First Among Equals (19 page)

At Newcastle
they were met by the wife of the Association treasurer, who had volunteered to
escort the Minister and his wife to the constituency to be sure they were in
time for the interview. “That’s very thoughtful of you,” said Elizabeth, as she
stared at the mode of transport that had been chosen to take them the next
forty miles.

The ancient
Austin Mini took a further hour and a half through the winding roads before
they reached their destination, and the treasurer’s wife never drew breath once
throughout the entire journey. When Simon and Elizabeth piled out of the car at
the market town of Redcorn, they were physically and mentally exhausted.

The treasurer’s
wife took them through to the constituency headquarters and introduced them
both to the campaign manager.

“Good of you to
come,” he said. “Hell of a journey, isn’t it?”

Elizabeth felt
unable to disagree with his judgment. But on this occasion she made no comment,
because if this was to be Simon’s best chance of returning to Parliament, she
had already decided to give him every support possible. Nevertheless, she
dreaded the thought of her husband’s making the journey to Redcorn twice a
month, as she feared they would see even less of each other than they did at
present, let alone the children.

“Now the form
is,” began the campaign manager, “that we are interviewing six potential
candidates, and they’ll be seeing you last.” The campaign manager winked
knowingly.

Simon and
Elizabeth smiled uncertainly.

“I’m afraid
they won’t be ready for you for at least another hour, so you have time for a
stroll around the town.”

Simon was glad
ofthe chance to stretch his long legs and take a closer look at Redcorn. He and
Elizabeth walked slowly around the pretty market town, admiring the Elizabethan
architecture that had somehow survived irresponsible or greedy town planners.

They even
climbed the hill to take a look inside the magnificent perpendicular church
that dominated the surrounding area.

As he walked
back past the shops in the High Street, Simon nodded to those locals who
appeared to recognize him.

“A lot of
people seem to know who you are,” said Elizabeth, and then they saw the display
outside the local newsstand. They sat on the bench in the market square and
read the lead story under a large picture of Simon.

“Redcorn’s Next
MPT’ ran the headline.

The story
volunteered the fact that although Simon Kerslake had to be considered the
favorite, Bill Travers, a local farmer who had been chairman of the county council
the previous year, was still thought to have an outside chance.

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
shopkeepers put up their colored shutters and turn “Open” signs to “Closed.”

“What a
pleasant market town,” said Simon.

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

He smiled as
they headed back to party headquarters. On their way, they passed townspeople
who bid them “Good evening,” courteous people whom Simon felt he would have
been proud to represent. 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 campaign manager, but it was
another forty minutes before they heard a ripple of applause, and a man in a
Harr-is tweed jacket and brown trousers left the room. He didn’t seem happy
either.

Simon and
Elizabeth were ushered 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 at the weatherbeaten faces.
Most of the people, male and female, were dressed in tweeds. In b is 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 Ministers were
automatically members of the Privy Council and therefore entitled to the prefix
“Right Honorable,” instead of the plain “Honorable” accorded all MPs.

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

Simon felt sure
he spoke well, but even his few carefully chosen quips received no more than a
smile, and his more important 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 answer questions,” said the chairman.

“Where do you
stand on hanging?” said a scowling middle-aged woman in a gray tweed 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 have
been with Ronnie Nethercote as her member.

A man in a
brogue suit asked him how he felt 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 Farmer’s 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.

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

Elizabeth had
dreaded the question because she knew that if Simon were offered the
constituency she would be expected to give up herjob at the hospital. Simon
turned and looked toward his wife.

“No,” she
replied directly. “I am a doctor at St. Mary’s Hospital, where I practice
obstetrics and 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 the best advantage.”

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

The next
question was on the Common Market, 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 European community.

Simon continued
to answer questions on subjects 159 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 campaign
manager 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 they devoured what was left of the curling cucumber
sandwiches and the cold sausage rolls.

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

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

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

An hour later,
when no one had emerged from the room, the campaign manager 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.”

Simon opened
his red box and tried to do some work while Elizabeth disappeared in the
direction of the Bell Inn.

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 selects 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
impressed with the directness and dignity of his opponent’s statement 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 – -2’ he
looked down at the red box...”that you have a lot of work to catch up on.”

Simon felt
guilty as he watched the man walk away.
A few minutes later
Elizabeth returned and tried to smile.
“The only room left is smaller
than Peter’s and it faces the main road, so it’s just about as noisy.”

61 At least no
children to say ‘I’m hungry,”
‘ he
said, touching her
hand.

It was a little
after nine when a weary chairman came out and asked all the candidates if he
could have their attention. Husbands and wives all faced him. “My committee
wants to thank you for going through this grim procedure. It has been hard for
us to decide something that we hope not to have to discuss again for twenty
years.” He paused. “The committee is going to invite Mr. Bill Travers to fight
the Redcorn seat at the next election.”

In a sentence
it was all over. Simon’s throat went dry.

He and
Elizabeth didn’t get much sleep in their tiny room at the Bell Inn, and it hadn’t
helped that the agent told them the final vote had been 25-23.

“I don’t think
Miss Tweedsmuir liked me,” said Elizabeth, feeling guilty.

“If I had told
her that I would have been willing to live in the constituency I think you’d
have been offered the seat.”

“I doubt it,”
said Simon. “In any case it’s no use agreeing to their terms at the interview
and then imposing your own when you have been offered the constituency. My
guess is you’ll find Redcorn has chosen the right man.”

Elizabeth
smiled at her husband, grateful for his support.

“There will be
other seats,” said Simon, only too aware that time was now running out. “You’ll
see.”

Elizabeth
prayed that he would prove fight, and that next time the choice of constituency
would not make her have to face the dilemma she had so far managed to avoid.

Joyce made one
of her periodic trips to London when Raymond took silk and became a Queen’s
Counsel. The occasion, she decided, warranted another visit to Marks and
Spencer. She recalled her first trip to the store so many years before when she
had accompanied her husband to meet the Prime Minister. Raymond had come so far
since then, although their relationship seemed to 162
have
progressed so little. She couldn’t help thinking how much better-looking
Raymond had become in middle age, and feared the same could not be said of her.

She enjoyed
watching the legal ceremony as her husband was presented in court before the
judges, Latin words spoken but not understood. Suddenly her husband was Raymond
Gould, QC,

MP.

She and Raymond
arrived late in chambers for the celebration party.

Everyone seemed
to have turned out in her husband’s honor. Raymond felt full of bonhomie when
Sir Nigel handed him a glass of champagne. Then he saw a familiar figure by the
mantelpiece and remembered that the trial in Manchester was over. He managed to
circle the room, speaking to everyone but Stephanie Arnold. To his horror, he
turned to see her introducing herself to his wife. Every time he glanced toward
them, they seemed deeper in conversation.

“Ladies and
gentlemen,” said Sir Nigel, banging a table. He waited for silence. “We are
always proud in chambers when one of our members takes silk. It is a comment
not only on the man, but also on his chambers. And when it is the youngest silk
– still under forty-it
adds
to that pride. All of you
of course know that Raymond also serves in another place in which we expect him
to rise to even greater glory.