“Perhaps,” said Raymond brusquely.
Charles eventually received a call on the Monday night, not from No. 10 Downing Street but from No. 12, the office of the Chief Whip. Because the Chief Whip’s is not an official post, he is paid as the Parliamentary Secretary to the Treasury and he works from No. 12. The Prime Minister and the Chancellor of the Exchequer, being the first and second Lords of the Treasury, live at Nos. 10 and 11 Downing Street respectively.
The Chief Whip had phoned to say he hoped that Charles would be willing to soldier on as a junior Whip. When he heard the disappointment in Charles’s voice he added, “For the time being.”
“For the time being,” repeated Charles and put the phone down.
“At least you’re a member of the Government. You haven’t been left out in the cold,” said Fiona gamely.
“True,” he replied.
“People are sure to come and go during the next five years.”
Charles had to agree with his wife but it didn’t lessen his disappointment. Returning to the Commons as a member of the Government, however, turned out to be far more rewarding than he had expected. This time it was his party that were making the decisions.
The Queen traveled early that July morning to the House of Lords in the Irish State Coach. An escort of the Household Cavalry accompanied her, preceded by a procession of lesser state carriages in which the Imperial State Crown and other royal trappings were transported. Charles could remember watching the ceremony from the streets when he was a boy. Now he was taking part in it. When the Queen arrived at the Upper House she was accompanied by the Lord Chancellor through the Sovereign’s entrance to the robing room, where her ladies-in-waiting began to prepare her for the ceremony.
Charles always considered the State opening of Parliament a special occasion for members of both Houses. As a Whip he watched the members take their seats in the Commons and await the arrival of Black Rod. Once the Queen was seated on the throne the Lord Great Chamberlain commanded the Gentleman Usher of Black Rod to inform the Commons that: “It is Her Majesty’s pleasure they attend her immediately in this House.” Black Rod, wearing his black topcoat, black waistcoat, black knee-breeches, black stockings, and black shoes, resembled the devil’s advocate rather than the Queen’s messenger. He marched alone across the great tiled floor joining the two Chambers until he reached the doors of the House of Commons which were slammed in his face when he was just two paces away from them.
He struck the door three times with the silver tip of his long thin black rod. In response a little window in the door was flicked back to check on who it was—not unlike a sleazy nightclub, Charles’s father had once observed. Black Rod was then allowed admittance to the Lower House. He advanced toward the table and made three obeisances to the chair before saying, “Mr. Speaker, the Queen commands this Honorable House to attend Her Majesty immediately in the House of Peers.”
With that, the Serjeant-at-Arms, bearing the mace, led Mr. Speaker, in full court dress, a gold embroidered gown of black satin damask, back toward the Lords. They were followed by the Clerk of the House and the Speaker’s chaplain, behind whom came the Prime Minister, accompanied by the leader of the Opposition, then Government ministers with their opposite numbers, and finally as many backbenchers as could squeeze into the rear of the Lords’ Chamber.
The Lords themselves were waiting in the Upper House, dressed in red capes with ermine collars, looking somewhat like benevolent Draculas, accompanied by peeresses glittering in diamond tiaras and wearing long evening dresses. The Queen was seated on the throne, in her full Monarchical robes, the Imperial State Crown on her head originally made for George IV. She waited until the procession had filled the Chamber and all was still.
The Lord Chancellor shuffled forward and, bending down on one knee, presented her with a printed document. It was the speech, written by the Government of the day, and although she had read over a copy of the script earlier that morning she had made no personal contribution to its contents, as her role on this occasion was only ceremonial. She looked up at her subjects and began to read.
Charles stood at the back of the cramped gathering, but with his height he had no trouble in following the entire proceedings. Their lordships were all in their places for the Queen’s speech, with the law lords seated in their privileged position in the center of the Chamber, an honor bestowed upon them by an Act of 1539. The Lord Chancellor stood to one side of the Woolsack, which was stuffed with wool from the days when it was the staple commodity of England. When the Lords are in session he acts much as the Speaker does for the Commons.
Charles could spot his elderly father, the Earl of Bridgwater, nodding off during the Queen’s speech, which promised that Britain would make a determined effort to become a full member of the EEC. “My Government also intends to bring in a bill to enact trade union reform,” she declared. Charles, along with everyone else from the Commons, was counting the likely number of bills that would be presented during the coming months and soon worked out that the Whips’ office were going to be in for a busy session.
As the Queen finished her speech Charles took one more look at his father, now sound asleep. How Charles dreaded the moment when he would be standing there watching his brother Rupert in ermine. The only compensation would be if he could produce a son who would one day inherit the title, as it was now obvious Rupert would never marry.
It was not as if he and Fiona had not tried. He was beginning to wonder if the time had not come to suggest that she visit a specialist. He dreaded finding out she was unable to bear a child.
The speech delivered, the Sovereign left the Upper House followed by Prince Philip and Prince Charles to a fanfare of trumpets. At the other end of the Chamber the procession of MPs, led again by the Speaker, made their way back in pairs from the red benches of the Lords to the green of the Commons.
The leader of the Opposition, having formed his own team, invited Andrew to cover the Home Office brief as number two. Andrew was delighted by the challenge of this new responsibility, especially when he discovered Simon Kerslake was to be his opposite number in Government.
Louise once again became very large in a short period, but Andrew tried to keep his mind off the pregnancy, as he dreaded her going through that amount of pain and sorrow for a third time. He telephoned Elizabeth Kerslake and they agreed to meet privately.
“That’s a hard question to answer without ifs and buts,” she told Andrew over coffee in her room the following day.
“But what would your advice be if Louise were to lose the third child?”
Elizabeth took a long time considering her reply. “If that happened I cannot believe it would be wise to put her through the same ordeal again,” she said flatly. “The psychological repercussions alone might affect her for the rest of her life.”
Andrew sat staring in front of him.
“Enough of this morbid talk,” Elizabeth added. “I checked Louise last week and I can see no reason why this shouldn’t turn out to be a routine birth.”
As the first weeks of the new Tory administration took shape, Simon and Andrew became locked in battle over several issues and were soon known as “the mongoose and the rattlesnake.” When either of the names “Kerslake” or “Fraser” was cranked up on the old-fashioned wall machines indicating one of them had risen to speak, members drifted back into the Chamber. Andrew found himself a constant visitor to the table office, a tiny room in the corridor behind the Speaker’s chair where members tabled their questions, usually scribbled on yellow sheets, but still acceptable to the omniscient clerks had they been written on postage stamps.
The clerks often helped Andrew reword a question so that it would be acceptable to the chair, a function they carried out for any member, even Tom Carson, who had once accused them of political bias when they suggested one of his questions was out of order. When Carson was finally referred to the Speaker, he was called for and reprimanded, and his question deposited in one of the
mock-Gothic wastepaper baskets in the Order office.
Once behind the Speaker’s chair, Simon and Andrew would good-humoredly discuss the issues on which they were crossing swords. The opportunity to be out of sight of the Press Gallery above them was often taken by the two opposing members, but once they had both returned to the dispatch box they would tear into each other, looking for any weakness in the other’s argument.
On one subject they found themselves in total accord. Ever since August 1969, when the troops had first been sent in, Parliament had been having another of its periodic bouts of trouble with Northern Ireland. In October 1970 the House devoted a full day’s business to listen to members’ opinions in the never-ending effort to find a solution to the growing clash between the Protestant extremists and the IRA. The motion before the House was to allow emergency powers to be renewed in the province.
Andrew rose from his seat on the front bench to deliver the opening speech for the Opposition. He said he took no side in this unhappy affair, but he felt sure the House was united in condemning violence. Yet however hard he searched for the answer he found neither faction willing to give an inch. “Goodwill” and “trust” were words that might as well have been left out of any dictionary printed in Ulster. It was not long before Andrew came to the conclusion that Gladstone was right when he had said, “Every time I find the solution to the Irish question, they change the question.”
When Andrew had finished he surprised members by leaving the Chamber and not returning for several minutes.
Simon had been selected to wind up for the Government and had prepared his speech with meticulous care. Although both sides appeared in agreement on the main issue, the mood as always could change in a moment if an unfortunate view was expressed by a Government minister.
During the debate, much to everyone’s surprise, Andrew Fraser kept leaving the Chamber. Simon left only twice between three-thirty and the ten o’clock division, once to take a call from his wife, and then again at seven-thirty for a quick supper.
When Simon came back Andrew was still absent from the Chamber, and he had not returned by the time the Shadow Home Secretary began to sum up. Andrew did eventually take his seat on the front bench but Simon had already begun his speech.
As Andrew entered the Chamber and took his place on the front bench, an elderly Conservative rose from his seat.
“On a point of order, Mr. Speaker.”
Simon sat down immediately and turned his head to listen to the point his colleague wanted to make.
“Is it not a tradition of this House, sir,” began the elder statesman rather ponderously, “for a front-bench spokesman to have the courtesy to remain in his seat during the debate in order that he may ascertain views other than his own?”
“That is not a point of order,” replied the Speaker above the cries of “Hear, hear” from the Conservative benches. Andrew scribbled a quick note and hurriedly passed it over to Simon. On it was written a single sentence.
“I accept the point my Right Honorable friend makes,” Simon began, “and would have complained myself had I not known that the Honorable Gentleman, the member for Edinburgh Carlton, has spent most of the afternoon in hospital.” Simon paused to let the effect sink in. “Where his wife was in labor. I am not given to accepting as necessarily accurate all the Opposition tells me,” he continued, “but I am able to confirm this statement because it was my wife who delivered the baby.” The House began to laugh. “I can assure my Honorable friend that my wife has spent her entire afternoon indoctrinating the infant in the value of Conservative policies as understood by his grandfather, which is why the Honorable Gentleman has found it necessary to be absent himself from so much of the debate.” Simon waited for the laughter to subside. “For those members of the House who thrive on statistics, it’s a boy and he weighs four pounds three ounces.”
There are times in the House when affection is displayed on both sides, thought Andrew, who considered it was ironic that during an Irish debate an Englishman had demonstrated such affection for a Scotsman.
There was no challenge when the Speaker “collected the voices” at ten o’clock so the matter was decided “on the nod” and Simon joined Andrew behind the Speaker’s chair.
“Just over four pounds doesn’t sound very big to me. I thought I’d take a second opinion from the Minister of Health.”
“I agree,” said Andrew, “the little blighter is stuck in an incubator, but your wife is doing everything she can to fatten him up. I’m off to watch him now.”
“Good luck,” said Simon.
Andrew sat by the incubator all night, hating the drip, drip, drip of the little plastic tube that passed up the child’s nose and down into his stomach. He feared that when he woke his son would be dead and continually went to the washbasin and put a damp, cold cloth over his eyes to ensure he remained awake. He finally lost the battle and dozed off in a “dad’s bed” in the corner.
When his father woke, Robert Bruce Fraser was very much alive. The crumpled father rose from his bed to admire his “crumpled offspring, who was receiving milk down the plastic tube from a night nurse.
Andrew stared down at the crinkly face. The boy had inherited his square jaw, but he had his mother’s nose and hair coloring. Andrew chuckled at the time Louise had wasted over girls’ names. Robert it would be.
Robert Bruce Fraser traveled to Cheyne Walk with his mother and father three weeks later, having topped the scales earlier that morning at five pounds ten ounces.
Elizabeth Kerslake had told them to be thankful: the postnatal examination had shown that it would not be possible for Louise to bear another child.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE CHIEF WHIP looked round at his colleagues, wondering which of them would volunteer for such a thankless task.
A hand went up, and he was pleasantly surprised.
“Thank you, Charles.”
Charles had already warned Fiona that he was going to volunteer to be the Whip responsible for the issue that had most dominated the last election: Britain’s entry into the EEC. Everyone in that room realized that it would be the most demanding marathon of the entire Parliament, and there was an audible sigh of relief when Charles volunteered.
“Not a job for anyone with a rocky marriage,” he heard one Whip whisper. At least that’s something I don’t have to worry about, thought Charles, but he made a note to take home some flowers that night.
“Why was it the bill everyone wanted to avoid?” asked Fiona as she arranged the daffodils.
“Because many of our side don’t necessarily back Edward Heath in his lifelong ambition to take Britain into Europe, while quite a few of the Opposition do,” said Charles, accepting a large brandy. “Added to that, we have the problem of presenting a bill to curb the trade unions at the same time which may well influence many members of the Labour party from voting with us on Europe. Because of this problem, the Prime Minister requires a regular ‘state of play’ assessment on Europe even though legislation may not be presented on the floor of the Commons for at least another year. He’ll want to know periodically how many of our side are still against entry, and how many from the Opposition we can rely on to break ranks when the crucial vote is taken.”
“Perhaps I should become Member of Parliament and then at least I could spend a little more time with you.”
“Especially on the European issue if you were a ‘don’t know.’”
The “Great Debate” was discussed by the media to the point of boredom. Members were nevertheless conscious that they were playing a part in history. And, because of the unusual spectacle of the Whips not being in absolute control of the voting procedure, the Commons sprang to life, and excitement began to build up over the weeks and months of debate.
Charles retained his normal task of watching over fifty members on all normal Government bills, but because of the priority given to the issue of entry into Europe he had been released from all other duties. He knew that this was
his chance to atone for his disastrous winding-up speech on the economy which he sensed his colleagues had still not completely forgotten.
“I’m gambling everything on this one,” he told Fiona. “And if we lose the final vote I will be sentenced to the back benches for life.”
“And if we win?”
“It will be hard to keep me off the front bench,” replied Charles.
Robert Fraser was one of those noisy children who after only a few weeks sounded as if he was on the front bench.
“Perhaps he’s going to be a politician after all,” concluded Louise, staring down at her son.
“What has changed your mind?” asked Andrew.
“He never stops shouting at everyone, he’s totally preoccupied with himself, and he falls asleep as soon as someone else offers an opinion,” she replied.
“At last I think I’ve found it.” After Raymond heard the news he took the train up to Leeds the following Friday. Joyce had selected four houses for him to consider, but he had to agree with her that the one in Chapel Allerton was exactly what they were looking for. It was also by far the most expensive.
“Can we afford it?” asked Joyce anxiously.
“Probably not, but one of the problems of seeing four houses is that you end up only wanting the best one.”
“I could go on looking.”
“No, you’ve found the right house; now I’ll have to work out how we can pay for it, and I think I may have come up with an idea.”
Joyce said nothing, waiting for him to continue.
“We could sell our place in Lansdowne Road.”
“But where would we live when you’re in London?”
“I could rent a small flat somewhere between the law courts and the Commons while you set up our real home in Leeds.”