First Among Equals (30 page)

“I didn’t mean
to bother you, but I just wanted someone to talk to,” she said. “Everyone else
is allowed to complain to their MP, so I thought it was my turn.”

“Normally what
I do in these circumstances is to put the blame on the Labour Party.” Simon was
relieved to hear Elizabeth laugh.

“Thanks for ringing
me back so quickly, darling. See you tomorrow,” she said and put the phone
down.

Simon returned
to his group and explained that he had to leave for London immediately. He took
a taxi to the airport and caught the next shuttle to Heathrow. He was back at
Beaufort Street within three hours.

“I didn’t want
you to come home,” Elizabeth said contritely when she saw him on the doorstep.

“I’ve come back
to celebrate,” Simon said.

“Let’s open the
bottle of champagne that Ronnie gave us when he closed the deal with Morgan
Grenfell.”

“Why?”

“Because Ronnie taught me one thing.
You should always
celebrate disasters, not successes.”

Simon hung up
his coat and went off in search of the champagne. When he returned with the
bottle and two glasses Elizabeth asked, “What’s your overdraft looking like
nowadays?”

“Down to
sixteen thousand pounds, give or take a pound.”

“Well, that’s
another problem then-I won’t be giving any pounds in the future, only taking.”

Simon embraced
his wife. “Don’t be silly.

Someone will
snap you up.”

“It won’t be
quite that easy,” said Elizabeth.

“Why not?”
asked Simon, trying to sound cheerful.

“Because I had
already been warned about whether I wanted to be a politician’s wife or a
doctor.”

Simon was
stunned. “I had no idea,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was my
choice, darling, but I will have to make one or two decisions if I want to
remain in medicine, especially if you’re going to become a Minister.”

“You mustn’t be
allowed to give up being a doctor. It’s every bit as important as wanting to be
a Minister.

Shall I have a
word with Gerry Vaughan? As Shadow Minister of Health he might...”

“Certainly not, Simon.
If I am to get another job, it’ll be
without anyone doing you or me a favor.”

Raymond’s first
trip to the States was at the behest of the Secretary of State for Trade. He
was asked to present the country’s export and import assessment to the
International Monetary Fund, following up a loan granted to Britain the
previous November.

His civil
servants went over the prepared speech with him again and again, emphasizing to
their Minister the responsibility that had been placed on his shoulders.

Raymond’s
speech was scheduled for Wednesday morning. He flew into Washington on the
Sunday before and spent Monday and Tuesday listening to the problems of other
nations’ trade ministers while trying to get used to the dreadful earphones and
the female interpreters.

The night
before he was to deliver his speech, Raymond hardly slept. He continued to
rehearse each crucial phrase and repeated the salient points that needed to be
emphasized until he almost knew them by heart. At three o’clock in the morning
he dropped his speech on the floor beside his bed and phoned Kate to have a
chat before she went to work.

“I’d enjoy
hearing your speech at the conference,” she told him.

“Although I
don’t suppose it would be much different from the thirty times I’ve listened to
it in the bedroom.”

All the
homework and preparation proved to be worthwhile. By the time he turned the
last page Raymond couldn’t be certain how convincing his case had been, but he
knew it was the best speech he had ever delivered. When he looked up, the
smiles all around the oval table assured him that his contribution had been a
triumph. As the British ambassador pointed out to him when he rose to leave,
any signs of emotion at these gatherings were almost unknown.

At the end of
the afternoon sessions Raymond walked out into the clear Washington air and
decided to make his way back to the Embassy on foot.

He was exhilarated
by the experience of dominating an international conference. He quickened his
pace. Just the closing day to go, followed by the official banquet, and he
would be back home by the weekend.

When he reached
the Embassy the guard had to double-check.
they
weren’t used to Ministers arriving on foot and without a bodyguard. Raymond was
allowed to proceed down the tree-lined drive toward the massive Lutyens
Building. He looked up to see the British flag flying at half-mast and wondered
which distinguished American had died.

“Who has died?”
he asked the tail coated butler who opened the door for him.

“One of your
countrymen, sir, I’m sorry to say.
The Foreign Secretary.”

“Anthony
Crosland? But I had lunch with him only last week,” said Raymond. He hurried
into the Embassy to find it abuzz with telexes and messages.

Raymond sat
alone in his room for several hours and later, to the horror of the security
staff, slipped out for a solitary dinner at the Mayflower Hotel.

Raymond
returned to the conference table at nine o’clock the next morning to hear the
closing speeches. He was savoring the thought of the official banquet at the
White House to be held that evening when he was tapped on the shoulder by Sir
Peter Ramsbotham, who indicated they must have a word in private.

“The Prime
Minister wants you to return on the midmorning Concorde,” said Sir Peter. “It
leaves in an hour. On arrival in Britain you’re to go straight to Downing
Street.”

“What’s this
all about?”

“I have no
idea. That’s the only instruction I’ve received from Number Ten,” confided the
ambassador.

Raymond
returned to the conference table and made his apologies to the chairman, left
the room and was driven immediately to the waiting plane.

“Your bags will
follow, sir,” he was assured.

He was back on
English soil three hours and forty-one minutes later. The purser ensured that
he was the first to disembark. A car waiting by the side of the plane whisked
him to Downing Street. He arrived just as the Prime Minister was going into
dinner accompanied by an elderly African statesman.

“Welcome home,
Ray,” said the Prime Minister, leaving the African leader.

“I’d ask you to
join us, but as you can see I’m tied up here. Let’s have a word in my study.”

Once Raymond
had settled into a chair opposite the Prime Minister, Mr. Callaghan wasted no
time. “Because of Tony’s tragic death, I have had to make a few changes which
will include moving the Secretary of State for Trade. I was hoping you would be
willing to take over from him.”

Raymond sat up
straighter. “I should be honored, Prime Minister.”

“Good. You’ve
earned the promotion, Raymond. I also hear you did us proud in America, very
proud.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ll be
appointed to the Privy Council immediately and your first Cabinet meeting will
be at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must catch up
with Dr.

Banda.”

Raymond was
left standing in the hall.

He asked his
driver to take him back to the flat. On the journey he reflected with
satisfaction that he was the first from his intake to be made a Cabinet
Minister. All he wanted to do was to tell Kate the news.

When he
arrived, the flat was empty; then he remembered she wasn’t expecting him back
until the next day. He phoned her home, but after twenty continuous rings he
resigned himself to the fact that she was out.

“Damn,” he said
out loud and after pacing around phoned Joyce to let her know the news. Once
again there was no reply.

He went into
the kitchen and checked to see what was

The two
policemen on the door were chatting when Simon and Peter came out.

“Come on, one
of you, my wife needs a carton of milk, so affairs of state must be held up for
the time being.”

“I’m sorry,
Minister,” said the sergeant.

“When I was
told you would be in for the rest of the evening I allowed the official car to
go off duty. But Constable Barker can accompany you.”

“That’s no
problem,” said Simon. “We can take my wife’s car. Peter, run back and pick up
Mum’s car keys, and while you’re at it, find out where she’s parked the damned
thing.”

Peter
disappeared back inside.

“Been in the
force long?” Simon asked Constable Barker as they waited on the doorstep for
Peter to return.

“Not that long,
sir. Started on the beat just over a year ago...”

“Are you
married, Constable?”

“Fine chance on
my salary, sir.”

“Then you won’t
have encountered the problem of being milkless.”

“I don’t think
they’ve ever heard of milk in the police canteen, sir.”

“You should try
the House of Commons sometime,” said Simon. “I don’t imagine you’d find it any
betterthe food, that is, not to mention the salary.”

The constable
laughed as Peter returned, jangling the car keys.

“Off we go,
Constable, but I warn you, you’ll have to suffer a running commentary on my
son’s school football match. He scored the winning goal,” said Simon, winking
at the policeman.

“I was going
down the right wing,” said Peter, oblivious to his father’s sarcasm, “and first
I dodged past my opposite number, then I flicked the ball to my captain before
running flat out back into the center.”

Peter paused to
make sure both men were following the details with rapt attention. Satisfied,
he continued. “The captain passed the ball back to me and I took it on the full
toss with my left leg, blocked it, controlled it and then shot at the far
corner of the goal mouth.” Peter paused again.

“Don’t keep us
in suspense,” said Simon as they reached the car.

“The goalie
dived
full length, his finger touching the ball,” said Peter
as Simon opened the car door, “but it was too late.
I .
. “

Like everyone
else in Beaufort Street, Elizabeth heard the explosion, but she was the first
to realize what it must be.

She ran out of
the front door in search of the duty policeman. She saw him running down the
road and quickly followed.

The little red
car was scattered all over the side street, the glass from its windows making
the pavement look as though there had been a sudden hailstorm.

When the
sergeant saw the severed head, he pulled Elizabeth back. Two other forms lay
motionless in the road.

Within minutes,
six police cars and an ambulance had arrived and Special Branch officers had
cordoned off the area with white ribbon. The job of picking up the remains of
the police constable needed a very resolute man.

Elizabeth was
taken to Westminster Hospital in a police car, where she learned that both her
husband and son were in critical condition. When she told the surgeon in charge
that she was a doctor, he was more forthcoming and answered her questions
candidly. Simon was suffering from multiple fractures and lacerations, a
dislocated hip, and a severe loss of blood.

The doctors
were attempting to remove a piece of glass lodged only inches from Peter’s
heart.

She sat alone
outside the operating room waiting for any scrap of news.

Hour after hour
went by, and Elizabeth kept recalling Simon’s words: “Be tolerant. Always
remember there are still men of good will in Northern Ireland.” She found it
almost impossible not to scream, to think of the whole lot of them as
murderers. Her husband had worked tirelessly on their behalf. He wasn’t working
as a Catholic or a Protestant, just as a man trying to do an impossible task.
Her son only wanted to get back home and tell her about his goal. And in the
back of her mind was the knowledge that she had been the intended target.

Another hour
passed. She watched a policeman steer reporters-who were arriving by the
minute-into an anteroom off the main entrance. Finally a tired, grayfaced man
came out into the corridor through the flapping rubber doors.
“Your husband’s still hanging on, Dr. Kerslake.
He has the
constitution of an ox; most people would have let go by now. We’ll know more
about your son’s condition as soon as the operation is over. All I know is
,
they have managed to remove the piece of glass.” He
smiled. “Can I find you a room so that you can get some sleep?”

“No, thank
you,” Elizabeth replied. “I’d prefer to be near them.” She added in a
distracted way, “I want to hear about the winning goal.”

She did not
notice the doctor’s puzzled look.

Elizabeth
phoned home to check how Lucy was coping. Elizabeth’s mother answered the
phone. She had rushed over the moment she had heard and was keeping Lucy away
from the radio and the television. “How are they?” she asked.

Elizabeth told
her mother all she knew and then spoke to Lucy.

“I’m taking
care of Grandmother,” Lucy promised her.

Elizabeth
couldn’t hold back the tears.

“Thank you,
darling,” she said and quickly replaced the receiver. She returned to the bench
outside the operating room, kicked off her shoes, curled her legs under her
body and tried to snatch some sleep.

She woke with a
start in the early morning.

Her back hurt
and her neck was stiff. She walked slowly up and down the corridor in her bare
feet stretching her aching limbs, searching for anyone who could tell her some
news. Finally a nurse who brought her a cup of tea assured her that her husband
and son were both still alive.

What did “still
alive” mean?

She stood and
watched the grim faces coming out of the two operating rooms and tried not to
recognize the telltale signs of despair. The surgeon told her she ought to go
home and rest. They could tell her nothing definite for at least twenty-four
hours.