“So we’ll have to get rid of the nanny, too?”
“Not necessarily, but we may both have to make sacrifices in order that she can be part-time.”
“But my work at the hospital...” began Elizabeth but didn’t complete the sentence. “What happens next?”
“I’ll have to tell Archie Millburn tonight. I’ve already written my letter of resignation to hand to him. I shall make an appointment to see the Chief Whip on Monday to explain why I am going to apply for the Chiltern Hundreds.”
“What does that mean?”
“lt’s one of the only ways of leaving the House in mid-session — other than dying. Officially it’s a nominal office under the Crown which therefore debars you from membership of the House.”
“It all sounds rather formal to me.”
“I’m afraid it will cause an embarrassing by-election in Pucklebridge,” Simon admitted.
“Can nobody help?”
“There aren’t a lot of people around who have a spare £108,000 for a worthless bunch of shares.”
“Would you like me to come with you when you go to see Archie?” Elizabeth asked, rising from her seat.
“No, darling. It’s kind of you to ask, but I’m the one who made such a fool of myself.”
Elizabeth leaned over and pushed back the hair that had fallen over his forehead. She couldn’t help noticing some gray strands that must have appeared in the last few weeks. “We’ll just have to live off my salary while you look for a job.”
Simon drove slowly down to Pucklebridge to keep his impromptu appointment with the chairman. Archie Millburn, standing hands on hips in his garden, listened to the tale with a sad face. “It’s been happening to a lot of good people in the City lately, but what I can’t understand is: if the company owns such prime properties, why has no one made a takeover bid? Sounds as if it’s an asset-stripper’s dream.”
“It appears to be a matter of confidence,” said Simon.
“A sacred word in the City,” agreed Archie, while he continued to prune his Roosevelts and Red Mistresses.
Simon handed him the prepared letter of resignation, which Millburn read over and reluctantly accepted.
“I won’t mention this to anyone until you’ve seen the Chief Whip on Monday. I’ll call a special meeting of the full committee on Tuesday evening and inform them of your decision then. You had better be prepared for an unfriendly barrage from the press on Tuesday night.”
The two men shook hands. “Your misfortune is our misfortune,” said Archie. “In a very short time you’ve gained the respect and the affection of the local people. You’ll be missed.”
Simon drove back to London and, although the car radio was on low, he did not take in the news flash that they kept repeating every thirty minutes.
Chapter twenty
Raymond was among the first to hear the announcement, and was stunned by it. Harold Wilson was going to resign less than halfway through the five-year Parliament, and for no apparent reason other than that he had just passed his sixtieth birthday. He proposed to remain Prime Minister only so long as the Labour party took to select its new leader. Raymond and Kate sat glued to the television, picking up every scrap of information they could. They discussed the implications far into the night.
“Well, Carrot Top, could this mean rehabilitation for our forgotten hero?”
“Who can say?”
“Well, if you can’t, who can?”
“The next leader,” said Raymond.
The fight for the leadership was a straight battle between the left and right wings of the party, James Callaghan on the right and Michael Foot on the left. Andrew and Raymond both wanted the same man and it was with some relief that they saw Callaghan, despite losing the first ballot, come through to be elected leader. The Queen duly called for Callaghan and asked him to form a new administration.
As tradition demands Andrew sent his resignation to Downing Street, as did every other member of the Government, to allow the new Prime Minister to select his own team.
Raymond was in court listening to the judge’s summing up when his junior passed him a note: “Please call 10 Downing Street as soon as possible.” The judge took a further thirty minutes, meticulously explaining to the jury the legal definition of manslaughter, before Raymond could escape. He ran down the corridor and stopped at one of the clerks’ private boxes to make the call. The plastic dial rotating back into place after each number seemed to take forever.
After he had been passed through three people a voice said, “Good afternoon, Ray” — the unmistakable gravelly tones of the new Prime Minister. “I think it’s time you rejoined the Government” — Raymond held his breath — “as Minister of State at the Department of Trade.” Minister of State: only one place away from the Cabinet.
“You still there, Ray?”
“Yes, Prime Minister, and I’d be delighted to accept.”
He put the phone down, immediately picked it up again, and dialed the City office of the Chase Manhattan Bank. They put him through to the Euro Bond manager.
Andrew had left his desk at the Home Office and returned to Cheyne Walk. He stayed away from the House of Commons where the lobby correspondents were hanging about like hyenas, scampering off to phone their papers with even the rumor of a rumor. The new Cabinet had been selected, and now it was the turn of the Ministers of State. All Andrew knew for certain was that his old job at the Home Office had been given to someone else.
“Why don’t you go and play football with Robert?” Louise suggested. “And stop moping around under my feet?”
“Yes, Dad, yes, Dad, yes, Dad,” demanded his son, running upstairs to reappear a few minutes later dressed in the Liverpool kit that he had bought himself from eleven weeks’ hard-saved pocket money.
“Go on, Andrew. I can always call you if the phone goes.”
Andrew smiled, took off his jacket, and put on the pair of old gym shoes Robert was holding out for him. He followed his five-year-old son into the garden to find him already dribbling up and down the thin strip between the flower beds. The little goal he had bought for Robert — or was it for himsetf? — at Christmas was already set up at the far end of the grass and they took turns defending it. Andrew always had to start in goal. He rubbed his hands together to keep warm as Robert dribbled toward him. He came out of the goal ready to stifle a shot, but Robert kicked the ball to the right and ran to the left, leaving his father spread-eagled on the ground before he pushed the ball gently into the goal. “That’s called a feint,” he shouted triumphantly, as he ran back past his prostrate father.
Andrew picked himself up. “l know what it’s called,” he said, laughing. “You seem to have forgotten who taught you the feint in the first place. Let’s see if you can do it twice running,” he added, returning to defend the goal.
Robert dribbled away from his father until he reached the end of the garden, then turned to face him again. He had begun advancing toward the goal for a second time when there was the sound of the phone ringing. Andrew looked toward the house just as Robert kicked the ball, which rising sharply, struck him in the face. He and the ball fell back into the goal mouth.
Louise opened the kitchen window and shouted, “It’s only my mother.”
“Wake up, Dad,” demanded Robert simultaneously.
Andrew’s face was still stinging from the blow. “I’m going to get you for that,” he said. “Your turn to defend the goal.”
Robert rushed forward to take his place between the posts, jumping up and down trying to touch the crossbar with the tips of his fingers. Andrew took his time as he moved toward his son. When he was about a yard in front of Robert he feinted to the right and ran to the left but Robert had seen the move coming and leaped on the ball shouting, “No goal.”