The clerks often helped Andrew reword a question so that it would be acceptable to the chair, a function they carried out for any member, even Tom Carson, who had once accused them of political bias when they suggested one of his questions was out of order. When Carson was finally referred to the Speaker, he was called for and reprimanded, and his question deposited in one of the mock-Gothic wastepaper baskets in the Order office.
Once behind the Speaker’s chair, Simon and Andrew would good-humoredly discuss the issues on which they were crossing swords. The opportunity to be out of sight of the Press Gallery above them was often taken by the two opposing members, but once they had both returned to the dispatch box they would tear into each other, looking for any weakness in the other’s argument.
On one subject they found themselves in total accord. Ever since August 1969, when the troops had first been sent in, Parliament had been having another of its periodic bouts of trouble with Northern Ireland. In October 1970 the House devoted a full day’s business to listen to members’ opinions in the never-ending effort to find a solution to the growing clash between the Protestant extremists and the IRA. The motion before the House was to allow emergency powers to be renewed in the province.
Andrew rose from his seat on the front bench to deliver the opening speech for the Opposition. He said he took no side in this unhappy affair, but he felt sure the House was united in condemning violence. Yet however hard he searched for the answer he found neither faction willing to give an inch. “Goodwill” and “trust” were words that might as well have been left out of any dictionary printed in Ulster. It was not long before Andrew came to the conclusion that Gladstone was right when he had said, “Every time I find the solution to the Irish question, they change the question.”
When Andrew had finished he surprised members by leaving the Chamber and not returning for several minutes.
Simon had been selected to wind up for the Government and had prepared his speech with meticulous care. Although both sides appeared in agreement on the main issue, the mood as always could change in a moment if an unfortunate view was expressed by a Government minister.
During the debate, much to everyone’s surprise, Andrew Fraser kept leaving the Chamber. Simon left only twice between three-thirty and the ten o’clock division, once to take a call from his wife, and then again at seven-thirty for a quick supper.
When Simon came back Andrew was still absent from the Chamber, and he had not returned by the time the Shadow Home Secretary began to sum up. Andrew did eventually take his seat on the front bench but Simon had already begun his speech.
As Andrew entered the Chamber and took his place on the front bench, an elderly Conservative rose from his seat.
“On a point of order, Mr. Speaker.”
Simon sat down immediately and turned his head to listen to the point his colleague wanted to make.
“Is it not a tradition of this House, sir,” began the elder statesman rather ponderously, “for a front-bench spokesman to have the courtesy to remain in his seat during the debate in order that he may ascertain views other than his own?”
“That is not a point of order,” replied the Speaker above the cries of “Hear, hear” from the Conservative benches. Andrew scribbled a quick note and hurriedly passed it over to Simon. On it was written a single sentence.
“I accept the point my Right Honorable friend makes,” Simon began, “and would have complained myself had I not known that the Honorable Gentleman, the member for Edinburgh Carlton, has spent most of the afternoon in hospital.” Simon paused to let the effect sink in. “Where his wife was in labor. I am not given to accepting as necessarily accurate all the Opposition tells me,” he continued, “but I am able to confirm this statement because it was my wife who delivered the baby.” The House began to laugh. “I can assure my Honorable friend that my wife has spent her entire afternoon indoctrinating the infant in the value of Conservative policies as understood by his grandfather, which is why the Honorable Gentleman has found it necessary to be absent himself from so much of the debate.” Simon waited for the laughter to subside. “For those members of the House who thrive on statistics, it’s a boy and he weighs four pounds three ounces.”
There are times in the House when affection is displayed on both sides, thought Andrew, who considered it was ironic that during an Irish debate an Englishman had demonstrated such affection for a Scotsman.
There was no challenge when the Speaker “collected the voices” at ten o’clock so the matter was decided “on the nod” and Simon joined Andrew behind the Speaker’s chair.
“Just over four pounds doesn’t sound very big to me. I thought I’d take a second opinion from the Minister of Health.”
“I agree,” said Andrew, “the little blighter is stuck in an incubator, but your wife is doing everything she can to fatten him up. I’m off to watch him now.”
“Good luck,” said Simon.
Andrew sat by the incubator all night, hating the drip, drip, drip of the little plastic tube that passed up the child’s nose and down into his stomach. He feared that when he woke his son would be dead and continually went to the washbasin and put a damp, cold cloth over his eyes to ensure he remained awake. He finally lost the battle and dozed off in a “dad’s bed” in the corner.
When his father woke, Robert Bruce Fraser was very much alive. The crumpled father rose from his bed to admire his “crumpled offspring, who was receiving milk down the plastic tube from a night nurse.
Andrew stared down at the crinkly face. The boy had inherited his square jaw, but he had his mother’s nose and hair coloring. Andrew chuckled at the time Louise had wasted over girls’ names. Robert it would be.
Robert Bruce Fraser traveled to Cheyne Walk with his mother and father three weeks later, having topped the scales earlier that morning at five pounds ten ounces.
Elizabeth Kerslake had told them to be thankfuclass="underline" the postnatal examination had shown that it would not be possible for Louise to bear another child.
Chapter twelve
The Chief Whip looked round at his colleagues, wondering which of them would volunteer for such a thankless task.
A hand went up, and he was pleasantly surprised.
“Thank you, Charles.”
Charles had already warned Fiona that he was going to volunteer to be the Whip responsible for the issue that had most dominated the last election: Britain’s entry into the EEC. Everyone in that room realized that it would be the most demanding marathon of the entire Parliament, and there was an audible sigh of relief when Charles volunteered.
“Not a job for anyone with a rocky marriage,” he heard one Whip whisper. At least that’s something I don’t have to worry about, thought Charles, but he made a note to take home some flowers that night.
“Why was it the bill everyone wanted to avoid?” asked Fiona as she arranged the daffodils.
“Because many of our side don’t necessarily back Edward Heath in his lifelong ambition to take Britain into Europe, while quite a few of the Opposition do,” said Charles, accepting a large brandy. “Added to that, we have the problem of presenting a bill to curb the trade unions at the same time which may well influence many members of the Labour party from voting with us on Europe. Because of this problem, the Prime Minister requires a regular ‘state of play’ assessment on Europe even though legislation may not be presented on the floor of the Commons for at least another year. He’ll want to know periodically how many of our side are still against entry, and how many from the Opposition we can rely on to break ranks when the crucial vote is taken.”