For the next week the popular press tried to suggest, conjure up, or even invent a rival for Andrew. Louise, who believed almost everything she read in the papers, took to perusing the Morning Star, the only paper which showed no interest in the outcome. But by five o’clock on the seventh day it had become obvious that Andrew was to be the sole nomination.
At the next parliamentary meeting of the SDP he was not so much elected as anointed. On the following Saturday, having been made a Privy Councillor the day before, Andrew addressed the party faithful at a packed Albert Hall. After a well-received speech, the press unanimously predicted — yet again — an SDP-Liberal revival. One or two journalists were quick to point out that if the balance of power did ever rest in his hands the Right Honorable Andrew Fraser might not know which way to jump: with on the one hand a father who was a distinguished Tory, while on the other having been a member of the Labour party himself for twenty years, which party would he consider the lesser of the two evils? Andrew always told the press that he would worry about that when the problem arose, because the SDP might not even be able to come to an agreement with the Liberals.
Numerous articles on the new SDP leader appeared in newspapers and magazines across the country. They all reported the stories of his attempt to save his son’s life, the gradual recovery of his wife after Robert’s death, the successful adoption of Clarissa, and his reelection to Parliament on the toss of a golden sovereign.
All the publicity made Clarissa feel like a film star, she told her father. She was the most popular girl in school, she added, so he had better become Prime Minister. He laughed but proceeded to lead his party with a determination and energy that caused him to be talked of in the same breath as the leaders of the two main parties.
No sooner had the publicity over Andrew’s election died down than the press started speculating as to whether Mrs. Thatcher would now make way for a younger man.
“Don’t you know any other restaurant?”
“Yes, but they don’t know me,” replied Ronnie Nethercote, as the two men strolled into the Ritz for the first time in a couple of years. Heads turned as people leaned forward and whispered Simon’s name to their guests.
“What are you up to nowadays? I can’t believe Opposition fully occupies you,” Ronnie said as they took their seats.
“Not really. I might also be described as one of the four million unemployed,” replied Simon.
“That’s what we’re here to talk about,” said Ronnie, “but first I recommend the country vegetable soup and the...”
“Beef off the trolley,” interjected Simon.
“You remembered.”
“It’s the one thing you’ve always been right about.”
Ronnie laughed more loudly than people normally did in the Ritz before saying, “Now you no longer have the entire armed forces at your disposal or ambassadors to call you Your Eminence or whatever they call you now, why don’t you join the board of my new company?”
“It’s kind of you to ask, Ronnie, but the answer has to be no.”
They both broke off their conversation to allow the head waiter to take their orders.
“There’s a salary of £20,000 a year that goes with it.”
“I can’t deny that Elizabeth and I could do with the money. With Peter staying up at Oxford to do a D.Phil. and Michael bent on being an actor I wonder if my bank account will ever be in credit.”
“Then why not come in with us?” asked Ronnie.
“Because I’m a committed politician,” said Simon, “and I no longer want to involve myself in any commercial activities.”
“That might stop you becoming Prime Minister?”
Simon hesitated at the bluntness of Ronnie’s question then said, “Frankly, yes. I’ve got a better than outside chance and I’d be foolish to lengthen the odds by becoming involved in anything else right now.”
“But everyone knows that as soon as Margaret announces she’s going to pack up you’ll be the next leader. It’s as simple as that.”
“No, Ronnie, it’s never as simple as that.”
“Then tell me, who could beat you?”
“Charles Seymour, for one.”
“Seymour? He’s a toffee-nosed git,” said Ronnie.
“He has a lot of friends in the party, and his patrician background still counts for something with the Tories. Sir Alec remains the best loved of our most recent Prime Ministers.”
“Yes, but he was given the leadership by the magic circle,” said Ronnie. “You’d kill Seymour with every elected member of the party having a vote.”
“Time will tell,” said Simon, bored with a conversation he had had with so many people lately. “But what have you been up to?” he asked, deliberately changing the subject.
“I’ve been working my backside off in preparation for going public in about a year’s time, which is why I wanted you on the board.”
“You never give up.”
“No, and I hope you haven’t given up your one percent of the company.”
“Elizabeth has it locked away somewhere.”
“Then you had better find the key.”
“Why?” asked Simon.
“Because when I put out ten million shares on the market at three quid a time, your one original share will be exchanged for 100,000 shares of common stock. I know you weren’t ever Chancellor but that’s £300,000 of anyone’s money.”
Simon was speechless.
“Well, say something,” said Ronnie.
“Frankly I’d forgotten the share existed,” Simon finally managed.
“Well, I think I can safely say,” said Ronnie, parodying one of Mrs. Thatcher’s favorite phrases, “that’s not a bad investment for a pound, and one you will never regret.”
As the budget debate drew nearer Raymond found twenty-four hours each day were not enough, even without sleep. He discussed the changes he required with the Treasury mandarins, but it became more obvious as each week passed that he would have to make sacrifices. He was sick of being told that there would always be next year, feeling he had waited far too long already. He often went over to Transport House to discuss with his party researchers those promises in the manifesto which they considered the top priorities. Raymond had been pleased by the party’s decision to leave Walworth Road and return to Transport House as the party headquarters soon after their victory at the polls.
As the weeks passed, compromises were reached and cutbacks agreed but Raymond managed to cling to the changes about which he felt most passionate. By the Friday morning before the budget the mandarins had handed him his speech. It ran to 143 pages and they estimated it would keep him at the dispatch box for two and a half hours.
On the Tuesday morning of Budget Day he spelled out his tax changes to the Cabinet, who traditionally did not hear the full details until a few hours before the budget was presented to the House.
Budget Day in the House of Commons is a traditional affair. Ambassadors, diplomats, bankers, and members of the House of Lords rub shoulders with the general public in the tiny Strangers’ Gallery. The queue for seats often stretches for a quarter of a mile from St. Stephen’s to Westminster Bridge, but only half a dozen people at the front of the line actually hear the Chancellor’s speech, because every other place has been allocated even before the queue has begun to form. The Chamber itself is usually packed by two-thirty although the, Chancellor does not rise until an hour later. The Press Gallery is equally overcrowded with correspondents ready to run to the nearest phone as soon as any change in taxation is announced. Back-benchers, who because of the size of the Chamber cannot be guaranteed their normal places, are mostly seated by two-twenty-five. Conservatives can reserve their seats by filling in a small prayer card during the morning and leaving it on the place they wish to occupy. Socialists, who consider the system undemocratic, refuse to use the prayer cards and make a mad rush for places at two-thirty. The atheists on both sides wait for the chaplain to finish prayers before they charge in, hoping to find their usual places free.