First Among Equals (33 page)

When someone
asked Charles’s driver, whose name Charles could never remember, the same
question, he proffered the view, “He’s the sort of Minister who never remembers
your name.

But I’d still put
a week’s wages on Mr. Hampton becoming Prime Minister.”

Amanda produced
her child in the middle of the ninth month. After a week of recuperation, she
was allowed to return to England. She discovered that traveling with the brat
was a nuisance, and by the time she arrived at Heathrow she was more than happy
to turn the child over to the nanny Charles had selected.

Charles had
sent a car to pick her up from the airport. He had an unavoidable conference
with a delegation of Japanese businessmen, he explained, all of them busy
complaining about the new Government tariffs on imports.

At the first
opportunity to be rid of his Oriental guests, he bolted back to Eaton Square.
Amanda was there to meet him at the door. Charles had almost forgotten how
beautiful his wife was, and how long she had been away.

“Where’s my
child?” he asked, after he had given her a long kiss.

“In a nursery
that’s more expensively fur-nished than our bedroom,” she replied a little
sharply.

Charles ran up
the wide staircase and along the passage. Amanda followed.

He entered the
nursery he had spent so much time preparing in her absence and stopped in his
tracks as he stared at the future Earl of Bridgewater. The little black curls
and deep brown eyes came as something of a shock.

“Good heavens,”
said Charles, stepping forward for a closer examination.

Amanda remained
by the door, her hand clutching its handle.

She had a
hundred answers ready for his question.

“He’s the
spitting image of my great-grandfather. You skipped a couple of generations,
Harry,” said Charles, lifting the boy high into the air,

“
but
there’s no doubt you’re a real Hampton.”

Amanda sighed
with inaudible relief. The hundred answers she could now keep to herself.

“It’s more than
a couple of generations the little bastard has skipped,” said Pimkin. “It’s an
entire continent.” He took another sip of christening champagne before
continuing.

“This poor
creature, on the other hand,” he said, staring at Fiona’s firstborn, “bears a
striking resemblance to Alexander. Dear little girl should have been given a
kinder legacy with which to start her life.”

“She’s
beautiful,” said Fiona, picking her daughter up from the cradle to check her
diaper.

“Now we know
why you needed to be married so quickly,” added Pimkin between gulps. “At least
this child made wedlock, even if it was a close race.”

Fiona continued
as if she hadn’t heard his remark. “Have you actually seen Charles’s son?” she
asked.

“I think we
should refer to young Harold as Amanda’s child,” said Pimkin.

“We don’t want
to be in violation of the Trade Description Act.”

“Come on, Alec,
have you seen Harry?” she asked, refusing to fill his empty glass.

“Yes, I have.
And I am afraid he also bears too striking a resemblance to his father for it
to go unnoticed in later life.”

“Anyone we
know?” asked Fiona, probing.

“I am not a
scandalmonger,” said Pimkin, removing a crumb from his waistcoat.
“As you well know.
But a certain Brazilian fazendeiro who
frequents Cowdray Park and Ascot during the summer months has obviously
maintained his interest in the English fillies.”

Pimkin
confidently held out his glass.

O
N A SLEEPY THURSDAY in April 1982 Argentina attacked and occupied
two small islands whose eighteen hundred British citizens were forced to lower the
Union Jack for the first time in over a hundred years.

Mrs. Thatcher
immediately dispatched a task force halfway around the globe to recapture the
sovereign islands.

Her fellow
countrymen followed every scrap of news so intently that London theaters found
themselves empty at the height of the season.

Simon felt
exhilarated to be a member of the Foreign Office at such an historic moment,
and Elizabeth didn’t begrudge him those days when he left before she had
awakened, and arrived home after she had fallen asleep. By the end of the two
long months that proved necessary for the British forces to recapture the
Falklands, Simon looked well placed to join the Cabinet if Mrs. Thatcher won
the next election.

Under less
public scrutiny but almost equal pressure, Charles beavered away at the
Treasury addressing the economic problems that had previously eroded his Prime
Minister’s popularity.

After the April
budget had been presented, he spent day after day in the House helping to put
the Government’s case. Like Simon, he found he could only snatch moments to be
at home, but unlike Elizabeth, his wife remained in bed until midday.

When Charles
did manage to slip away from the department, he spent all his spare time with
Harry, whose progress he followed with delighted interest.

At the time
when the Union Jack was raised once again in the Falklands, the budget became
an act.

Charles also
considered he would be a contender for a Cabinet seat if the Conservatives won
a second term.

Raymond
approved of Mrs. Thatcher’s resolute stance on the Falklands, despite its
damping effects on his own political hopes. So greatly did her personal
popularity increase when the islands were reoccupied that Raymond knew there
was little chance for the Labour Party to win the next General Election.

When James
Callaghan had been replaced by Michael Foot as Labour Leader two years before,
the Party had drifted even more to the left. Some of the more moderate members
had deserted Foot to join the newly formed Social Democratic Party. Raymond himself
was never tempted, as he believed Michael Foot would be quickly replaced after
the next election.

When Foot had
invited Raymond to continue with the Shadow Trade portfolio, Raymond had
accepted the assignment with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

Raymond hated
not being able to share his frustrations with Kate, as one after another of her
predictions became Party policy-not least, the process of electing a Leader at
the annual Party conference. In the beginning she had phoned once a week, and then
it became once a month; she always sounded so happy that he refused to admit
how much he missed her. Lately, he found he only contacted her on rare
occasions.

A year after
the recapture of the Falklands, Mrs. Thatcher found that her lead in the
opinion polls remained at its all-time high. Although it was a year earher than
necessary, she called a General Election.

Once the date
had been announced, Charles realized he could no longer avoid introducing
Amanda to the constituency.

He had
explained to those who inquired that his wife had had rather a bad time of it
after the birth, and had been told by her doctors not to participate in
anything that might raise her blood pressure-though one or two constituents
considered that the Sussex Downs Conservatives would find it hard to raise the
blood pressure of a ninety-year-old with a pacemaker.

The annual
garden party held in the grounds of Lord Sussex’s country home seemed to
Charles to be the ideal opportunity to show off Amanda, and he asked her to be
certain to wear something appropriate.

He was aware
that designer jeans had come into fashion, and that his clothes-conscious wife
never seemed to dress in the same thing twice. He also knew that liberated
women didn’t wear bras. But he was nevertheless shocked when he saw Amanda in a
nearly see through blouse and jeans so tight that the outline of her underwear
could be seen. Charles was genuinely horrified.

“Can’t you find
something a little more... conservative?” he suggested.

“Like the
things that old frump Fiona used to wear?”

Charles
couldn’t think of a suitable reply.

“The garden
party will be frightfully dull,” said Charles desperately.

“Perhaps I
should go on my own.”

Amanda turned
and looked him in the eye.

“Are you
ashamed of me, Charles?”

He drove his wife
silently down to the constituency, and every time he glanced over at her he
wanted to make an excuse to turn back. When they arrived at Lord Sussex’s home,
his worst fears were confirmed. Neither the men nor the women could take their
eyes off Amanda as she strolled around the lawns devouring strawberries.

Many of them
would have used the word “hussy” if she hadn’t been the member’s wife.

Charles might
have escaped lightly had it only been the one risqu6 joke Amanda told-to the
Bishop’s wife – or even her curt refusal to judge the baby contest or to draw
the raffle; but he was not to be so lucky. The chairman of the Ladies’ Advisory
Committee had met her match when she was introduced to the member’s wife.

“Darling,” said
Charles, “I don’t think you’ve met Mrs. Blenkinsop.”

“No, I
haven’t,” said Amanda, ignoring Mrs. Blenkinsop’s outstretched hand.

“Mrs.
Blenkinsop,” continued
Charles,
“was awarded the OBE
for her services to the constituency.”

“OBET’ Amanda
asked innocently.

Mrs. Blenkinsop
drew herself up to her full height. “Order of the British Empire,” she said.

“I’ve always
wondered,” said Amanda, smiling. “Because my dad used to tell me it stood for
‘other buggers’ efforts.’”

Amanda didn’t
accompany her husband throughout the election campaign, but it made little
difference to Charles’s vast majority in Sussex Downs.

Simon was
surprised by the huge 144 majority the Conservatives gained in the Commons,
while Raymond resigned himself to another five years in Opposition and began to
turn more of his attention to his practice at the bar and a new round of
time-consuming cases. When the Attorney General offered him the chance to
become a High Court judge, with a place in the House of Lords, Raymond gave the
matter considerable thought before finally asking Joyce for her opinion.

“You’d be bored
to tears in a week,” she told him.

“No more bored
than I am now.”

“Your turn will
come.”

“Joyce, I’m
nearly fifty, and all I have to show for it is the chairmanship of the Select
Committee on Trade and Industry. If the Party fails to win next time, I may
never hold office again. Don’t forget that on the last occasion we lost this
badly we were in Opposition for thirteen years.”

“Once Michael
Foot has been replaced, the Party will take on a new look, and I’m sure you’ll
be offered one of the senior Shadow jobs.”

“That’ll depend
on who’s our next Leader,” said Raymond. “And I can’t see a great deal of
difference between Neil Kinnock, who looks unbeatable, and Michael Foot. I fear
they are both too far left to win a General Election.”

“Then why not
run yourself?” asked Joyce.

“It’s too early
for me,” said Raymond. “I’ll be a serious candidate next time.”

“Then why don’t
you at least wait until we know who’s going to be Leader of the Party?” said
Joyce. “You can become a judge anytime.”

When Raymond
returned to his chambers on Monday he followed Joyce’s advice, let the Attorney
General know that he was not interested in being a judge for the foreseeable
future, and settled down to keep a watchful eye on the new Secretary of State
for Trade and Industry.

Only a few days
later Michael Foot announced that he would not be running again for Leader when
the Party’s annual conference took place. That left Neil Kinnock and Roy
Hattersley the frontrunners. During the weeks leading up to the Labour Party’s
conference, several trade unionists and MPs approached Raymond and asked him to
run but he told them all, “Next time.”

As Raymond had
predicted, Kinnock won handily. Hattersley was elected his deputy.

After the
conference Raymond returned to Leeds for the weekend, still confident that he
would be offered a major post in the Shadow Cabinet despite the fact that he
hadn’t supported the winner. Having completed his Leeds office hours, he hung
around the house waiting for the new Leader to call him. When Neil Kinnock
eventually phoned late that evening Raymond was shocked by his offer and
replied without hesitation that he was not interested. It was a short
conversation.

Joyce came into
the drawing room as he sank back into his favorite armchair.

“Well, what did
he offer you?” she asked, facing him.

“Transport.
Virtually a demotion.”

“What did you
say?”

“I turned him
down, of course.”

“Who has he
given the main jobs to?”

“I didn’t ask,
and he didn’t volunteer, but I suspect we’ll only have to wait for the morning
papers to find out.

Not that I’m
that interested,” he continued, staring at the floor, “as I intend to take the
first place that comes free on the legal bench. I’ve wasted too many years
already.”

“So have I,”
said Joyce quietly-

“What do you
mean?” asked Raymond, looking up at his wife for the first time since she had
come into the room.

“If you’re
going to make a complete break, I think it’s time for me to do so as well.”

“I don’t
understand,” said Raymond.

“We haven’t
been close for a long time, Ray,” said Joyce, looking straight into her
husband’s eyes. “If you’re thinking of giving up the constituency and spend
even more time in London, I think we should part.” She turned away.

“Is there
someone else?” asked Raymond, his voice cracking.

“No one special.”

“But someone?”

“There is a man
who wants to marry me,” said Joyce, “if that’s what you mean. We were at school
in Bradford together. He’s an accountant now and has never married.”