“Miss Pentecost, chairman of the Women’s s Advisory,” announced a tall, thin spinsterish woman who had stood up to catch the chairman’s eye. “May I be permitted to ask Mrs. Kerslake a question? If your husband were offered this seat, would you be willing to come and live in Northumbertand?”
Elizabeth had dreaded the question because she knew that if Simon was offered the constituency she would be expected to resign her post at the hospital. Simon turned and looked toward his wife.
“No,” she replied directly. “I am a doctor at St. Mary’s Hospital, Paddington, where I practice gynecology. I support my husband in his career but, like Margaret Thatcher, I believe a woman has the right to a good education and then the chance to use her qualifications to their best advantage.”
A ripple of applause went round the room and Simon smiled at his wife.
The next question was on Europe, and Simon gave an unequivocal statement as to his reasons for backing the Prime Minister in his desire to see Britain as part of the Common Market.
Simon continued to answer questions on subjects ranging from trade union reform to violence on television before the chairman asked, “Are there any more questions?”
There was a long silence and just as he was about to thank Simon the scowling lady in the front row, without being recognized by the chair, asked what Mr. Kerslake’s views were on abortion.
“Morally, I’m against it,” said Simon. “At the time of the Abortion Act many of us believed it would stem the tide of divorce. We have been proved wrong: the rate of divorce has quadrupled. Nevertheless, in the cases of rape or fear of physical or mental injury arising from birth I would have to support the medical advice given at the time. Elizabeth and I have two children and my wife’s job is to see that babies are safely delivered,” he added.
The lips moved from a scowl to a straight line.
“Thank you,” said the chairman. “It was good of you to give us so much of your time. Perhaps you and Mrs. Kerslake would be kind enough to wait outside.”
Simon and Elizabeth joined the other hopeful candidates, their wives, and the agent in a small dingy room at the back of the building. When they saw the half-empty trestle table in front of them they both remembered they hadn’t had any lunch and devoured what was left of the curling cucumber sandwiches and the cold sausage rolls.
“What happens next?” Simon asked the agent between mouthfuls.
“Nothing out of the ordinary. They’ll have a discussion, allowing everyone to express their views, and then vote. It should all be over in twenty minutes.”
Elizabeth checked her watch: it was seven o’clock and the last train was at nine-fifteen.
“Ought to make the train comfortably,” said Simon.
An hour later when no smoke had emerged from the chimney the agent suggested to all the candidates who had a long journey ahead of them that they might like to check into the Bell Inn just over the road.
When Simon looked around the room it was clear that everyone else had done so in advance.
“You had better stay put in case you’re called again,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll go off and book a room and at the same time call and see how the children are getting on.”
“Probably eaten the poor baby-sitter by now,” said Simon.
Elizabeth smiled before slipping out and making her way to the small hotel.
Simon opened his red box and tried to complete some work. The man who looked like a farmer came over and introduced himself.
“I’m Bill Travers, the chairman of the new constituency,” he began. “I only wanted to say that you’ll have my full support as chairman if the committee select you.”
“Thank you,” said Simon.
“I had hoped to represent this area, as my grandfather did. But I shall understand if Redcorn prefers to choose a man destined for the Cabinet rather than someone who would be happy to spend his life on the back benches.”
Simon was touched by his opponent’s goodwill, and would have liked to respond in kind but Travers quickly added, “Forgive me, I’ll not waste any more of your time. I can see” — he looked down at the red box — “that you have a lot of work to catch up on.”
Simon felt guilty as he watched the man walk away. A few minutes later Elizabeth returned and tried to smile. “The only room left is smaller than Peter’s and it faces the main road, so it’s just about as noisy.”
“At least no children to say ‘I’m hungry’,” he said, touching her hand.
It was a little after nine when a weary chairman came out and asked all the candidates if he could have their attention. Husbands and wives all faced him. “My committee want to thank you for going through this grim procedure. It has been hard for us to decide something that we hope not to have to discuss again for twenty years.” He paused. “The committee are going to invite Mr. Bill Travers to fight the Redcorn seat at the next election.”
In a sentence it was all over. Simon’s throat went dry.
He and Elizabeth didn’t get much sleep in their tiny room at the Bell Inn, and it hadn’t helped that the agent told them the final vote had been twenty-five — twenty three.
“I don’t think Miss Pentecost liked me,” said Elizabeth, feeling guilty. “If I had told her that I would have been willing to live in the constituency I think you’d have been offered the seat.”
“I doubt it,” said Simon. “In any case it’s no use agreeing to their terms at the interview and then imposing your own when you have been offered the constituency. My guess is you’ll find Redcorn has chosen the right man.”
Elizabeth smiled at her husband, grateful for his support.
“There will be other seats,” said Simon, only too aware that time was now running out. “You’ll see.”
Elizabeth prayed that he would prove right, and that next time the choice of a constituency would not make her have to face the dilemma she had so far managed to avoid.
When Raymond took silk, the second Tuesday after the Easter holiday, and became a Queen’s Counsel, Joyce made one of her periodic trips to London. The occasion she decided warranted another visit to Harvey Nichols. She recalled her first trip to the store so many years before when she had accompanied her husband to meet the Prime Minister. Raymond had come so far since then although their relationship seemed to have progressed so little. She had given up hope of being a mother, but still wanted him to believe she was a good wife. She couldn’t help thinking how much better-looking Raymond had become in middle age, and feared the same could not be said of her.
She enjoyed watching the legal ceremony as her husband was presented in court before the judges. Latin words spoken but not understood. Suddenly her husband was Raymond Could, QC, MP.
She and Raymond arrived late in chambers for the celebration party. Everyone seemed to have turned out in her husband’s honor. Raymond felt full of bonhomie and was chatting to the chief clerk when Sir Nigel handed him a glass of champagne. Then he saw a familiar figure by the mantelpiece and remembered that the trial in Manchester was over. He managed to circle the room speaking to everyone but Stephanie Arnold. To his horror he turned to see her introducing herself to his wife. Every time he glanced toward them they seemed deeper in conversation.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Sir Nigel, banging a table. He waited for silence. “We are always proud in chambers when one of our members takes silk. It is a comment not only on the man but also on his chambers. And when it is the youngest silk — still under forty — it adds to that pride. All of you, of course, know that Raymond also serves in another place in which we expect him to rise to even greater glory. May I add finally how pleasant it is to have his wife Joyce among us tonight. Ladies and gentlemen,” he concluded. “The toast is Raymond Gould, QC.”