“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.
He caught the last train to London the same evening because he had to be in court by ten o’clock the next morning to attend a judge’s summing up. 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 summing up was over 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 and he took another taxi from the airport.
When he arrived at her front door she was astonished. “What are you doing here on a Monday afternoon?”
“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.
“Let’s go and have a quiet dinner.”
Over 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. After a second bottle of champagne which Joyce had been reluctant to open they finally returned home.
When they arrived back a little after one the phone was ringing. Raymond opened the door and stumbled toward it while Joyce groped for the light switch.
“Ray, 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.”
“Celebrating 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 the new leader. “Can you hold the line?”
“Of course,” said the surprised voice on the other end.
“Joyce,” said Raymond, as she came out of the kitchen clutching two mugs of very black coffee. “Would you agree to live with me in London if I don’t become a judge?”
A broad smile spread across 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 room 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.
Joyce replaced the phone and didn’t discover until the following morning that her husband was the new Shadow Secretary of State for Social Services.
Raymond sold 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 she had completed the guest bedroom Raymond’s parents came down to spend the weekend. He burst out laughing when he greeted his father at the door clutching on to 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 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.”
Although Raymond spent most of his time on the overall strategy for a future Labour Government, like all politicians he had pet anomalies that particularly upset him. His had always been war widows’ pensions, a preoccupation which dated back to his living with his grandmother in Leeds. He remembered the shock when he first realized shortly after leaving university that his grandmother had eked out an existence for thirty years on a weekly widow’s pension that wouldn’t have covered the cost of a decent meal in a London restaurant.
From the back benches, he had always pressed for the redeeming of war bonds and higher pensions for war widows. His weekly mail showed unequivocally just how major a problem war widows’ pensions had become. During his years in Opposition he had worked doggedly to achieve ever-increasing, smaller rises, but he vowed that were he to become Secretary of State he would enact something more radical.
Joyce left a cutting from the Standard for him to read when he returned from the Commons that night. She had scribbled across it: “This could end up on the front page of every national paper.”
Raymond agreed with her, and the following day he tried to press his view on to a reluctant Shadow Cabinet who seemed more concerned with the planned series of picketing by the Yorkshire miners’ union than the case of Mrs. Dora Benson.
Raymond researched the story carefully and discovered that the case didn’t differ greatly from the many others he had looked into over the years, except for the added ingredient of a Victoria Cross. By any standards, Mrs. Dora Benson highlighted Raymond’s cause. She was one of the handful of surviving widows of the First World War and her husband, Private Albert Benson, had been killed at the Somme leading an attack on a German trench. Nine Germans had been killed before Albert Benson died, which was why he had been awarded the VC. His widow had continued working as a cleaner in the King’s Head at Barking for over fifty years. Her only possessions of any value were her war bonds, but with no redemption date they were still passing hands at twenty-five pounds each. Mrs. Benson’s case might have gone unnoticed if in desperation she had not asked Sotheby’s to auction her husband’s medal.
Once Raymond had armed himself with all the facts he put down a question to the minister concerned asking if he would at last honor the Government’s long-promised pledges in such cases. A sleepy but packed House heard Simon Kerslake, as Minister of State for Defense, reply that his department was once again considering the problem and he would make known their findings in the near future. Simon settled back on to the green benches satisfied that would pacify Gould. But Raymond’s supplementary stunned him and woke up the House.
“Does the Right Honorable Gentleman realize that this eighty-four-year-old widow, whose husband was killed in action and won the Victoria Cross, has a lower income than a sixteen-year-old cadet on his first day in the armed forces?”
Simon rose once more, determined to put a stop to the issue until he had had more time to study the details of this particular case.
“I was not aware of this fact, Mr. Speaker, and I can assure the Right Honorable Gentleman that I shall take into consideration all the points he has mentioned.”
Simon felt confident the Speaker would now move on to the next question. But Raymond rose again, the Opposition benches spurring him on.
“Is the Right Honorable Gentleman also aware that an admiral, on an index-linked income, can hope to en
d his career with a pension of over £500 a week while Mrs. Dora Benson’s weekly income remains fixed at £47.32?”
There was a gasp even from the Conservative benches as Raymond sat down.
Simon rose again, painfully aware that he was unprepared for Gould’s attack and that he had to stifle it as quickly as he could. “I was not aware of that particular comparison either, but once again I can assure the Right Honorable Gentleman I will give the case my immediate consideration.”
To Simon’s horror Raymond rose from the benches for yet a third time. He could see that Labour members opposite were enjoying the rare spectacle of watching him up against the ropes. “Is the Right Honorable Gentleman also aware that the annuity for a Victoria Cross is £100 with no extra pension benefits? We pay our fourth-division footballers more, while keeping Mrs. Benson in the bottom league of the national income bracket.”
Simon looked distinctly harassed when he in turn rose for a fourth time and made an uncharacteristic remark that he regretted the moment he said it.
“I take the Right Honorable Gentleman’s point,” he began, his words coming out a little too quickly. “And I am fascinated by his sudden interest in Mrs. Benson. Would it be cynical of me to suggest that it has been prompted by the wide publicity this case has enjoyed in the national press?”
Raymond made no attempt to answer but sat motionless with his arms folded and his feet up on the table in front of him while his own back-benchers screamed their abuse at Simon.
The national papers the next day were covered with pictures of the arthritic Dora Benson with her bucket and mop alongside photos of her handsome young husband in private’s uniform. Many of the papers went on to describe how Albert Benson had won his VC, and some of the tabloids used considerable license. But all of them picked up Raymond’s point that Mrs. Benson was in the bottom one percent of the income bracket and that the annuity for a Victoria Cross was a pathetic £100.
It was an enterprising and unusually thorough journalist from the Guardian who led her story on a different angle which the rest of the national press had to turn to in their second edition. It transpired that Raymond Gould had put down forty-seven questions concerning war widows’ pension rights during his time in the House and spoken on the subject in three budgets and five social service debates from the back benches. He had also made the subject the thrust of his maiden speech over twenty years before. But when the journalist revealed that Raymond gave £500 a year to the Erskine Hospital for wounded soldiers every member knew that Simon Kerslake would have to retract his attack and make an apology to the House.
At three-thirty the Speaker rose from his chair and told a packed house that the Minister of State for Defense wished to make a personal statement.
Simon Kerslake rose warily from the front bench and stood nervously at the dispatch box.
“Mr. Speaker,” he began. “With your permission and that of the House I would like to make a personal statement. During a question put to me yesterday I impugned the integrity of the Right Honorable Gentleman, the member for Leeds North. It has since been brought to my attention that I did him a gross injustice and I offer the House my sincere apologies, and the Right Honorable Gentleman the assurances that I will not question his integrity a third time.”
While younger members were puzzled by the reference, Raymond smiled to himself.
Aware of how rare personal statements were in anyone’s parliamentary career, members looked on eagerly to see how he would respond.
He moved slowly to the dispatch box.
“Mr. Speaker, I accept the gracious manner in which the Right Honorable Gentleman has apologized and hope that he will not lose sight of the greater issue, namely that of war widows’ benefits, and in particular the plight of Mrs. Dora Benson.”
Simon looked relieved and nodded courteously.
Many Opposition members told Raymond he should have gone for Simon when he had him on the run, while Tom Carson continued shouting at Simon long after the House had proceeded to the next business. The Times leader writer proved them wrong when he wrote the next morning: “In an age of militant demands from the left, Parliament and the Labour party have found a new Clement Attlee on their front bench. Britain need have no fear for human dignity or the rights of man should Raymond Gould ever accede to the high office which that gentleman held.”
When Raymond returned home from the Commons that night he found Joyce had cut out all the press comments for him to study and had also somehow managed to make inroads into his overflowing correspondence.
Joyce turned out to have a better feel for gut politics than the entire Shadow Cabinet put together.
Alec Pimkin threw a party for all 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 wayside 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 Seymour. 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 full-time model and was rarely to be found in England nowadays. Charles, he suspected, saw more of her on the covers of magazines 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 there was no sign of his ambitions diminishing, and Pimkin suspected that only one man remained a worthy rival for the party leadership.
His eyes moved on to someone for whom in 1984 Orwell’s big brother seemed to hold no fears. Simon Kerslake was deep in animated conversation about his work on the proposed disarmament talks between Thatcher, Gorbachev, and Reagan. Pimkin studied the Defense minister intently. He considered that had he 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 Pimkin 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 Guinea Restaurant off Berkeley Square for dinner. He admired the long burgundy dress his wife had chosen for the occasion and even noticed that one or two 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. 1984 had not turned 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.
A few weeks later Tony Benn, who had lost his seat at the general election, returned to the House of Commons as the member for Chesterfield. The Conservatives came a poor third and went on to lose two more by-elections early in 1985. Even the press began to acknowledge that the Labour party was once again looking like a serious alternative Government.
The winter of 1985 brought a further rise in the unemployment figures which only increased the Labour party’s lead in the polls. And then after the resignation of two cabinet ministers over a small helicopter company in the West Country and the loss of two further by-elections, the Conservatives fell into third place for the first time in five years.
A drop in the price of oil from $22 to $10 a
barrel in the space of six weeks did not help the Chancellor’s budget judgment. After a long, hot summer Mrs. Thatcher decided on a further cabinet reshuffle bringing in those who would be formulating policy in the run-up to the 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.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
ANDREW 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 overnight. It began with a news flash: just the bare details. HMS Broadsword, one of the Navy’s destroyers, 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 Colonel Gaddafi. The newscaster went on to say that there would be a more detailed report in their ten o’clock bulletin.
Andrew had reached his room in the House of Commons by nine-thirty, and he immediately phoned the SDP leader David Owen to discuss the political implications of the news. Once a course of action had been agreed on Andrew took a handwritten letter round to the Speaker’s office before the noon deadline, requesting an emergency debate following question time that afternoon. He also sent a copy of the letter by messenger to the Foreign Secretary and the Secretary of State for Defense.
By staying near a radio most of the morning Andrew was able to learn that HMS Broadsword was now in the hands of over a hundred guerillas. They were demanding the freedom of all Libyan prisoners in British jails in exchange for the 217-strong crew of the Broadsword, who were being held hostage in the engine room.
By twelve o’clock the ticker-tape machine in the Members’ Corridor was hovered over by craning necks, and the dining rooms were so full that many members had to go without lunch.