As the budget debate drew nearer Raymond found twenty-four hours each day were not enough, even without sleep. He discussed the changes he required with the Treasury mandarins, but it became more obvious as each week passed that he would have to make sacrifices. He was sick of being told that there would always be next year, feeling he had waited far too long already. He often went over to Transport House to discuss with his party researchers those promises in the manifesto which they considered the top priorities. Raymond had been pleased by the party’s decision to leave Walworth Road and return to Transport House as the party headquarters soon after their victory at the polls.
As the weeks passed, compromises were reached and cutbacks agreed but Raymond managed to cling to the changes about which he felt most passionate. By the Friday morning before the budget the mandarins had handed him his speech. It ran to 143 pages and they estimated it would keep him at the dispatch box for two and a half hours.
On the Tuesday morning of Budget Day he spelled out his tax changes to the Cabinet, who traditionally did not hear the full details until a few hours before the budget was presented to the House.
Budget Day in the House of Commons is a traditional affair. Ambassadors, diplomats, bankers, and members of the House of Lords rub shoulders with the general public in the tiny Strangers’ Gallery. The queue for seats often stretches for a quarter of a mile from St. Stephen’s to Westminster Bridge, but only half a dozen people at the front of the line actually hear the Chancellor’s speech, because every other place has been allocated even before the queue has begun to form. The Chamber itself is usually packed by two-thirty although the , Chancellor does not rise until an hour later. The Press Gallery is equally overcrowded with correspondents ready to run to the nearest phone as soon as any change in taxation is announced. Back-benchers, who because of the size of the Chamber cannot be guaranteed their normal places, are mostly seated by two-twenty-five. Conservatives can reserve their seats by filling in a small prayer card during the morning and leaving it on the place they wish to occupy. Socialists, who consider the system undemocratic, refuse to use the prayer cards and make a mad rush for places at two-thirty. The atheists on both sides wait for the chaplain to finish prayers before they charge in, hoping to find their usual places free.
Budget Day is also traditionally one for eccentric dress. A few top hats can be observed on the Conservative benches and the odd miner’s helmet rests on a Labour head. Tom Carson arrived in a boiler suit with a Liverpool scarf around his neck, while Alec Pimkin satisfied himself with a red silk waistcoat and a white carnation in the buttonhole of his morning coat.
The green leather of the two front benches begins to disappear long before three o’clock, and by then any straggling back-bencher will be relegated to the floor or to the upstairs galleries, known as the “Members’ Side Galleries,” which lack the atmosphere of the House and from which members traditionally do not rise to interrupt or make a speech.
At ten past three Raymond stepped out of No. 11 and held the famous battered budget box, first used by Gladstone, high above his head, so that the press photographers could take the traditional picture before he was driven off to the Commons.
By three-fifteen, when the Prime Minister rose to answer questions, the Chamber had taken on the look of an opening night in the West End, for what members were about to experience was pure theater.
At three-twenty-five Raymond entered the Chamber to be greeted by cheers from his own side. Every place in the Commons except his had been filled. He looked up to see Joyce in the Strangers’ Gallery, and smiled. At three-thirty, when the Prime Minister had finished answering questions, the chairman of Ways and Means—who traditionally takes the Speaker’s place for a budget debate as the Speaker, being “the King’s man,” does not preside over money matters—rose from his chair and called:
“Budget statement, Mr. Chancellor of the Exchequer.”
Raymond rose and placed his speech in front of him. He began with a review of the world economic position and went on to inform the House of the philosophy behind his first budget, namely to bring down unemployment without driving up inflation. He spoke for the first hour and a half without divulging to the House any of the fiscal changes that he would be making, so abiding by the tradition that no irreversible decisions could be considered until the Stock Exchange had closed, but also giving him the opportunity to tease the House with the odd hint or suggestion.
Raymond took a sip from the glass of water by his side when he had turned page seventy-eight. He had finished with the theory and was now ready to start on the practice.
“Old-age pensions will be raised to a record level,” he declared, “as will allowances for single-parent families and disablement grants.” Raymond paused and taking a faded sheet from his inside pocket read from the first speech he had ever delivered in public. “No woman whose husband has sacrificed his life for his country shall be allowed to suffer because of an ungrateful nation. War widows’ pensions will go up by fifty percent and war bonds will be honored at their full face value.” The cheering after this statement lasted for some considerable time. Once the House had settled again he continued. “The tax on beer, cigarettes, petrol, and perfume will go up by five percent. Taxes on salaries of more than £30,000 a year will be raised to eighty-five percent and capital gains tax to fifty percent.” Several Conservatives looked glum. The Chancellor went on to announce an expansion program in the regions to stimulate employment. He detailed his plan region by region, to cheers from different sections of the House.
He ended his speech by saying, “My purpose as the first Labour Chancellor for ten years is not to rob the rich and give to the poor, but rather to make those who live in comparative ease pay taxes that will alleviate the plight of those in genuine need. Let me tell those Honorable members who sit on the benches opposite that this is only a fifth of what I intend to achieve in the lifetime of this Parliament, and by then Britain can hope to be a more equal and just society. We intend to create a generation in which class is as outdated as the debtors’ prison, in which talent, hard work, and honesty are their own reward, a Socialist society that is the envy of the East as well as the West. This budget, Mr. Speaker, is nothing more than the architect’s plan for that dream. I look forward to being given enough time to build the reality.”
When Raymond resumed his seat after two hours and twenty minutes, the length of time it takes to run a world-class marathon, he was greeted by cheers and the waving of order papers from the benches behind him.
The leader of the Opposition was faced with the almost impossible task of an immediate response, and couldn’t hope to do more than pick up one or two weaknesses in the Chancellor’s philosophy. The House did not hang on her every word.
BOOK FIVE
1989-1991 PARTY LEADERS
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
AFTER THE SUCCESS of Raymond’s first budget the leader of the Opposition made changes to her Shadow Cabinet as quickly as was diplomatic. She moved the former Chancellor to cover the Foreign Office, Simon to tackle Home Affairs, and Charles to counter the formidable problems now raised by Raymond Gould at the Treasury.
Raymond soon discovered his task of pushing legislation through became that much harder when Charles had added the enthusiasm of his new young team to his own considerable experience of financial matters.
Raymond’s success continued, however, even if it was at a slower pace than that for which he would have hoped. Labour won the first two by-elections occasioned by members’ deaths, which in itself was remarkable in Government. The by-election results only started a fresh round of rumors that Denis Thatcher was pressing his wife to retire.
Charles Seymour knew that when such moves were finally made they could happen so suddenly that everyone seemed unprepared and uncertain what to do next. By the time Mrs. Thatcher announced her resignation he had been building up a loyal team around him for several months.
The former Prime Minister sent a lette
r to Sir Cranley Onslow, the new chairman of the 1922 Committee, letting him know that she would not be putting her name forward for reelection. She explained that she would be over sixty-five at the next election and had already led the party for fourteen years, the longest period for any Conservative since Churchill, and that she now felt she was ready to pass the leadership on to new blood.
The moment everyone in the party had said the usual phrases about the retiring leader being the greatest Prime Minister since Churchill, they proceeded to look for the new Churchill.
Within hours of Mrs. Thatcher’s resignation both Charles Seymour and Simon Kerslake had received calls and messages from about fifty or sixty supporters, and been contacted by all the leading political journalists. Charles went about his campaign in the thorough manner in which he approached everything, appointing lieutenants to cover each intake of new members since 1964. Simon had invited Bill Travers to organize his backup team. Travers, like any farmer, rose early each morning to gather in his harvest.
Both Simon and Charles were nominated within twenty-four hours of the necessary seven days, and by the weekend none of the rumored third candidates had appeared in the lists which convinced the press it would be a two-horse race.
The Financial Times went one better than its rivals. Its political editor, Peter Riddell, spent the whole week trying to contact the 289 Tory members. He succeeded in reaching 228 of them and was able to report to his readers that 101 had said they would vote for Simon Kerslake, ninety-eight for Charles Seymour, while twenty-nine had refused to give any opinion. The article’s headline read “Narrow lead for Kerslake,” and went on to point out that although the two men were polite about each other in public no one pretended they were friends.
“King Kerslake” ran the banner headline in the Monday editions of the Sun, and its political editor predicted Simon would win by 116 to 112: Simon suspected that they had done little more than divide the Financial Times’s don’t-knows down the middle. With eight days to go he was being quoted at two-one on with Charles eleven-eight against by the veteran ex-Labour MP Lord Mikardo, who had run a book on the last fourteen leadership contests irrespective of party. When Elizabeth told him the odds Simon remained sceptical, as he knew from bitter experience that it never paid to underestimate the Right Honorable member for Sussex Downs. Elizabeth agreed and then pointed to a small paragraph in the paper which he had overlooked. Ronnie’s new company was going public, and the shares looked certain to be well over-subscribed.
“That’s one prediction that’s turned out to be accurate,” said Simon, smiling.
With twelve hours to go to the close of nominations a new candidate appeared in the lists, which came as a shock to everyone because until that moment the general public were entirely unaware of Alec Pimkin. Some of his colleagues even expressed surprise that he had been able to find a proposer and a seconder. As it had been assumed that Pimkin’s supporters were all men who would have backed Charles it was considered a blow to his cause, although most political pundits doubted if Pimkin could scrape together more than seven or eight out of the 289 votes to be cast.
Charles pleaded with Pimkin to withdraw but he stubbornly refused, admitting to Fiona that he was thoroughly enjoying his brief moment of glory. He held a press conference in the Commons, gave endless interviews to television, radio, and the national press, and found he was receiving considerable political attention for the first time in his life since the Common Market debate. He even enjoyed the cartoon that appeared in the Daily Telegraph of the three candidates in the 100 meters which had Charles portrayed as a string bean, Simon as a jumping bean, and Alec as a has-bean waddling in a long way behind the other two. But Alexander Dalglish remained puzzled as to what had made Pimkin place his name in the lists in the first place.
“My majority in Littlehampton had plummeted from over 12,000 to 3,200 since I was first elected, and frankly the Social Democrats have been getting a little too close for comfort. That tiresome fellow Andrew Fraser is in Sussex once a month making speeches on behalf of his candidate and there are still over four years to go until the election.”
“But how many votes can you hope to pick up?” asked Fiona.
“Many more than those drunken scribblers realize. I have nine votes already pledged, not including my own, and I could well end up with as many as fifteen.”
“Why so many?” asked Fiona, immediately realizing how tactless the question must have sounded.
“Dear, simple creature,” Pimkin replied. “There are some members of our party who do not care to be led either by a middle-class pushy minor public schoolboy or an aristocratic, arrogant snob. By voting for me they can lodge their protest very clearly.”
“But isn’t that irresponsible of you?” asked Fiona, annoyed by the “simple” quip.
“Irresponsible it may be, but you can’t begin to imagine the invitations I have been receiving during the last few days. They should continue for at least a year after the election is over.”
Bombshells occur in the House of Commons only on rare occasions, mainly because the elements of bad luck and timing have to come together. Something that will create a headline one week may be hardly worthy of a mention the next. On the Thursday before the leadership election the House was packed for questions to the Chancellor. Raymond and Charles were having their usual verbal battles across the dispatch box, Charles coming out slightly on top. As the Treasury wasn’t his portfolio, all Simon could do was sit with his legs up on the table and listen while his rival scored points.
Tom Carson seemed extremely anxious to get in a supplementary on almost any question that was down on the order paper. Between two-thirty and five past three he had leaped up from his place no less than a dozen times. The digital clock above the Speaker’s chair had reached three-twelve when, out of exasperation, the Speaker called him on a seemingly innocuous question on windfall profits.
With Prime Minister’s questions just about to begin Carson faced a packed House and a full press gallery. He paused for a moment before putting his question.
“What would be my Right Honorable friend’s attitude to a man who invests one pound in a company and, five years later, receives a check for £300,000 despite not being on the board or appearing to be involved in any way with that company?”
Raymond was puzzled as he had no idea what Carson was talking about. He did not notice that Simon Kerslake had turned white.
Raymond rose to the dispatch box. “I would remind my Honorable friend that I put capital gains tax up to fifty percent which might dampen his ardor a little,” he said. It was about the only attempt at humor Raymond had made at the dispatch box that year, which may have been the reason so few members laughed. As Carson rose a second time Simon slipped a note across to Raymond which he hurriedly skimmed.
“But does the Chancellor consider that such a person would be fit to be Prime Minister or even leader of the Opposition?”
Members started talking amongst themselves, trying to work out at whom the question was directed while the Speaker stirred restlessly in his seat, anxious to bring a halt to such disorderly supplementaries. Raymond returned to the dispatch box and told Carson that the question was not worthy of an answer. There the matter might have rested had Charles not risen to the dispatch box.
“Mr. Speaker, is the Chancellor aware that this personal attack is aimed at my Right Honorable friend, the member for Pucklebridge, and is a disgraceful slur on his character and reputation? The Honorable member for Liverpool Dockside should withdraw his allegation immediately.”
The Conservatives cheered their colleague’s magnanimity while Simon remained silent, knowing that Charles had successfully put the story on the front page of every national paper.
Simon read the papers over breakfast on the Friday morning, and was not surprised by the coverage of Charles’s bogus supplementary. The details of his transaction with Ronnie Nethercote were chronicled in the fullest extent, and it did not read well that he
had received £300,000 from a “property speculator” for a one pound investment. Some of the papers felt “bound to ask” what Nethercote hoped to gain out of the transaction. No one seemed to realize that Simon had been on the previous company’s board for five years, had invested £60,000 of his own money in that company, and had only recently finished paying off the overdraft.
By the Sunday Simon had made a full press statement to put the record straight, and most of the papers had given him a fair hearing. However, Sir Peter McKay, the editor of the Sunday Express, didn’t help matters with a comment in his widely-read PM column on the center page.
I would not suggest for one moment that Simon Kerslake has done anything that might be described as dishonest, but with the spotlight turned so fiercely on him there may be some Members of Parliament who feel they cannot risk going into a general election with an accident-prone leader. Mr. Seymour, on the other hand, has made his position abundantly clear. He did not seek to return to his family bank in Opposition while he was still hoping to hold public office.
The Monday papers were reassessing the outcome of the ballot to take place the next day and were predicting that Seymour now had the edge Some journalists went so far as to suggest that Alec Pimkin might profit from the incident as members waited to see if there would be a second chance to give their final verdict.
Simon had received several letters of sympathy during the week, including one from Raymond Gould. Raymond assured Simon that he had not been prepared for the Carson supplementary and apologized for any embarrassment his first answer might have caused.
“It never crossed my mind that he had,” said Simon, as he passed Raymond’s letter over to Elizabeth.
“The Times was right,” she said a few moments later. “He is a very fair man.”