The older man was unable to hide a smile. He had never in twenty-four years come across such a request.
“Full name?” he said, replacing his glasses as if the serious business of the meeting had now begun.
“Simon John Kerslake.”
Dr. Brown picked up the telephone by his side and dialed a number. “Nigel?” he said. “lt’s Alan Brown here. Did you ever consider offering a man called Kerslake a place at Magdalen?”
Mrs. Kerslake was not surprised when her son went on to be President of the Oxford Union. After all, she teased, wasn’t it just another stepping stone on the path to Prime Minister — Gladstone, Asquith... Kerslake?
Ray Gould was born in a tiny, windowless room above his father’s butcher’s shop in Leeds. For the first nine years of his life he shared that room with his ailing grandmother until she died at the age of sixty-one.
Ray’s close proximity to the old woman who had lost her husband in the Great War at first appeared romantic to him. He would listen enraptured as she told him stories of her hero husband in his smart khaki uniform — a uniform now folded neatly in her bottom drawer, but still displayed in the fading sepia photograph at the side of her bed. Soon, however, his grandmother’s stories filled Ray with sadness, as he became aware that she had been a widow for nearly thirty years. Finally she seemed a tragic figure as he realized how little she had experienced of the world beyond that cramped room in which she was surrounded by all her possessions and a yellowed envelope containing 500 irredeemable war bonds.
There had been no purpose in Ray’s grandmother making a will, for all he inherited was the room. Overnight it became his study — full of ever-changing library and school books, the former often returned late, using up Ray’s meager pocket money in fines. But as each school report was brought home it became increasingly apparent to Ray’s father that he would not be extending the sign above the butcher’s shop to proclaim “Gould and Son.”
Shortly after his eleventh birthday Ray won the top scholarship to Roundhay School. Wearing his first pair of long trousers — turned up several inches by his mother — and horn-rimmed spectacles that didn’t quite fit, he set off for the opening day at his new school. Ray’s mother hoped there were other boys as thin and spotty as her son, and that his wavy red hair would not cause him to be continually teased.
By the end of his first term Ray was surprised to find he was far ahead of his classmates, so far in fact that the headmaster considered it prudent to put him up a form — “to stretch the lad a little,” as he explained to Ray’s parents.
By the end of that year, one spent mainly in the classroom, Ray managed to come third in the form, and top in Latin and English. Only when it came to selecting teams for any sport did Ray find he came bottom in anything. However brilliant his mind might have been, it never seemed to coordinate with his body. His single greatest academic achievement during the year, though, was to be the youngest winner of the prize essay competition in the school’s history.
Each year the winner of the essay was required to read his entry to the assembled pupils and parents on Speech Day. Even before he handed in his entry Ray rehearsed his efforts out loud several times in the privacy of his study-bedroom, fearing he would not be properly prepared if he waited until the winner was announced.
Ray’s form master had told all his pupils that the subject of the essay could be of their own choosing, but that they should try to recall some experience that had been unique to them. Thirty-seven entries arrived on his desk by nine o’clock on the closing date six weeks later. After reading Ray’s account of his grandmother’s life in the little room above the butcher’s shop the form master had no inclination to pick up another script. When he had dutifully struggled through the remainder he did not hesitate in recommending Gould’s essay for the prize. The only reservation, he admitted to its author, was the choice of title. Ray thanked him for the advice but the title remained intact.
On the morning of Speech Day the school hall was packed with 700 pupils and their parents. After the headmaster had delivered his speech and the applause had died down, he announced, “I shall now call upon the winner of the prize essay competition to deliver his entry: Ray Gould.”
Ray left his place in the hall and marched confidently up on to the stage. He stared down at the 2,000 expectant faces but showed no sign of apprehension, partly because he found it difficult to see beyond the third row. When he announced the title of his essay some of the younger children began to snigger, causing Ray to stumble through his first few lines. But by the time he had reached the last page the packed hall was still, and after he had completed the final paragraph he received the first standing ovation of his career.
Twelve-year-old Ray Gould left the stage to rejoin his parents in the body of the hall. His mother’s head was bowed but he could still see tears trickling down her cheeks. His father was trying not to look too proud. Even when Ray was seated the applause continued, so he too lowered his head to stare at the title of his prize-winning essay: “The First Changes I Will Make When I Become Prime Minister.”
Andrew Fraser attended his first political meeting in a pram. True, he was left in the corridor while his parents sat on the stage inside another drafty hall, but he quickly learned that applause signaled his mother would soon be returning. What Andrew did not know was that his father, who had made his name as Scotland’s finest scrum-half since the Great War, had delivered yet another speech to the citizens of Edinburgh Carlton in his efforts to capture a marginal seat on the City Council. At that time few believed Duncan Fraser was more than a rugby hero, and consequently he failed to win the seat for the Conservatives, if only by a few hundred votes. Three years later Andrew, a sturdy four-year-old, was allowed to sit at the back of several sparsely filled halls as once again he and his mother trailed round the city to support their candidate. This time Duncan Fraser’s speeches were almost as impressive as his long pass, and he won his place on the City Council by 207 votes.
Hard work and consistent results on behalf of his constituents ensured that the marginal seat remained in the hands of Councillor Fraser for the next nine years. By the age of thirteen, Andrew, a stocky wee lad with straight black hair and a grin that no one seemed to be able to remove from his face, had learned enough about local politics to help his father organize a fifth campaign, by which time neither party considered Edinburgh Carlton a marginal seat.
At the Edinburgh Academy it came as no surprise to his fellow pupils that Andrew was chosen to captain the school debating society; however, they were impressed when under his leadership the team went on to win the Scottish Schools debating trophy. Although Andrew was destined to be no taller than five-foot-nine it was also widely accepted that he was the most complete scrum-half the Academy had produced since his father had captained the school side in 1919.
On matriculating from the Academy Andrew took up a place at Edinburgh University to read Politics, and by his third year he had been elected President of the Union and captain of rugby.
When Duncan Fraser became Lord Provost of Edinburgh he made one of his rare visits to London, to receive a knighthood from the Queen. Andrew had just completed his final exams and, along with his mother, attended the investiture at Buckingham Palace. After the ceremony Sir Duncan traveled on to the House of Commons to fulfill an engagement with his local member, Ainslie Munro. Over lunch Munro informed Sir Duncan that he had contested the Edinburgh Carlton seat for the last time, so they had better start looking for a new candidate. Sir Duncan’s eyes lit up as he savored the thought of his son succeeding Munro as his Member of Parliament.