“How is your husband bearing up?” someone would inquire.
“Much enjoying the campaign and looking forward to returning to Government,” was Fiona’s stock reply.
“And how is dear Lady Fiona?” Charles was continuously asked.
“Never better than when she’s helping in the constituency,” was his.
On Sundays, at one church after another, he read the lesson with confidence while she sang “Fight the good fight” in a clear contralto.
The demands of a rural constituency are considerably different from those of a city. Every village, however small, expects the member to visit them and to recall the local chairmen’s names. Subtle changes were taking place: Fiona no longer whispered the names in Charles’s ear. Charles no longer turned to her for advice.
During the campaign Charles would ring the photographer on the local paper to discover which events his editor had instructed him to cover that day. With the list of places and times in his hand Charles would arrive on each occasion a few minutes before the photographer. The Labour candidate complained officially to the local editor that Mr. Seymour’s photograph was never out of the paper.
“If you were present at these functions we would be only too happy to publish your photo,” said the editor.
“But they never invite me,” cried the Labour candidate.
They don’t invite Seymour either, the editor wanted to say, but he somehow manages to be there. It was never far from the editor’s mind that his proprietor was a Tory peer so he kept his mouth shut.
All the way up to election day Charles and Fiona opened bazaars, attended dinners, drew raffles, and only just stopped short of kissing babies.
Once, when Fiona asked him, Charles admitted that he hoped to be moved to the Foreign Office as a Minister of State, and perhaps to be made a Privy Councillor.
On the last day of February they dressed in silence and went off to their local polling station to vote. The photographer was there on the steps to take their picture. They stood closer together than they had for some weeks, looking like a smart register office couple. Charles knew it would be the main photograph on the front page of the Sussex Gazette the following day, as surely as he knew the Labour candidate would be relegated to a half-column mention on the inside page not far from the obituaries.
The count in a rural seat is always taken the following morning at a more leisurely pace than is customary for its city cousins. So Charles anticipated that by the time he arrived in the town hall the Conservative majority in the House would already be assured. But it was not to be, and the result still hung in the balance that Friday morning.
Edward Heath did not concede when the newscasters predicted he would fail to be given the overall majority he required. Charles spent the day striding around the town hall with an anxious look on his face. The little piles of votes soon became larger and it was obvious that he would hold the seat with at least his usual 21,000 — or was it 22,000? — majority. He never could remember the exact figure. But as the day progressed it became more and more difficult to assess the national verdict.
The last result came in from Northern Ireland a little after four o’clock that afternoon and a BBC commentator announced—
Labour 301
Conservative 296
Liberal 14
Ulster Unionists 11
Scottish Nationalists 7
Welsh Nationalists 2
Others 4
Ted Heath invited the Liberal leader to join him at Downing Street for talks in the hope that they could form a coalition. The Liberals demanded a firm commitment to electoral reform and, in particular, to proportional representation by the next election. Heath knew he could never get his back-benchers to deliver. On the Monday morning he told the Queen in her drawing room at Buckingham Palace that he was unable to form a Government. She called for Harold Wilson. He accepted her commission and drove back to Downing Street to enter the front door. Heath left by the back.
By the Tuesday afternoon every member, having watched the drama unfold, had returned to London. Raymond had increased his majority and now hoped that the Prime Minister had long since forgotten his resignation and would offer him a job.
Andrew had had the hard and unpleasant fight with Jock McPherson, just as his father had predicted, and held on to his seat by only 2,229.
Charles, still unsure of the exact majority by which he had won, drove back to London, resigned to Opposition. The one compensation was that he would be reinstated on the board of Seymour’s where the knowledge he had gained as a minister of Trade and Industry could only be of value.
Simon left the Home Office on 1 March 1974 with little more than an empty red box to show for nine years as a parliamentarian.
Book Three
1974–1977 Ministers of State
Chapter sixteen
“His diary looks rather full at the moment, Mr. Charles.”
“Well, as soon as it’s convenient,” Charles replied over the phone. He held on as he heard the pages being turned.
“12 March at ten-thirty, Mr. Charles?”
“But that’s nearly a fortnight away,” he said, irritated.
“Mr. Spencer has only just returned from the States and—”
“How about a lunch, then — at my club?” Charles interrupted.
“That couldn’t be until after 19 March.”
“Very well, then,” said Charles. “12 March, at ten-thirty.”
During the fourteen-day wait Charles had ample time to become frustrated by his seemingly aimless role in Opposition. No car came to pick him up and whisk him away to an office where real work had to be done. Worse, no one sought his opinion any longer on matters that affected the nation. He was going through a sharp bout of what is known as “ex-ministers’ blues.”
He was relieved when the day for the appointment with Derek Spencer at last came round. But although he arrived on time he was kept waiting for ten minutes before the chairman’s secretary took him through.
“Good to see you after so long,” said Spencer, coming round his desk to greet him. “It must be nearly six years since you’ve visited the bank.”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Charles. “But looking around the old place it feels like yesterday. You’ve been fully occupied, no doubt?”
“Like a Cabinet minister, but I hope with better results.”
They both laughed.
“Of course I’ve kept in touch with what’s been happening at the bank.”
“Have you?” said Spencer.
“Yes, I’ve read all the reports you’ve sent out over the past years, not to mention the Financial Times’s coverage.”
“I hope you feel we’ve progressed satisfactorily in your absence.”
“Oh. Yes,” said Charles, still standing. “Very impressive.”
“Well, now what can I do for you?” asked the chairman, returning to his seat.
“Simple enough,” said Charles, finally taking an unoffered chair. “I wish to be reinstated on the board.”
There was a long silence.
“Well, it’s not quite that easy, Charles. I’ve just recently appointed two new directors and...”
“Of course it’s that easy,” said Charles, his tone changing. “You have only to propose my name at the next meeting and it will go through, especially as you haven’t a member of the family on the board at the present time.”
“We have, as a matter of fact. Your brother the Earl of Bridgwater has become a non-executive director.”
“What? Rupert never told me,” said Charles. “Neither did you.”