“Be sure you back the winner,” said Andrew, grinning.
Charles Seymour smiled knowingly but made no comment.
Chapter three
Charles Seymour drove his Daimler from the Commons to his father’s bank in the City. He still thought of Seymour’s of Cheapside as his father’s bank although for two generations the family had been only minority shareholders, with Charles himself in possession of a mere two percent of the stock. Nevertheless as his brother Rupert showed no desire in representing the family interests the two percent guaranteed Charles a place on the board and an income sufficient to ensure that his paltry parliamentary salary of £1,750 a year was adequately supplemented.
From the day Charles had first taken his place on the board of Seymour’s he had no doubt that the new chairman, Derek Spencer, considered him a dangerous rival. Spencer had lobbied to have Rupert replace his father on retirement and only because of Charles’s insistence had Spencer failed to move the old earl to his way of thinking.
When Charles went on to take his seat in Parliament Spencer at once raised the problem of his burdensome responsibilities at the House preventing him from carrying out his day-to-day duties for the board. However, Charles was able to convince a majority of his fellow directors of the advantages of having someone on the board at Westminster, although he knew that would cease if he was ever invited to be a minister.
As Charles left the Daimler in Seymour’s courtyard it amused him to consider that his parking space was worth twenty times the value of the car. The area at the front of Seymour’s was a relic of his great-grandfather’s day. The twelfth Earl of Bridgwater had insisted on an entrance large enough to allow a complete sweep for his coach and four. That conveyance had long disappeared, to be replaced by twelve car spaces for Seymour directors. The bank’s new management-conscious chairman, despite all his grammar school virtues, had never suggested the land be used for any other purpose.
The young girl seated at the reception desk abruptly stopped polishing her nails in time to say “Good morning, Mr. Charles,” as he came through the revolving doors and disappeared into a waiting lift. A few moments later Charles was seated behind a desk in his small oak-paneled office, a clean white memo pad in front of him. He pressed a button on the intercom and told his secretary that he did not want to be disturbed during the next hour.
Sixty minutes later the white pad had twelve names penciled on it, but ten already had lines drawn through them. Only the names of Reginald Maudling and Edward Heath remained.
Charles tore off the piece of paper and the indented sheet underneath and put them both through the shredder by the side of his desk. He tried to summon up some interest in the agenda for the bank’s weekly board meeting; only one item, item seven, seemed to be of any importance. Just before eleven, he gathered up his papers and headed toward the boardroom. Most of his colleagues were already seated when Derek Spencer called item number one as the boardroom clock chimed the hour.
During the ensuing predictable discussion on bank rates, the movement in metal prices, Eurobonds, and client investment policy Charles’s mind kept wandering back to the forthcoming leadership election and the importance of backing the winner if he were to be quickly promoted from the back benches.
By the time they reached item seven on the agenda Charles had made up his mind. Derek Spencer opened a discussion on the proposed loans to Mexico and Poland, and most of the board members agreed with him that the bank should participate in one but not risk both.
Cherles’s thoughts, however, were not in Mexico City or Warsaw. They were far nearer home and when the chairman called for a vote, Charles didn’t register.
“Mexico or Poland, Charles. Which of the two do you favor?”
“Heath,” he replied.
“I beg your pardon,” said Derek Spencer.
Charles snapped back from Westminster to Cheapside to find everyone around the boardroom table staring at him. With the air of a man who had been giving the matter considerable thought Charles said firmly, “Mexico,” and added, “The great difference between the two countries can best be gauged by their attitudes to repayment. Mexico might not want to repay, but Poland won’t be able to, so why not limit our risks and back Mexico? If it comes to litigation I’d prefer to be against someone who won’t pay rather than someone who can’t.” The older members round the table nodded in agreement; the right son of Bridgwater was sitting on the board.
When the meeting was over Charles joined his colleagues for lunch in the directors’ dining room. On the walls hung two Hogarths, a Brueghel, a Goya, and a Rembrandt that could distract even the most indulgent gourmet: just another reminder of his great-grandfather’s ability to select winners. Charles did not wait to make a decision between the Cheddar and the Stilton as he wanted to be back in the Commons for question time.
On arrival at the House he immediately made his way to the smoking room, long regarded by the Tories as their preserve. There in the deep leather armchairs and cigar-laden atmosphere the talk was entirely of who would be Sir Alec’s successor.
Charles could not avoid overhearing Pimkin’s high-pitched voice. “As Edward Heath is Shadow Chancellor while we debate the Finance Bill on the floor of the House, it is he who is bound to be the center of attention.”
Later that afternoon Charles returned to the Commons Chamber. He wanted to observe Heath and his Shadow team deal with the Government’s amendments one by one.
He was about to leave the Chamber when Raymond Could rose to move an amendment. Charles listened with grudging admiration as Raymond’s intellectual grasp and force of argument easily compensated for his lack of oratorial skill. Although Gould was a cut above the rest of his intake on the Labour benches he didn’t frighten Charles. Twelve generations of shrewd business acumen had kept large parts of Leeds in the hands of the Bridgwater family without the likes of Raymond Gould even being aware of it.
Charles took supper in the Members’ Dining Room that night and sat at the large table in the center of the room frequented by Tory back-benchers. There was only one topic of conversation and as the same two names kept emerging it was obvious that it was going to be a very close run thing.
When Charles arrived back at his Eaton Square home after the ten o’clock division Fiona was already tucked up in bed reading Philip Larkin’s The Whitsum Weddings.
“They let you out early tonight.”
“Not too bad,” said Charles, and began regaling her with how he had spent his day, before disappearing into the bathroom.
If Charles imagined he was cunning, his wife, Lady Fiona, only daughter of the Duke of Falkirk, was in a different league. She and Charles had been selected for each other at an early age and neither had questioned or doubted the wisdom of the choice. Although Charles had squired numerous girlfriends before their marriage in between he had always assumed he would return to Fiona. Charles’s grandfather always maintained that the aristocracy was becoming far too lax and sentimental about marriage. “Women,” he declared, “are for bearing children and ensuring a continuation of the male line.” The old earl became even more staid in his convictions when he was made aware that Rupert showed little interest in the opposite sex, and was rarely to be found in the company of women. Fiona would never have dreamed of disagreeing with the old man to his face as she was determined that it would be a son of hers that would inherit the earldom. But despite enthusiastic and then contrived efforts Charles seemed unable to sire an heir. Fiona was later assured by a Harley Street physician that there was no reason she could not bear children. The specialist had suggested that perhaps her husband pay the clinic a visit. She shook her head, knowing Charles would dismiss such an idea out of hand, and never mentioned the subject to anyone again.