First Among Equals (34 page)

“But do you love
him?”

Joyce
considered the question. “No, I can’t pretend I do. But we’re good friends,
he’s very kind and understanding, and, more important, he’s there.”

Raymond
couldn’t move.

“And the break
would at least give you the chance to ask Kate Garthwaite to give up her job in
New York and return to London.” Raymond gasped.

“Think about it
and let me know what you decide.” She left the room quickly so that he could
not see her tears.

Raymond sat
alone in the room and thought back over his years with Joyce-and Kate-and knew
exactly what he wanted to do, now that the whole affair was out in the open.

Harry Hampton’s
third birthday party was attended by all those three-year-olds in the vicinity
of Eaton Square whom his nanny considered acceptable. Charles managed to escape
from a departmental meeting accompanied by a large box of paint and a red
tricycle. As he parked his car in Eaton Square he spotted Fiona’s old Volvo
driving away toward Sloane Square. He dismissed the coincidence.

Harry naturally
wanted to ride the tricycle around and around the dining room table. Charles
sat watching his son and couldn’t help noticing that he was smaller than most
of his friends. Then he remembered that Great-grandfather had only been five
feet eight inches tall.

It was the moment
after the candles had been blown out, and nanny had switched the light back on,
that Charles was first aware that something was missing. It was like the game
children play with objects on a tray: everyone shuts his eyes, nanny takes one
object away and then you all have to guess which it was.

It took Charles
some time to realize that the missing object was his small gold cigar box. He
walked over to the sideboard and studied the empty space. He continued to stare
at the spot where the small gold box left to him by his great-grandfather had
been the previous night. Now all that was left in its place was the matching
lighter.

He immediately
asked Amanda if she knew where the heirloom was, but his wife seemed totally
absorbed in lining up the children for a game of musical chairs. After checking
carefully in the other rooms, Charles went into his study and phoned the
Chelsea police.

An inspector
from the local precinct came around immediately and took down all the details.
Charles was able to supply the police officer with a photograph of the box,
which carried the initials C.G.H. He stopped just short of mentioning Fiona by
name.

Raymond caught
the last train to London the same evening because he had to be in court to hear
a verdict by ten o’clock the next morning. In the flat that night he slept
intermittently as he thought about how he would spend the rest of his new life.
Before he went into court the next morning he ordered a dozen red roses via
Interflora. He phoned the Attorney General. If he was going to change his life,
he must change it in every way.

When the
verdict had been given and the judge had passed sentence, Raymond checked the
plane schedules.

Nowadays you
could be there in such a short time. He booked his flight and took a taxi to
Heathrow. He sat on the plane praying it wasn’t too late and that too much time
hadn’t passed. The flight seemed endless, as did the taxi drive from the
airport.

When he arrived
at her front door she was astonished.

“What are you
doing here on a Monday afternoon?” she asked.

“I’ve come to
try and win you back,” said Raymond. “Christ, that sounds corny,” he added.

“It’s the
nicest thing you’ve said in years,” she said as he held her in his arms; over Joyce’s
shoulder Raymond could see the roses brightening up the drawing room.

Over a quiet
dinner, Raymond told Joyce of his plans to accept the Attorney General’s offer
to join the Bench, but only if she would agree to live in London. They had a
second bottle of champagne.

When they
arrived at home a little after one, the phone was ringing.

Raymond opened
the door and stumbled toward it while Joyce groped for the light switch.

“Raymond, I’ve
been trying to get you all night,” a lilting Welsh voice said.

“Have you now?”
Raymond said thickly, trying to keep his eyes open.

“You sound as
if you’ve been to a good party.”

“I’ve been
celebrating with my wife.”

“Celebrating9
Before you’ve heard the news?”

“What news?”
said Raymond, collapsing into the
armchair.

“I’ve been
juggling the new team around all day and I was hoping you would agree to join
the Shadow Cabinet as...”

Raymond sobered
up very quickly and listened carefully to Neil Kinnock.

“Can you hold
the line?”

“Of course,”
said the surprised voice at the other end.

“Joyce,” said
Raymond, as she came out of the kitchen clutching two mugs of very black
coffee. “Would you agree to five with me in London if I don’t become a judge?”

A wide smile
spread over Joyce’s face with the realization that he was seeking her approval.
She nodded several times.

“I’d be
delighted to accept,” he said.

“Thank you,
Raymond. Perhaps we could meet at my office in the Commons tomorrow and talk
over policy in your new field.”

“Yes, of
course,” said Raymond. “See you tomorrow.” He dropped the phone on the floor
and fell asleep in the chair, grinning.

Joyce replaced
the phone and didn’t discover until the following morning that her husband was
the new Shadow Secretary of State for Defense.

Charles had
heard nothing for three weeks about the missing gold box and was beginning to
despair when the inspector phoned to say that the family heirloom had been
found.

“Excellent
news,” said Charles. “Are you able to bring the box around to Eaton Square?”

“It’s not quite
as simple as that, sir,” said the policeman.

“What do you
mean?”

“I would prefer
not to discuss the matter over the phone. May I come and see you, sir?”

“By all means,”
said Charles, slightly mystified.

He waited
impatiently for the inspector to arrive, although the policeman was at the
front door barely ten minutes later. His first question took Charles by
surprise.

“Are we alone,
sir?”

“Yes,” said
Charles. “My wife and son are away visiting my mother-in-law in Wales. You say you’ve
found the gold box,” he continued, impatient to hear the inspector’s news.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well done,
Inspector. I shall speak to the commis-328 sioner personally,” he added,
guiding the officer toward the drawing room.

“I’m afraid
there’s a complication, sir.”

“How can there
be when you’ve found the box?”

“We cannot be
sure there was anything illegal about its disappearance in the first place.”

“What do you
mean, Inspector?”

“The gold case
was offered to a dealer in Grafton Street for twenty-five hundred pounds.”

“And who was
doing the selling?” asked Charles impatiently.

“That’s the
problem, sir. The check was made out to Amanda Hampton and the description fits
your wife,” said the inspector. Charles was speechless.

“And the dealer
has a receipt to prove the transaction.” The inspector passed over a copy of
the receipt. Charles was unable to steady his shaking hand as he recognized
Amanda’s signature.

“Now, as this
matter has already been referred to the Director of Public Prosecutions, I
thought I ought to have a word with you in private, as I am sure you would not
want us to press charges.”

“Yes, no, of
course, thank you for your consideration, Inspector,” said Charles flatly.

“Not at all, sir.
The dealer has made his position clear: he
will be only too happy to return the cigar box for the exact sum he paid for
it. I don’t think that could be fairer.”

Charles made no
comment other than to thank the inspector again before showing him out.

He returned to
his study, phoned Amanda at her mother’s house and told her to return
immediately. She started to protest, but he’d already hung up.

Charles
remained at home until they all arrived back at Eaton Square late that night.
The nanny and Harry were immediately sent upstairs.

It took Charles
about five minutes to discover that only a few hundred pounds of the money was
left. When his wife burst into tears he struck her across the face with such
force that she fell to the ground. “If anything else disappears from this
house,” he said, “you will go with it, and I will also make sure you spend a
very long time in jail.” Amanda ran out of the room sobbing uncontrollably.

The following
day Charles advertised for a full-time governess. He also moved his own bedroom
to the top floor so that he could be close to his son. Amanda made no protest.

Raymond gave up
his flat in the Barbican, and he and Joyce moved into a small Georgian house in
Cowley Street, only a few hundred yards from the House of Commons.

Raymond watched
Joyce decorate his study first, then she set about the rest of the house with
the energy and enthusiasm of a newlywed. Once Joyce had completed the guest
bedroom, Raymond’s parents came down to spend the weekend. Raymond burst out
laughing when he greeted his father at the door clutching a bag marked “Gould
the Family Butcher.”

“They do have
meat in London, you know,” said Raymond.

“Not like mine,
son,” his father replied.

Over the finest
beef dinner Raymond could remember, he watched Joyce and his mother chatting
away. “Thank God I woke up in time,” he said out loud.

“What did you
say?” asked Joyce.

“Nothing, my dear.
Nothing.”

Alec Pimkin
threw a party for all of his Tory colleagues who had entered the House in 1964,
“To celebrate the first twenty years in the Commons,” as he described the
occasion in an impromptu after-dinner speech.

Over brandy and
cigars the corpulent, balding figure sat back and surveyed his fellow members.
Many had fallen by the way over the years, but of those that were left, he
believed only two men now dominated the intake.

Pimkin’s eyes
first settled on his old friend Charles Hampton. Despite studying him closely,
he was still unable to spot a gray hair on the Treasury Minister’s head. From
time to time Pimkin still saw Amanda, who had returned to being a fulltime
model and was rarely to be found in England nowadays. Charles, he suspected,
saw more of her on magazine covers than he ever did in his home at Eaton
Square. Pimkin had been surprised by how much time Charles was willing to put
aside for little Harry. Charles was the last man he would have suspected of
ending up a doting father.

Certainly the
coals of his ambitions had in no way dimmed, and Pimkin suspected that only one
man remained a worthy rival for the Party Leadership.

Pimkin’s eyes
moved on to someone for whom the responsibility of high office seemed to hold
no fears. Simon Kerslake was deep in animated conversation about his work on
the proposed disarmament talks between Thatcher, Chernenko and Reagan. Pimkin
studied the Foreign Office Minister intently. He considered that if he himself
had been graced with such looks, he would not have had to fear for his
dwindling majority.

Rumors of some
financial crisis had long since died away, and Kerslake now seemed well set for
a formidable future.

The party began
to break up as one by one his contemporaries came over to thank him for such a
“splendid... memorable,” “worthwhile” evening.

When the last
one had departed and PJmkin found
himself
alone, he
drained the drop of brandy that remained in his balloon and stubbed out the
dying cigar. He sighed as he speculated on the fact that he could now never
hope to be made a Minister.

He therefore
determined to become a kingmaker, for in another twenty years there would be
nothing left on which to speculate.

Raymond
celebrated his twenty years in the House by taking Joyce to the Ivy Restaurant
off Berkeley Square for dinner. He admired the long burgundy dress his wife had
chosen for the occasion and even noticed that once or twice women gave it more
than a casual glance throughout their meal.

He too
reflected on his twenty years in the Commons, and he told Joyce over a brandy
that he hoped he would spend more of the next twenty years in Government.
Nineteen eighty-four was not turning out to be a good year for the
Conservatives, and Raymond was already forming plans to make 1985 as
uncomfortable for the Government as possible.

The winter of
1985 brought further rises in unemployment and the level of inflation, which
only increased the Labour Party’s lead in the polls.

For a short period
after the Chancellor had brought in an emergency budget, Tory popularity fell
to its lowest point in five years.

Mrs. Thatcher
took that as a cue to introduce new blood into her Cabinet, and announced the
names of those who would be formulating policy in the run-up to the next
General Election. The average age of the Cabinet fell by seven years, and the
press dubbed it “Mrs. Thatcher’s new-lamps-for-old reshuffle.”

The
Conservative Cabinet
1985-1988

R
AYMOND WAS ON HIS WAY to the House of Commons when he heard the
first reports on his car radio. There had been no mention of the news in the
morning papers so it must have happened during the night. It began with a news
flash-just the bare details. HMS

Broadsword, a
type T.K. 22 frigate, had been passing through the Gulf of Surt between Tunis
and Benghazi when she was boarded by a group of mercenaries, posing as coast
guard officials, who took over the ship in the name of Libya’s Colonel Muammar
Qaddafi. The newscaster went on to say that there would be a more detailed
report in their ten o’clock bulletin.