“What did he offer in the end?”
“Shadow Minister of Industry.”
“That sounds rather interesting,” said Fiona.
“Everything about it was interesting except the salary, which would have been nothing. Don’t forget the bank pays me £40,000 a year while I’m chairman.”
Fiona folded her paper. “But you’ve just appointed a full-time chief executive, so your responsibilities at the bank should be only part-time compared with when you took the chair over. So what’s your real reason?”
Charles accepted that he could rarely fool Fiona. “The truth is that I’m far from certain Ted will be leading the party at the next election.”
“Then who will if he doesn’t?” asked Fiona.
“Whoever’s got the guts to oppose him.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” said Fiona, beginning to clear away the plates.
“Everyone accepts that he has to allow his name to go forward for reelection now that he’s lost twice in a row.”
“That’s fair enough,” agreed Fiona.
“But as he has appointed all possible contenders to the Cabinet or Shadow Cabinet over the last ten years, someone he has selected in the past will have to oppose him. No one of lesser stature would stand a chance.”
“Is there a member of the Shadow Cabinet willing to stand?” asked Fiona, returning to her seat at the end of the table.
“One or two are considering it, but the problem is that if they lose it could easily end their political career,” said Charles, folding his napkin.
“But if they win?”
“They will undoubtedly be the next Prime Minister.”
“Interesting dilemma. And what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m not supporting anyone at the moment, but I’ve got my eyes wide open,” said Charles, folding his copy of The Times and rising from the table.
“Is there a front runner?” asked Fiona, looking up at her husband.
“No, not really. Although Kerslake is trying to rally support for Margaret Thatcher, but that idea is doomed from the start.”
“A woman leading the Tory party? Your lot haven’t got the imagination to risk it,” said Elizabeth, tasting the sauce. “The day that happens I shall eat my one and only Tory hat in full view of all the delegates at the party conference.”
“Don’t be so cynical, Elizabeth. She’s the best bet we’ve got at the moment.”
“But what are the chances of Ted Heath standing down? I always thought the leader of the party stayed on until he was hit by the mythical bus. I don’t know Heath very well, but I can never imagine him resigning.”
“I agree,” said Simon. “So the 1922 Committee will have to change the rules.”
“You mean the back-benchers will put pressure on him to go?”
“No, but a lot of the committee in their present mood would be willing to volunteer as driver for that bus.”
“If that’s true, he must realize that his chances of holding on are slim?”
“I wonder if any leader ever knows that,” said Simon.
“You ought to be in Blackpool next week,” said Kate, resting her elbow on the pillow.
“Why Blackpool?” Raymond asked, staring up at the ceiling.
“Because, Carrot Top, that’s where they are holding this year’s Labour party conference.”
“What do you imagine I could hope to accomplish there?”
“You’d be seen to be alive. At present you’re just a rumor in trade union circles.”
“But if you’re not a minister or a trade union leader all you do at a party conference is spend four days eating foul food, sleeping in seedy guest houses, and applauding second-rate speeches.”
“I’ve no interest in where you put your weary head at night but I do want you to revive your contacts with the unions during the day.”
“Why?” said Raymond. “That lot can’t influence my career.”
“Not at the moment,” said Kate. “But I predict that, like my fellow Americans at their conventions, the Labour party will one day select their leader at the party conference.”
“Never,” said Raymond. “That is and will always remain the prerogative of elected members of the House of Commons.”
“That’s the sort of crass, short-sighted, pompous statement I would expect a Republican to make,” she said, before plonking a pillow over his head. Raymond feigned death, so she lifted up a corner and whispered in his ear, “Have you read any of the resolutions to be debated at this year’s conference?”
“A few,” came back Raymond’s muffled reply.
“Then it might serve you well to note Mr. Anthony Wedgwood Benn’s contribution,” she said, removing the pillow.
“What’s he up to this year?”
“He’s calling on ‘conference,’ as he insists on describing your gathering of the brothers, to demand that the next leader be chosen by a full vote of the delegates, making up an electoral college from all the constituencies, the trade union movement, and Parliament — I suspect in that order.”
“Madness. But what do you expect? He’s married to an American.”
“Today’s extremist is tomorrow’s moderate,” said Kate blithely.
“A typical American generalization.”
“Benjamin Disraeli, actually.”
Raymond placed the pillow back over his head.
Andrew always attended the party conference, although he would never have voted for Tony Benn’s resolution on the method of selecting a leader. He feared that if the trade unions were given that sort of power a leader who was totally unacceptable to his colleagues in the House of Commons could be selected. He was relieved when the motion was defeated but he noted that the majority against was far from overwhelming.
Despite being a minister Andrew could only get a small room at Blackpool in a guest house masquerading as a hotel, and that some two miles from the conference center. Such were the problems created by 4,000 self-important people converging on a seaside resort for a week that many had to forgo the Presidential Suite.
Andrew still had to carry on his job as Minister of State, with red boxes being delivered and taken every morning and afternoon, while making his presence felt at the conference. He spent half his time on a phone in the hotel lobby putting through transfer-charge calls to the Home Office. No one in the Soviet Union would have believed it, especially if they had realized that the Minister of State for Defense, who had the room next to Andrew’s, was pacing up and down the corridor waiting for the phone to be free.
Andrew had never addressed the 3,000 delegates at a party conference. Even Cabinet ministers are only allowed a maximum of ten minutes at the rostrum unless they are members of the National Executive. Over half the Labour Cabinet had failed to be elected to this body, which consisted mainly of the leaders of the larger trade unions.
As he left the morning session Andrew was surprised to find Raymond Gould roaming around looking lost. They fell on each other like sane men locked in an asylum and decided to lunch together at the River House, Andrew’s favorite restaurant a few miles outside of Blackpool.
Although they had both been in the House for nearly ten years it was the first time they discovered how much they had in common. Andrew had never considered himself a close friend of Raymond’s but he had always admired his stand on devaluation.
“You must have been disappointed when the PM didn’t ask you to rejoin the Government,” Andrew began.
Raymond stared down at the menu. “Very,” he finally admitted, as a girl joined them in the bar to take their order.
“Nevertheless, you were wise to come to Blackpool. This is where your strength lies.”
“Come on. Everybody knows you’re the trade unions’ pinup boy, and they still have a lot of influence as to who sits in the Cabinet.”