Joyce told him that the phone had rung so often that she had finally taken it off the hook, without letting his mother know the real reason.
“Very sensible,” said Raymond.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I shall resign, of course.”
“Why do that, Raymond? It will only harm your career.”
“You may turn out to be right, but that won’t stop me going.”
“But you’re only just beginning to get on top of your work.”
“Joyce, without trying to sound pompous, I know I have many failings but I’m not a coward and I’m certainly not so self-seeking as totally to desert any principles I might have.”
“You know, you just sounded like a man who is destined to become Prime Minister.”
“A moment ago you said it would harm my chances. Make up your mind.”
“I have,” she said.
Raymond smiled wanly before retreating to his study to write a short handwritten letter.
Saturday, 18 November 1967
Dear Prime Minister,
After your announcement this afternoon on devaluation and the stand I have continually taken on the issue I am left with no choice but to resign my position as Under-Secretary of State at the Department of Employment.
I would like to thank you for having given me the opportunity to serve in your administration. Be assured that I shall continue to support the Government on all other issues from the back benches.
Yours,
When the red box arrived at the house that Saturday night Raymond instructed the messenger to deliver the letter to No. 10 immediately. As he opened the box for the last time he reflected that his department was answering questions on employment in the House that Monday. He wondered who would take his place.
Because of the paraphernalia surrounding devaluation, the Prime Minister did not get round to reading Raymond’s letter until late Sunday morning. The Coulds’ phone was still off the hook when an anxious Fred Padgett was heard knocking on the front door later that day.
“Don’t answer it,” said Raymond. “It’s bound to be another journalist.”
“No, it’s not, it’s only Fred,” said Joyce, peeping through an opening in the curtain.
She opened the door. “Where the hell’s Raymond?” were Fred’s first words.
“Right here,” said Raymond, appearing from the kitchen holding the Sunday newspapers.
“The Prime Minister has been trying to contact you all morning.” Raymond turned round and replaced the phone on the hook, picked it up a few seconds later, and checked the tone before dialing London WHI 4433. The Prime Minister was on the line in moments. He sounded calm enough, thought Raymond.
“Have you issued any statement to the press, Ray?”
“No, I wanted to be sure you had received my letter first.”
“Good. Please don’t mention your resignation to anyone until we’ve met. Could you be at Downing Street by eight o’clock?”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
“Remember, not a word to the press.”
Raymond heard the phone click.
Within the hour he was on his way to London, and arrived at his house in Lansdowne Road a little after seven. The phone was ringing again. He wanted to ignore the insistent burr-burr but thought it might be Downing Street.
He picked the phone up. “Hello.”
“Is that Raymond Gould?” said a voice.
“Who’s speaking?” asked Raymond.
“Walter Terry, Daily Mail.”
“I am not going to say anything,” said Raymond.
“Do you feel the Prime Minister was right to devalue?”
“I said nothing, Walter.”
“Does that mean you are going to resign?”
“Walter, nothing.”
“Is it true you have already handed in your resignation?”
Raymond hesitated.
“I thought so,” said Terry.
“I said nothing,” spluttered Raymond and slammed down the phone — before lifting it back off the hook.
He quickly washed and changed his shirt before leaving the house. He nearly missed the note that was lying on the doormat, and he wouldn’t have stopped to open it had the envelope not been embossed with large black letters across the left-hand corner — “Prime Minister.” Raymond ripped it open. The handwritten note from a secretary asked him on his arrival to come by the rear entrance of Downing Street and not the front door. A small map was enclosed. Raymond was becoming weary of the whole exercise.
Two more journalists were waiting by the gate and followed him to his car.
“Have you resigned, Minister?” asked the first.
“No comment.”
“Are you on your way to see the Prime Minister?”
Raymond did not reply and leaped into his car. He drove off so quickly that the pursuing journalists were left with no chance of catching him.
Twelve minutes later, at five to eight, he was seated in the anteroom of No. 10 Downing Street. As eight struck he was taken through to Harold Wilson’s study. He was surprised to find the Secretary of State for Employment seated in the corner of the room.
“Ray,” said the Prime Minister. “How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you, Prime Minister.”
“I was sorry to receive your letter and thoroughly understand the position you are in, but I hope perhaps we can work something out.”
“Work something out?” Raymond repeated, puzzled.
“Well, we all realize devaluation is a problem for you after Full Employment at Any Cost? but I felt perhaps a move to the Foreign Office as Minister of State might be a palatable way out of the dilemma. It’s a promotion you’ve well earned.”
Raymond hesitated. The Prime Minister continued. “It may interest you to know that the Chancellor of the Exchequer has also resigned, but will be moving to the Home Office.”
“I am surprised,” said Raymond.
“What with the problems we are about to tackle in Rhodesia and Europe your legal skills would come in very useful.”
Raymond remained silent as he listened to the Prime Minister; he knew what decision he must now make.
Monday usually gets off to a quiet start in the Commons. The Whips never plan for any contentious business to be debated, remembering that members are still arriving back from their constituencies all over the country. The House is seldom full before the early evening. But the knowledge that the Chancellor of the Exchequer would be making a statement on devaluation at three-thirty ensured that the Commons would be packed long before that hour.
The green benches, accommodating just 427 members, had deliberately been restored as they were after the Germans had bombed the Palace of Westminster on 10 May 1941. The intimate theatrical atmosphere of the House had remained intact. Sir Giles Gilbert Scott could not resist highlighting some of the Gothic decor of Barry, but he concurred with Churchill’s view that to enlarge the Chamber would only destroy the packed atmosphere of great occasions.
The Commons filled up quickly, and by two-forty-five there was not a seat to be found. Members huddled up on the steps by the Speaker’s canopied chair and around the legs of the chairs of the clerks at the table. One or two even perched like unfed sparrows on the empty petition bag behind the Speaker’s chair. The galleries to the side and above the Chamber, which normally resembled empty benches at the Oval on a rainy day, had taken on the look of a crucial last Test match against Australia.