“Damn,” said Charles, putting down The Times and draining his coffee.
“What’s the problem?” asked Fiona as she poured out another cup.
“Kerslake’s been selected for Pucklebridge, which means he’s back in the House for life. Obviously my chat to Archie Millburn had no effect.”
“Why have you got it in for Kerslake?” asked Fiona.
Charles folded the paper and considered the question. “It’s quite simple really, old girl. I think he’s the only one of my contemporaries who could stop me leading the party.”
“Why him in particular?”
“I first came across him when he was President of the Union at Oxford. He was damn good then, and now he’s better. He had rivals, but he brushed them aside like flies. No, despite his background, Kerslake’s the one man left who frightens me.”
“It’s a long race yet, my darling, and he could still stumble.”
“So could I, but what he doesn’t realize is that I shall be putting out some of his hurdles.”
Andrew worded the letter very carefully. He assured Jock McPherson and his colleagues that he had been flattered by their approach, but explained that he had decided his loyalties were still firmly based in the Labour party.
He accepted the point Jock had made about the left trying to gain control, but felt that every democratic party was bound to have a maverick element within its ranks, which was not necessarily unhealthy. He added that he considered the offer to have been confidential on both sides.
“Why add that postscript?” asked Louise when she had read the letter through.
“It’s only fair to Jock,” said Andrew. “If it gets around I turned him down it will have the opposite effect to the one they were trying to create.”
“I’m not so sure they will act in the same magnanimous way when the next election comes round.”
“Ah, Jock will make a lot of noise, but he’s all right underneath...”
“That isn’t what your father says about him,” said Louise. “He’s sure they’ll want revenge.”
“Father always sees grubs under even the greenest leaf.”
“So if we’re not about to celebrate your leadership of the Scottish Nationalists we’ll have to be satisfied with celebrating your fortieth birthday.”
“But that’s not for at least—”
“—another month, a week before Robert’s fourth birthday.”
“How would you like to commemorate the occasion, darling?”
“I thought we might have a week in the Algarve on our own.”
“Why don’t we have two weeks? Then we can celebrate your fortieth birthday as well?”
“Andrew Fraser, you just lost yourself one vote in Edinburgh Carlton.”
Simon listened intently to Ronnie’s report at the monthly board meeting. Two tenants had not paid their quarterly rent, and another quarter date was fast approaching. Ronnie’s solicitors had sent firm reminders, followed a month later by writs, but this action had also failed to elicit any money.
“It only proves what I feared most,” said Ronnie.
“What’s that?” asked Simon.
“They just haven’t got the cash.”
“So we will have to replace them with new tenants.”
“Simon, when you next travel from Beaufort Street to Whitechapel start counting the To Let’ signs on office blocks along the way. When you’ve passed a hundred you’ll find you still haven’t reached the City.”
“So what do you think we should do about it?”
“Try and sell one of our larger properties to secure cash flow. We can at least be thankful that even at these prices they are still worth a lot more than our borrowings. It’s the companies who are the other way around that have to call in the receiver.”
Simon thought about his overdraft, now approaching £100,000, and was beginning to wish he had accepted Ronnie’s generous offer to buy back his shares. He accepted reluctantly that the opportunity had now passed.
When the board meeting was over he drove to St. Mary’s to pick up Elizabeth. It was to be one of their three-times-a-week journeys to Pucklebridge as Simon tried to get round all the villages before Wilson called an election.
Archie Millburn was turning out to be a conscientious chairman who had accompanied them on nearly every trip.
“He’s been very kind to us,” said Elizabeth, on their way down.
“He certainly has,” said Simon. “Remember he also has to run Millburn Electronics. But, as he reminds us so often, once he’s introduced us to every village chairman we’ll be on our own.”
“Have you ever discovered why he and Charles Seymour didn’t see eye to eye?”
“No, he hasn’t mentioned his name since that night. All I know for certain is that they were at school together.”
“So what do you intend to do about Seymour?”
“Not a lot I can do,” said Simon. “Except keep my eyes very wide open.”
“The man who has deserted Edinburgh once too often” — Andrew read the Scottish Nationalist leaflet that had been sent to him that morning by his father. It was full of half-truths and innuendos.
“Andrew Fraser, the man who has forgotten Edinburgh, should no longer be allowed to represent a Scottish seat.” It went on to declare: “He now lives far away from the problems of his constituents in a smart apartment building in fashionable Chelsea among his Tory friends. He visits the City of Edinburgh only a few times a year to make well-publicized appearances... Has being a minister gone to his head?”
“How dare they?” cried Louise in a rage. Andrew had never seen his wife so angry. “How dare they come to my home, offer you the leadership of their dreadful little party, and then write such a pack of lies? And did you read this?” she added, pointing to the last paragraph, “‘His wife Louise, née Forsyth’,” she read out aloud, “‘comes from one of the wealthiest families in Scotland. She is a close relation of the owners of Forsyth’s in Princes Street.’ I’m a second cousin once removed, and they don’t even give me a discount in the main store.”
Andrew started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
He took her in his arms. “I always suffered under the illusion that you would inherit the Forsyth empire and I would never have to work again,” he mocked. “Now we shall have to live off Robert’s earnings as a star football player.”
“Don’t joke, Andrew. It won’t seem funny when the election comes round.”
“I’m far more concerned about the extreme left trying to infiltrate my General Management Committee,” he said, his voice changing, “than I am by Jock McPherson’s band of mad little islanders. But at this moment of time my red box is too full to worry about either of them.”
Raymond made such a penetrating speech during the second reading of the new Trade Union Bill that the Whips put him on the standing committee, the perfect medium for him to display his skills as the committee debated each clause, point by point. He was able to show his colleagues where the legal pitfalls were and how to find a way round them. The rest of the committee soon learned from Raymond the meaning of “mastering a brief,” and it was not long before trade union leaders were calling him at the House and even at his flat to learn his views on how their members should react to a host of different legal problems. Raymond showed patience with each of them and, more important, gave them excellent professional advice for the price of a phone call. He found it ironic how quickly they chose to forget that he was the author of Full Employement at Any Cost? Snippets began to appear in the national press, ranging from laudatory comments from those involved with the bill to a pointed suggestion in the Guardian that, whatever had happened in the past, it would be insupportable if Raymond Gould were not made a member of the Government in the near future.