“I think you’re beautiful,” Louise said, “and I do hope you will want to come and live with us.”
Chapter twenty-three
“Order, order” had meant nothing to the British electorate until 1978 when the House passed a resolution allowing the proceedings in the Commons to be broadcast on radio. Simon had supported the motion on broadcasting, putting forward the argument that radio was a further extension of democracy as it showed the House at work and allowed the voters to know exactly what their elected representatives were up to. Simon listened carefully to a number of his supplementaries, and realized for the first time that he spoke a little too quickly when he had a minister on the run.
Raymond, on the other hand, did not support the motion as he feared that the cries of “Hear, hear” or “Shame” and the heckling of the Prime Minister would sound to listeners like schoolchildren in a playground squabble. Overhearing the words with only one’s imagination to set the scene would, he believed, create a false impression about the many aspects of a member’s daily duties. When one evening Raymond heard a parliamentary debate in which he had taken part he was delighted to discover his arguments carried so much conviction.
When Andrew heard his own voice on Radio Four one morning answering questions on defense issues he was suddenly aware that what he had always considered was a faint trace of a Scottish accent was in fact — when he was angry or excited — quite pronounced.
Charles found the morning program an excellent way of catching up with any proceedings he had missed the previous day. As he now woke each morning alone, “Yesterday in Parliament” became his constant companion. He hadn’t been aware of how upper class he sounded until the occasion on which he followed Tom Carson. He had no intention of changing his voice for the radio.
When the Queen opened the new underground extension to Heathrow airport on 16 December 1977 Raymond was the minister commanded to be present. Joyce made one of her rare trips down to London as they were invited to join the Queen for lunch after the ceremony. When Joyce selected her new dress from Harvey Nichols, she stood in the little cubicle behind a drawn curtain to make sure it was possible for her to curtsy properly. “Good morning, Your Majesty,” she practiced with a slight wobble, to the bemusement of the shop assistant waiting patiently outside.
By the time she had returned to the flat Joyce was confident that she could carry out her part in the proceedings as well as any courtier. As she prepared for Raymond’s return from the morning Cabinet meeting she hoped he would be pleased with her efforts. She had long given up hope of being a mother, but still liked to believe she could be a good wife. Raymond had forewarned her that he would have to change as soon as he arrived at the flat to be sure of being at Green Park before the Queen arrived. After they had accompanied an entourage to Heathrow on the new extension, a journey that would take thirty minutes, they were to return to Buckingham Palace for lunch. Raymond had already come in contact with his monarch on several occasions in his official capacity as a Cabinet minister, but for Joyce it was to be the first time she had been presented.
Once she had had her bath and dressed — she knew Raymond would never forgive her if she were the reason he was late — she began to lay out his clothes. Tail coat, gray pin-striped trousers, white shirt, stiff collar, and a silver-gray tie, all hired that morning from Moss Bros. All that he still needed was a clean white handkerchief for his top pocket, just showing in a straight line, as the Duke of Edinburgh always wore his.
Joyce rummaged around in Raymond’s chest of drawers, admiring the new shirts as she searched for a handkerchief. When she first saw the scribbled note peeking out underneath the collar of a pink shirt lying near the bottom of the pile, she assumed it must be an old laundry bill. Then she spotted the word “Darling.” She felt suddenly sick as she looked more closely.
Darling Carrot Top,
If you ever wear this one I might even agree to marry you.
Joyce sank on the end of the bed as the tears trickled down her face. Her perfect day was shattered. She knew at once what course of action she must take. She replaced the unworn shirt and closed the drawer, after first removing the note, and then sat alone in the drawing room waiting for Raymond to return.
He arrived back at the flat with only a few minutes to spare and was delighted to find his wife changed and ready.
“I’m running it a bit close,” he said, going straight into the bedroom.
Joyce followed and watched him don his morning dress suit. When he had straightened his tie in the mirror, she faced him.
“What do you think?” he asked, not noticing the slight paleness in her cheeks.
She hesitated. “You look fantastic, Raymond. Now come along or we’ll be late, and that would never do.”
When Ronnie Nethercote invited him to lunch at the Ritz, Simon knew things must be looking up again. After a drink in the lounge they were ushered to a corner table overlooking the park in the most palatial dining room in London. Scattered around the other tables were men who were household names in Ronnie’s world as well as in Simon’s.
When the head waiter offered them menus Ronnie waved his hand and said, “Order the country vegetable soup, followed by beef off the trolley, take my word for it.”
“Sounds like a safe bet,” said Simon.
“Unlike our last little venture,” Ronnie grunted. “How much are you still in hock because of the collapse of Nethercote and Company?”
“Fourteen thousand three hundred pounds when I last looked but I’m making inroads slowly. It’s paying the interest before you can cut down on the capital that really hurts.”
“How do you imagine I felt when we were overdrawn seven mill and then the bank decided to pull the rug from under my feet without any warning?”
“As two of the buttons on your waistcoat can no longer reach the holes they were originally tailored for, Ronnie, I must assume those problems are now a thing of the past.”
“You’re right.” He laughed. “Which is why I invited you to lunch. The only person who ended up losing money on that deal was you. If you’d stayed on as the other directors did, at five grand a year, the company would still owe you £ 11,100 of earned income.”
Simon groaned.
The carver wheeled the trolley of beef up to their table.
“Wait a moment, my boy, I haven’t even begun. Morgan Grenfell want me to change the structure of the new company and will be injecting a large amount of cash. At the moment Whitechapel Properties — I hope you approve of the name — is still a one-hundred-pound off-the-shelf company. I own sixty percent and the bank’s got forty. Now before the new agreement is signed, I’m going to offer you—”
“Would you like it well done, as usual, Mr. Nethercote?”
“Yes, Sam,” said Ronnie, slipping the carver a pound note.
“I am going to offer you—”
“And your guest, sir?” the carver said, glancing at Simon.
“Medium, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am going to offer you one percent of the new company, in other words one share.”
Simon didn’t comment, feeling confident Ronnie still hadn’t finished.
“Aren’t you going to ask?” said Ronnie.
“Ask what?” said Simon.
“You politicians get dumber by the minute. If I am going to offer you a one-pound share, how much do you think I am going to demand in return?”
“Well, I can’t believe it’s going to be one pound,” said Simon, grinning.