Arriving a little early for the ten-thirty committee meeting, Andrew found time to collect his mail from the Members’ Post Office just off the Central Lobby. He set off, head down, along the corridor toward the library, flicking through the envelopes to see if he recognized any familiar hand or official-looking missive that demanded to be opened immediately.
As he turned the corner he was surprised to find the House ticker-tape machine surrounded by Conservative members, including the man who had agreed to be his “pair” for voting purposes.
Andrew stared up at the tall figure of Charles Seymour, who, although standing on the fringe of the crowd, still found it possible to read the tapped-out message on the telex machine.
“What’s causing so much interest?” he asked, prodding Seymour’s elbow.
“Sir Alec has just announced the timetable that’ll be followed when we select the new Tory leader.”
“We all await with baited breath,” said Andrew.
“As well you might,” said Charles, ignoring the sarcasm, “since the next announcement will undoubtedly be his resignation. Then the real politics will begin.”
“Be sure you back the winner,” said Andrew, grinning.
Charles Seymour smiled knowingly but made no comment.
CHAPTER THREE
CHARLES SEYMOUR DROVE his Daimler from the Commons to his father’s bank in the City. He still thought of Seymour’s of Cheapside as his father’s bank although for two generations the family had been only minority shareholders, with Charles himself in possession of a mere two percent of the stock. Nevertheless as his brother Rupert showed no desire in representing the family interests the two percent guaranteed Charles a place on the board and an income sufficient to ensure that his paltry parliamentary salary of £1,750 a year was adequately supplemented.
From the day Charles had first taken his place on the board of Seymour’s he had no doubt that the new chairman, Derek Spencer, considered him a dangerous rival. Spencer had lobbied to have Rupert replace his father on retirement and only because of Charles’s insistence had Spencer failed to move the old earl to his way of thinking.
When Charles went on to take his seat in Parliament Spencer at once raised the problem of his burdensome responsibilities at the House preventing him from carrying out his day-to-day duties for the board. However, Charles was able to convince a majority of his fellow directors of the advantages of having someone on the board at Westminster, although he knew that would cease if he was ever invited to be a minister.
As Charles left the Daimler in Seymour’s courtyard it amused him to consider that his parking space was worth twenty times the value of the car. The area at the front of Seymour’s was a relic of his great-grandfather’s day. The twelfth Earl of Bridgwater had insisted on an entrance large enough to allow a complete sweep for his coach and four. That conveyance had long disappeared, to be replaced by twelve car spaces for Seymour directors. The bank’s new management-conscious chairman, despite all his grammar school virtues, had never suggested the land be used for any other purpose.
The young girl seated at the reception desk abruptly stopped polishing her nails in time to say “Good morning, Mr. Charles,” as he came through the revolving doors and disappeared into a waiting lift. A few moments later Charles was seated behind a desk in his small oak-paneled office, a clean white memo pad in front of him. He pressed a button on the intercom and told his secretary that he did not want to be disturbed during the next hour.
Sixty minutes later the white pad had twelve names penciled on it, but ten already had lines drawn through them. Only the names of Reginald Maudling and Edward Heath remained.
Charles tore off the piece of paper and the indented sheet underneath and put them both through the shredder by the side of his desk. He tried to summon up some interest in the agenda for the bank’s weekly board meeting; only one item, item seven, seemed to be of any importance. Just before eleven, he gathered up his papers and headed toward the boardroom. Most of his colleagues were already seated when Derek Spencer called item number one as the boardroom clock chimed the hour.
During the ensuing predictable discussion on bank rates, the movement in metal prices, Eurobonds, and client investment policy Charles’s mind kept wandering back to the forthcoming leadership election and the importance of backing the winner if he were to be quickly promoted from the back benches.
By the time they reached item seven on the agenda Charles had made up his mind. Derek Spencer opened a discussion on the proposed loans to Mexico and Poland, and most of the board members agreed with him that the bank should participate in one but not risk both.
Cherles’s thoughts, however, were not in Mexico City or Warsaw. They were far nearer home and when the chairman called for a vote, Charles didn’t register.
“Mexico or Poland, Charles. Which of the two do you favor?”
“Heath,” he replied.
“I beg your pardon,” said Derek Spencer.
Charles snapped back from Westminster to Cheapside to find everyone around the boardroom table staring at him. With the air of a man who had been giving the matter considerable thought Charles said firmly, “Mexico,” and added, “The great difference between the two countries can best be gauged by their attitudes to repayment. Mexico might not want to repay, but Poland won’t be able to, so why not limit our risks and back Mexico? If it comes to litigation I’d prefer to be against someone who won’t pay rather than someone who can’t.” The older members round the table nodded in agreement; the right son of Bridgwater was sitting on the board.
When the meeting was over Charles joined his colleagues for lunch in the directors’ dining room. On the walls hung two Hogarths, a Brueghel, a Goya, and a Rembrandt that could distract even the most indulgent gourmet: just another reminder of his great-grandfather’s ability to select winners. Charles did not wait to make a decision between the Cheddar and the Stilton as he wanted to be back in the Commons for question time.
On arrival at the House he immediately made his way to the smoking room, long regarded by the Tories as their preserve. There in the deep leather armchairs and cigar-laden atmosphere the talk was entirely of who would be Sir Alec’s successor.
Charles could not avoid overhearing Pimkin’s high-pitched voice. “As Edward Heath is Shadow Chancellor while we debate the Finance Bill on the floor of the House, it is he who is bound to be the center of attention.”
Later that afternoon Charles returned to the Commons Chamber. He wanted to observe Heath and his Shadow team deal with the Government’s amendments one by one.
He was about to leave the Chamber when Raymond Could rose to move an amendment. Charles listened with grudging admiration as Raymond’s intellectual grasp and force of argument easily compensated for his lack of oratorial skill. Although Gould was a cut above the rest of his intake on the Labour benches he didn’t frighten Charles. Twelve generations of shrewd business acumen had kept large parts of Leeds in the hands of the Bridgwater family without the likes of Raymond Gould even being aware of it.
Charles took supper in the Members’ Dining Room that night and sat at the large table in the center of the room frequented by Tory back-benchers. There was only one topic of conversation and as the same two names kept emerging it was obvious that it was going to be a very close run thing.
When Charles arrived back at his Eaton Square home after the ten o’clock division Fiona was already tucked up in bed reading Philip Larkin’s The Whitsum Weddings.
“They let you out early tonight.”
“Not too bad,” said Charles, and began regaling her with how he had spent his day, before disappearing into the bathroom.
If Charles imagined he was cunning, his wife, Lady Fiona, only daughter of the Duke of Falkirk, was in a different league. She and Charles had been selected for each other at an early age and neither had questioned or doubted the wisdom of the choice. Although Charles had squired numerous girlfriends before their marriage in between he had a
lways assumed he would return to Fiona. Charles’s grandfather always maintained that the aristocracy was becoming far too lax and sentimental about marriage. “Women,” he declared, “are for bearing children and ensuring a continuation of the male line.” The old earl became even more staid in his convictions when he was made aware that Rupert showed little interest in the opposite sex, and was rarely to be found in the company of women. Fiona would never have dreamed of disagreeing with the old man to his face as she was determined that it would be a son of hers that would inherit the earldom. But despite enthusiastic and then contrived efforts Charles seemed unable to sire an heir. Fiona was later assured by a Harley Street physician that there was no reason she could not bear children. The specialist had suggested that perhaps her husband pay the clinic a visit. She shook her head, knowing Charles would dismiss such an idea out of hand, and never mentioned the subject to anyone again.
Fiona spent a considerable amount of her spare time in their Sussex Downs constituency furthering Charles’s political career. She had learned to live with the fact that theirs was not destined to be a romantic marriage and resigned herself to its other advantages. Although many men confessed covertly and overtly that they found the tall elegant lady desirable she either ignored their overtures or pretended not to notice them.
By the time Charles returned from the bathroom in his blue silk pajamas Fiona had formed a plan, but first she needed some questions answered.
“Whom do you favor?”
“I’d like Sir Alec to carry on: after all, the Homes have been friends of our two families for over 400 years.”
“But that’s a non-starter,” said Fiona. “Everyone knows Alec is on the way out.”
“I agree, and that’s exactly why I spent the entire afternoon observing the worthwhile candidates.”
“Did you come to any serious conclusions?” Fiona asked.
“Heath and Maudling are out on their own, though to be honest I’ve never had a conversation with either of them that lasted for more than five minutes.”
“In that case we must turn a disadvantage into an advantage.”
“What do you mean, old girl?” Charles asked as he climbed into bed beside his wife.
“Think back. When you were President of Pop at Eton, could you have put a name to any of the first-year boys?”
“Certainly not,” said Charles.
“Exactly. And I’d be willing to bet that neither Heath nor Maudling could put a name to twenty of the new intake on the Tory benches.”
“Where are you leading me, Lady Macbeth?”
“No bloody hands will be needed for this killing. Simply, having chosen your Duncan you volunteer to organize the new intake for him. If he becomes leader, he’s bound to feel it would be appropriate to select one or two new faces for his team.”
“You could be right.”
“Well, let’s sleep on it,” said Fiona, turning out the light on her side of the bed.
Charles didn’t sleep on it but lay restless most of the night turning over in his mind what she had said. When Fiona awoke the next morning she carried on the conversation as if there had been no break in between. “Do you have to be rushed into a decision?”
“No, but if I let it drift I could be accused of jumping on the bandwagon and then I would have lost my chance to be seen as a leader among the new intake.”
“Better still,” she continued, “before the man you choose announces he is a candidate, demand that he stand on behalf of the new members.”
“Clever,” said Charles.
“Whom have you decided on?”
“Heath,” Charles replied without hesitation.
“I’ll back your political judgment,” said Fiona. “Just trust me when it comes to tactics. First, we compose a letter.”
In dressing gowns, on the floor at the end of the bed, the two elegant figures drafted and redrafted a note to Edward Heath. At nine-thirty it was finally composed and sent round by hand to his rooms in Albany.
The next morning Charles was invited to the small, bachelor flat for coffee. They talked for over an hour and later, as the two men stood below a Piper landscape in the drawing room, the deal was struck.
Charles thought Sir Alec would announce his resignation in the late summer which would give him eight to ten weeks to carry out a campaign. Fiona typed out a list of all the new members and during the next eight weeks every one of them was invited to their Eaton Square flat for drinks. Fiona was subtle enough to see that members of the Lower House were outnumbered by other guests, often from the House of Lords. Heath managed to escape from his front-bench duties on the Finance Bill to spend at least an hour with the Seymours once a week. As the day of Sir Alec Douglas-Home’s resignation drew nearer Charles realized the leadership result could be almost as important to him as it would be to Heath, but he also remained confident that he had carried out his plan in a subtle and discreet way. He would have been willing to place a wager that no one other than Edward Heath had worked out how deeply he was involved.
One man who attended the second of Fiona’s soirees saw exactly what was going on. While many of the guests spent their time admiring the Seymour art collection Simon Kerslake kept a wary eye on his host and hostess. Kerslake was not convinced that Edward Heath would win the forthcoming election and felt confident that Reginald Maudling would turn out to be the party’s natural choice. Maudling was, after all, Shadow Foreign Secretary, a former Chancellor, and far senior to Heath. More important, he was a married man. Simon doubted the Tories would ever pick a bachelor to lead them.
As soon as Kerslake had left the Seymours he jumped into a taxi and returned immediately to the Commons. He found Reginald Maudling in the Members’ Dining Room seated at the table frequented only by the Shadow Cabinet. He waited until Maudling had finished his meal before asking if they could have a few moments alone. The tall shambling figure—not altogether certain of the name of the new member— leaned over and invited Simon to join him for a drink in his room.
Maudling listened intently to all the enthusiastic young man had to say and accepted the judgment of the well-informed member without question. It was agreed that Simon should try to counter the Seymour campaign and report back his results twice a week.
While Seymour could call on all the powers and influence of his Etonian background, Kerslake could rely on the knowledge and arm-twisting skills gained from his time as President of the Oxford Union. Simon weighed up the advantages and disadvantages he possessed. He did not own a palatial home in Eaton Square in which Turners, Constables, and Holbeins were not to be found in books but on the walls. He also lacked a glamorous society wife. Simon lived in a small house in Beaufort Street in Chelsea and Elizabeth was a gynecologist at St. Mary’s Hospital, Paddington. Although Elizabeth gave Simon’s political aspirations her full backing she still considered her own career every bit as important, an opinion with which Simon concurred. The local Coventry press had on several occasions recalled in their columns how Elizabeth had left her three-day-old child to help perform a Caesarian section on a mother in the adjoining ward and, two years later, had to be dragged off night duty just as she went into labor with their second child.
This independence of character was one of the reasons Simon had admired Elizabeth when they first met, but he realized she was no match for Lady Fiona Seymour as a hostess and he never wanted her to be. He despised pushy political wives.
Simon spent the following days trying to work out the certain Maudling and certain Heath supporters, although many members claimed they would favor both candidates, according to who asked them. These he listed as doubtfuls. When Enoch Powell threw his cap into the ring Simon could not find a single new member other than Alec Pimkin who openly supported him. That left forty members from the new intake who still had to be followed up. He estimated twelve certain Heath, eleven certain Maudling, and one Powell, leaving sixteen undecided. As the day of the election drew nearer it became obvious that few of the rema
ining sixteen actually knew either candidate well, and were still not sure for whom they should vote.
Simon realized that he could not invite them all round to Beaufort Street between Elizabeth’s ward duties, so he would have to go to them. During the last eight weeks he accompanied his chosen leader as he addressed the party faithfuls in twenty-three new members’ constituencies. Simon traveled from Bodmin to Glasgow, from Penrith to Great Yarmouth, briefing Maudling studiously before every meeting.
Gradually it became obvious to everyone that Charles Seymour and Simon Kerslake were the chosen lieutenants among the new intake. Some members resented the whispered confidences at the Eaton Square cocktail parties, or the discovery that Simon Kerslake had visited their constituencies under false pretenses, while others were simply envious of the reward that would inevitably be heaped on the victor.
“But why do you support Maudling?” Elizabeth had asked him one evening over dinner.
“Reggie has a great deal more experience of Government than Heath—and in any case he’s more caring about those around him.”
“But Heath appears to be so much more professional,” Elizabeth insisted, pouring her husband a glass of wine.
“That may well be the case, but the British have always preferred good amateurs to preside over their affairs.”
“If you believe all that stuff about amateurs why become so involved yourself?”
Simon considered her question for some time before answering. “Because I don’t come from the type of background that automatically commands the center of the Tory stage,” he admitted.
“Neither does Heath,” commented Elizabeth dryly.
Although everyone inside and outside of Parliament knew it could not be long before Sir Alec formally announced his resignation it did not become official until 22 July 1965, when he addressed the 1922 Committee of Tory back-benchers.