“Care for a nightcap?” she asked casually.
“Daren’t,” he replied. “I’m making my maiden speech tomorrow.”
“So this maiden is to be rejected,” she said to his retreating back.
The House of Commons was well attended at five o’clock the following afternoon when Andrew rose to address his fellow members. The Speaker had allowed him to follow the front-bench contributions, an honor Andrew would not be granted again for some considerable time. His father and mother looked down over the railings from the Strangers’ Gallery as he informed the commoners that the Lord Provost of Edinburgh had spent a lifetime teaching him all he knew about the constituency he was now proud to represent. The Labour party chuckled at the Opposition’s obvious discomfort, but they abided by tradition and made no interruption during a maiden speech.
Andrew had chosen as his subject the question of whether Scotland should remain part of the United Kingdom despite the recent oil discoveries. He delivered a well-argued case, assuring members that he saw no future for his country as a tiny independent state. His rhetoric, and his relaxed turn of phrase, had members laughing on both sides of the House. When he came to the end of his argument, never having once referred to a note, he sat down to loud cheers from his own benches and generous acknowledgment from the Tory side. In his moment of glory he glanced up toward the Strangers’ Gallery. His father was leaning forward, following every word. To his surprise sitting in front of his mother on the benches reserved for distinguished visitors was Alison McKenzie, her arms folded on the balcony. He smiled.
Andrew’s success was considerably enhanced when later that afternoon another member from the Labour benches rose to address the House for the first time. Tom Carson cared nothing for convention and even less for keeping to tradition and made no attempt to avoid controversy in his maiden speech. He began with an attack on what he described as “the Establishment conspiracy,” pointing an accusing finger as much at the ministers on his own front bench as at those opposite him, describing them all as “puppets of the capitalist system.”
Members present in the Chamber restrained themselves from interrupting the scowling Liverpudlian, but the Speaker stirred several times as the accusing finger appeared to cross his path as well. He was painfully aware that the member from Liverpool Dockside was going to cause all sorts of problems if this was the way he intended to conduct himself in the House.
When Andrew left the Chamber three speeches later he went to look for Alison, but she had already left; so he took the members’ lift up to the Public Gallery and invited his parents to join him for tea in the Harcourt Rooms.
“The last time I had tea here was with Ainslie Munro...” Sir Duncan began.
“Then it may be a very long time before you’re invited again,” Andrew interrupted.
“That may depend on whom we select as Tory candidate to oppose you at the next election,” retorted his father.
Several members from both sides of the House came up one by one to congratulate Andrew on his speech. He thanked them all individually but kept glancing hopefully over his father’s shoulder; but Alison McKenzie did not appear.
After his parents had finally left to catch the last flight back to Edinburgh Andrew returned to the Chamber to hear Alison’s father summing up the debate on behalf of the Government. The Minister of State described Andrew’s contribution as one of the finest maiden speeches the House had heard in years. “Maiden it may have been but virginal it was not,” concluded Hugh McKenzie.
Once the debate was over and the usual ten o’clock division had been declared by the tellers Andrew left the Chamber. One final vote on a prayer detained members for a further forty-five minutes and Andrew found the tea room — the traditional haunt of the Labour party — as crowded as it had been earlier in the afternoon.
Members jostled for the remains of unappetizing-looking lettuce leaves that any self-respecting rabbit would have rejected, accompanied by blobs of plastic-covered sweating cheese, described optimistically on the billboard as salad. Andrew contented himself with a cup of Nescafé.
Raymond Gould sat alone, slumped in an armchair in the far corner of the tea room, apparently engrossed in a week-old copy of the New Statesman. He stared impassively as several of his colleagues went over to Andrew to congratulate him. His own maiden speech the previous week had not been as well received and he knew it. He believed just as passionately about war widows’ pensions as Andrew did about the future of Scotland but reading from a prepared manuscript he had been unable to make members hang on his every word. He consoled himself with the thought that Andrew would have to choose the subject for his next speech very carefully as the Opposition would no longer treat him with kid gloves.
Andrew was not concerning himself with such thoughts as he slipped into one of the many internal telephone booths and after checking in his diary dialed a London number. Alison was at home, washing her hair.
“Will it be dry by the time I arrive?”
“It’s very long,” she reminded him.
“Then I’ll have to drive slowly.”
When Andrew appeared on the Chelsea doorstep he was greeted by Alison in a housecoat, her newly dry hair falling down well below shoulder level.
“The victor come to claim his spoils?”
“No, only last night’s coffee,” he said.
“But won’t that keep you awake?”
“I certainly hope so.”
By the time Andrew left Alison’s home at eight the next morning he had already decided he wanted to see a lot more of Hugh McKenzie’s daughter. He returned to his own flat in Cheyne Walk, showered, and changed before making breakfast for himself and going over his mail. There were several more messages of congratulations including one from the Secretary of State for Scotland, while The Times and the Guardian carried brief but favorable comments.
Before leaving for the Commons Andrew checked over an amendment he wanted to move in committee that morning. When he had reworded his efforts several times he picked up his papers and headed off toward Westminster.
Arriving a little early for the ten-thirty committee meeting, Andrew found time to collect his mail from the Members’ Post Office just off the Central Lobby. He set off, head down, along the corridor toward the library, flicking through the envelopes to see if he recognized any familiar hand or official-looking missive that demanded to be opened immediately.
As he turned the corner he was surprised to find the House ticker-tape machine surrounded by Conservative members, including the man who had agreed to be his “pair” for voting purposes.
Andrew stared up at the tall figure of Charles Seymour, who, although standing on the fringe of the crowd, still found it possible to read the tapped-out message on the telex machine.
“What’s causing so much interest?” he asked, prodding Seymour’s elbow.
“Sir Alec has just announced the timetable that’ll be followed when we select the new Tory leader.”
“We all await with baited breath,” said Andrew.
“As well you might,” said Charles, ignoring the sarcasm, “since the next announcement will undoubtedly be his resignation. Then the real politics will begin.”