion program in the regions to stimulate employment. He detailed his plan region by region, to cheers from different sections of the House.