Simon was on time for his appointment at Central Office. He explained his dilemma to Sir Edward Mountjoy — vice-chairman of the party responsible for candidates — in graphic detail.
“What bloody bad luck,” said Sir Edward. “But perhaps I may be able to help,” he added, opening the green folder on the desk in front of him. Simon could see that he was studying a list of names. It made him feel once again like an undergraduate who needed someone to die.
“There seem to be about a dozen safe seats that will fall vacant at the next election, caused either by retirement or redistribution.”
“Anywhere in particular you could recommend?”
“I fancy Littlehampton.”
“Where’s that?” said Simon.
“It will be a new seat, safe as houses. It’s in Sussex, on the borders of Hampshire.” He studied an attached map. “Runs proud to Charles Seymour’s constituency which remains unchanged. Can’t think you would have many rivals there,” said Sir Edward. “But why don’t you have a word with Charles? He’s bound to know everyone involved in taking the decision.”
“Anything else that looks promising?” asked Simon, only too aware that Seymour might not prove altogether cooperative.
“Let me see. Can’t afford to put all your eggs in one basket, can we? Ah, yes — Redcorn, in Northumberland.” Again the vice-chairman studied the map. “Three hundred and twenty miles from London and no airport within eighty miles, and their nearest main line station is forty miles. I think that one’s only worth trying for if you get desperate. My advice would be to speak to Charles Seymour about Littlehampton. He must know the lay of the land in that neck of the woods.”
Two clichés in one sentence, thought Simon. Thank heavens Sir Edward would never have to make a speech from the dispatch box.
“I’m sure you’re right, Sir Edward,” he said.
“Selection committees are being formed already,” continued Sir Edward, “so you shouldn’t have to wait too long.”
“I appreciate your help,” said Simon. “Perhaps you could let me know if anything else comes up in the meantime.”
“Of course, delighted. The problem is that if one of our side were to die during the sessions you couldn’t desert your present seat because that would cause two by-elections. We certainly don’t want a by-election in Coventry Central with you being accused of being a carpetbagger somewhere else.”
“Don’t remind me,” said Simon.
Charles had whittled down the fifty-nine anti-Common Market members to fifty-one, but he was now dealing with the hard kernel who seemed quite immune to future advancement or bullying. When he made his next report to the Chief Whip Charles assured him that the Conservatives who would vote against entry into Europe were outnumbered by the Socialists who had declared they would support the Government. The Chief Whip seemed pleased, but asked if Charles had made any progress with Pimkin’s disciples.
“Those twelve mad right-wingers?” said Charles sharply. “They seem to be willing to follow Pimkin even into the valley of death. I’ve tried everything but they’re still determined to vote against Europe whatever the cost.”
“The maddening thing is that that bloody nuisance Pimkin has nothing to lose,” said the Chief Whip. “His seat disappears at the end of this Parliament in the redistribution. I can’t imagine anyone with his extreme views would find a constituency to select him, but by then he’ll have done the damage.” The Chief Whip paused. “If his twelve would even abstain I would feel confident of advising the PM of victory.”
“The problem is to find a way of turning Pimkin into Judas and then urging him to lead the chosen twelve into our camp,” said Charles.
“You achieve that, and we’d certainly win.”
Charles returned to the Whips’ office to find Simon Kerslake waiting by his desk.
“I dropped by on the off-chance, hoping you might be able to spare me a few moments,” said Simon.
“Of course,” said Charles, trying to sound welcoming. “Take a pew.”
Simon sat down opposite him. “You may have heard that I lose my constituency as a result of the Boundary Commission report and Edward Mountjoy suggested I have a word with you about Littlehampton, the new seat that borders your constituency.”
“It does indeed,” said Charles, masking his surprise. He had not considered the problem as his own seat remained intact. He recovered quickly. “And how wise of Edward to send you to me. I’ll do everything I can to help.”
“Littlehampton would be ideal,” said Simon. “Especially while my wife is still working in Paddington.”
Charles raised his eyebrows.
“I don’t think you’ve met Elizabeth. She’s a doctor at St. Mary’s,” Simon explained.
“Yes, I can see how convenient Littlehampton would be. Why don’t I start by having a word with Alexander Dalglish, the constituency chairman, and see what I can come up with?”
“That would be extremely helpful.”
“Not at all. I’ll call him at home this evening and find out what stage they’ve reached over selection, and then I’ll put you in the picture.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“While I’ve got you, let me give you the whip for next week,” said Charles, passing over a sheet of paper. Simon folded it up and put it in his pocket. “I’ll call you the moment I have some news.”
Simon left feeling happier and a little guilty about his past prejudice concerning Charles, whom he watched disappear into the Chamber to carry out his bench duty.
The European issue had been given six days for debate by back-benchers, the longest period of time allocated to one motion in living memory.
Charles strolled down the aisle leading to the front bench and took a seat on the end to check on another set of speeches. Usually he listened intently to see if he could spot a member wavering in his position; but on this occasion his thoughts were in Littlehampton. Andrew Fraser was on his feet, and Charles was delighted to be able to confirm the tick alongside his name before he drifted into deep thought.
“I for one shall vote for entry into Europe,” Andrew was telling the House. “When my party was in power I was a pro-European, and now we are in Opposition I can see no good reason to do a volte-face. The principles that held true two years ago hold true today. Not all of us...”
Tom Carson leaped up and asked if his Honorable friend would give way. Andrew resumed his seat immediately.
“Would my Honorable friend really support the peasant farmers of France before the sheep farmers in New Zealand?” asked Carson.
Andrew rose and explained to his colleague that he would certainly expect safeguards for New Zealand, but the initial vote on the floor of the House was on the principle of entry. The details could and should be dealt with in committee. He went on to express the view that had his Honorable friend talked of wogs or Jews in such a context the House would have been in uproar. “Why is it therefore acceptable to the anti-marketeers to describe French farmers as peasants?”
“Perhaps it’s you who is the peasant,” Carson shouted back, in seven words thus ruining his case for the lamb farmers of New Zealand.
Andrew ignored the jibe and went on to tell the House that he believed in a united Europe as a further insurance against a third world war. He concluded with the words:
“Britain has for a thousand years written history, even the history of the world. Let us decide with our votes whether our children will read that history, or continue to write it.” Andrew sat down to acclamation from both sides.