Once again Andrew returned to the end of the garden, thinking over what move he could try next. He suddenly ran straight at Robert and kicked the ball firmly toward the right-hand corner of the goal mouth. But again Robert anticipated the move and caught the ball above his head before pulling it to his chest and shouting, “No goal, Dad, no goal!” He tossed the ball confidently back along the ground to his father’s feet.
“Right, the fooling around is over,” said Andrew, not quite convinced. He kicked the ball from one foot to the other, trying to look skillful.
“Come on, Dad,” Robert complained.
This time Andrew advanced with a look of determination on his face. He tried a change of pace to make his son leave the goal mouth too early. Robert duly came out of the goal; Andrew kicked the ball a little harder and higher than his previous attempt. As he did so he heard the phone ring again and turned his head toward the house. He didn’t see his shot cannon against the left-hand corner of the goal post and bounce away.
“It’s the Prime Minister,” shouted Louise from the window. Andrew turned to walk quickly back toward the house. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the ball bounce on to the path, on its way toward the gate and into the road.
Robert was already running toward the open gate. “I’ll save it, Dad, I’ll save it.”
“No,” screamed Andrew at the top of his voice and turned back to run as fast as he could after his son.
Louise froze as she stared out of the window, still holding on to the phone with her rubber gloves. She watched as Andrew turned his back and tore toward the pavement until he was only a yard behind his son. The ball bounced on into the road and Robert dived for it a split second before his father threw himself on his son.
Louise was the only one who saw the driver of the massive Shell tanker slam on its brakes and swerve — too late — to avoid them. Andrew and Robert collided with the corner of the wide metal mudguard and were thrown back together before rolling over and over several times, ending up in the gutter.
“Are you there, Andrew?” asked the Prime Minister.
Louise dropped the phone and ran out of the kitchen toward the open gate. Her husband lay motionless beside the curb with their son in his arms, the ball still clutched against his chest. She tried to hold on to both of them as Andrew’s blood poured down over Robert’s red shirt and on to her rubber gloves.
She fell on to her knees by the curbside. “Let them live, let them live,” was all she said.
Robert was crying softly as he held firmly on to the ball and stared at his unconscious father. She had to lean over to hear him repeating, “No goal, Dad, no goal.”
When the complete list of ministers was published in The Times two days later the only unfilled post left was that of Minister of State for Defense. The Times’s political editor, David Wood, surmised that the position was being held open for Mr. Andrew Fraser, who was expected to be out of hospital by the end of the week. Wood’s final paragraph read:
Politicians from all parties joined forces in praising Mr. Fraser’s remarkable courage in diving in front of a moving lorry to rescue his only son, Robert, who was chasing a football. Both father and son were rushed to St. Thomas’s Hospital with internal injuries, where surgeons operated through the night to save Mr. Fraser’s life.
As was reported in the final edition of yesterday’s paper, his five-year-old son Robert died during the night before Mr. Fraser regained consciousness.
“My God,” exclaimed Elizabeth, “how dreadful.”
“What’s dreadful?” asked Simon, as he took his seat at the breakfast table. She passed the paper to her husband and pointed to the picture of Robert.
“Poor kid,” said Simon before he had finished the article.
“Certainly puts our own problems into perspective. If Peter or Michael were killed we really would have something to worry about.”
Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Then Elizabeth asked, “Are you dreading it?”
“Yes, (I am,” said Simon. “I feel like a condemned man eating his last breakfast, and the worst part of it is that I have to drive myself to the gallows.”
“I wonder if we will ever laugh about today?”
“No doubt — when I collect my parliamentary pension.”
“Can we live off that?”
“Hardly. I don’t get the first payment until I’m sixty-five, so we have a twenty-five-year wait to find out.” He got up. “Can I give you a lift to the hospital?”
“No thanks. I intend to savor the joys of being a two-car family for at least another week. Just let’s hope the new Marina holds its price as well as Sir Michael Edwardes claimed it would.”
Simon laughed, kissed his wife, and left for his appointment with the Chief Whip at the House of Commons. As he started the car Elizabeth rushed out. “I forgot to tell you, Ronnie phoned while you were in the bath.”
“I’ll call him as soon as I reach the House.”
Simon made his way to the Commons. He felt sick as he passed Cheyne Walk and thought of Andrew Fraser and all he must be going through. He made a mental note to write to him immediately. At the Commons the policeman on the gate saluted as he drove in. “Good morning, sir,” he said.
“Good morning,” said Simon. He parked his car on the second level of the new underground car park and took the escalator up to the Members’ Entrance. He couldn’t help reflecting that ten years ago he would have taken the stairs. He continued through the Members’ Cloakroom, up the marble staircase to the Members’ Lobby. Habit made him turn left into the little post office to check whether he had any mail.
“Mr. Kerslake,” the man behind the counter called into an intercom, and a few seconds later a parcel and a packet of letters held together by a thick elastic band thudded into an office basket. Simon left the parcel marked “London School of Economics” and the letters on the desk in his room and checked his watch: over forty minutes before his appointment with the Chief Whip. He went to the nearest phone and dialed Nethercote and Company. Ronnie answered the phone himself.
“Sacked the telephone operator last Friday,” he explained. “Only me and my secretary left.”
“You called, Ronnie,” a millimeter of hope in Simon’s voice.
“Yes, I wanted to express how I felt. I tried to write you a letter over the weekend but I’m not very good with words.” He paused. “Nor it seems with figures. I just wanted to say how desperately sorry I am. Elizabeth told me you were going to see the Chief Whip this morning. I’ll be thinking of you.”
“That’s kind, Ronnie, but I went into it with my eyes wide open. As an advocate of free enterprise, I can hardly complain when I turn out to be one of its victims.”
“A very philosophical attitude for this time of the morning.”
“How are things your end?”
“The receiver’s checking the books. I still believe we can get out with all our creditors fully paid. At least that way I’ll avoid the stigma of bankruptcy.” There was a longer pause. “Oh Christ, that was tactless.”
“Don’t worry about it, Ronnie, the overdraft was my decision.”
Simon already wished he had been as frank with his wife.
“Let’s have lunch one day next week.”
“It will have to be somewhere that takes luncheon vouchers,” said Simon wryly.
“Good luck, mate,” said Ronnie.
Simon decided to fill up the remaining thirty minutes at the House by going to the library and glancing over the rest of the morning press. He settled himself in a corner of the “B” Room, next to the fireplace over which hung a notice reminding members not to have overloud or prolonged conversations. He leafed through the papers, which all carried photographs of Andrew Fraser and his wife and son. The same portrait of five-year-old Robert appeared on almost every front page. Elizabeth was right: in so many respects they were lucky.