Read First Among Equals Online
Authors: Jeffrey Archer
Tags: #Political, #Politicians, #General, #Romance, #Sagas, #Fiction
First Among Equals (46 page)
“Don’t you realize
that I have had grave responsibilities in the Commons?” Pimkin declared. “No
one could have anticipated that members would have been called back for a
special declaration.”
“Everyone knows
about that,” said the chairman. “But the bill commanded by the Queen went
through all its three readings last week without a division.”
Pimkin inwardly
cursed the day they had allowed television into the House. “Don’t fuss,” he
soothed. “‘Come the hour, cometh the man,’ and surely the voters will remember
that I have had a long and distinguished parliamentary career.
Damn it, old
thing, have you forgotten that I was a candidate for the Leadership of the Tory
party?”
No-and how many
votes did you receive on that occasion?
the
chairman wanted
to say, but instead he took a deep breath and repeated his urgent request that
the member visit the constituency as soon as possible.
Pimkin arrived
seven days before the election and, as in past campaigns, settled himself in
the private bar of the Swan Arms – the only decent pub in the town, he assured
those people who took the trouble to come over and seek his opinion.
“But the SDP
candidate has visited every pub in the division,” wailed the chairman.
“More fool he.
We can say that he’s looking for any excuse for a pub crawl,” said PimIcin,
roaring with laughter.
Any temporary
misgivings Pimkin might have had were allayed when be noted in the evening
paper that the national polls showed that Labour and Conservative were neck and
neck at 42 percent, while the SDP had only 12 percent.
Raymond spent
the last week traveling from Liverpool to Glasgow and then back to Manchester
before he returned to Leeds on the eve of the election. He was met at the
station by the Mayor and driven to the Town Hall to deliver his last appeal to
the electorate before an audience of two thousand.
Introducing
him, the Mayor said, “Ray has come home.”
The zoorri lens
of the TV cameras showed clearly the fatigue of a man who had only caught a few
hours’ sleep during the past month. But it also captured the energy and drive
that had kept him going to deliver this, his final speech.
When he came to
the end, he waved to his supporters who cheered themselves hoarse. Suddenly he
felt his legs beginning to give way. Joyce and Fred Padgett took the exhausted
candidate home. He fell asleep in the car on the way back, so the two of them
helped him upstairs, undressed him and let him sleep on until six the next
morning.
Simon returned
to Pucklebridge on the eve of the election to deliver his final speech in the
local village hall. Four hundred and eighteen voters sat inside to hear him;
four thousand others stood outside in the coot night air listening to his words
relayed on a loudspeaker; and fourteen million more viewed it on “News at
Ten
.”
Simon’s
powerful speech ended with a rallying call to the electorate: “Be sure you go
to the polls tomorrow.
Every vote will
be vital.”
He did not
realize how accurate that prophecy would turn out to be.
On Election Day
both Leaders were up by six. After interviews on the two breakfast television
channels, both stood for the obligatory photo of the candidate arriving at a
polling hall with his wife to cast his vote. Simon enjoyed being back in
Pucklebridge, where for a change he had the chance to shake the hands of his
own constituents.
Neither Leader
ever sat down that day other than in a car as they moved from place to place.
At 10 P.m. when the polls closed, they collapsed, exhausted, and allowed the
computers to take over.
Raymond and
Joyce stayed in Leeds to follow the results on television while Simon and
Elizabeth returned to London to witness the outcome at the Conservative central
office.
The first
result came from Guilford at eleven twentyone, and showed a 2 percent swing to
the Conservatives.
“Not enough,”
said Simon in the Party chairman’s study at central office.
“It may not be
enough,” said Raymond when the next two seats delivered their verdict, and the
swing switched back to Labour.
It was going to
be a long night.
When the first
hundred seats had been declared, the analysts were certain of only one thing:
that they were uncertain of the final outcome.
Opinions,
expert and amateur, were still fluid at one o’clock that morning, by which time
two hundred results were in, and remained so at two o’clock when over three
hundred constituencies had been reported.
Raymond went to
bed with a lead of 236-191 over Simon, knowing it might not be enough to offset
the country shires the next day. Neither Raymond nor Simon slept. The next
morning pundits were back on radio and television by six o’clock, all agreeing
with the Daily Mail’s headline,
“Stalemate.”
Raymond and Joyce returned to London on the
early afternoon train after they learned Raymond had retained Leeds North with
a record majority. Simon traveled back down to Pucklebridge where he, too,
acknowledged a record majority.
By three
forty-seven, when Raymond had reached Number I I Downing Street, the Labour
lead had fallen to 287-276. At four, the Social Democrats notched up a victory
in Brighton East by a mere 72 votes. It was more than the loss of the seat that
saddened Simon. “The House won’t be quite the same without Alec Pimkin,” he
told Elizabeth.
At four
twenty-three that Friday afternoon, both the major parties had three hundred
and three seats, with only twenty seats still to be heard from. Simon won two
and smiled. Raymond won the next two and stopped frowning. With six results
still to come in, even the computer had stopped predicting the results.
At five the
BBC’s veteran commentator announced the final vote of the 1991 election:
CONSERVATIVE 313
LABOUR 313
SDP 18
IRISH 19
SPEAKER I
He pointed out
that there had never before been a tie in British political history. He went on
to say, “There simply is no precedent to fall back on as we await word from
Buckingham Palace.”
He closed with
the observation, “This only makes Her Majesty’s recent decision even more
fateful than we could have anticipated.”
In the audience
room of Buckingham Palace, the Lord Chancellor was advising the monarch on the
legal position that the election results had created. He pointed out that
although in the past the sovereign’s ratification had merely served as a symbol
to confirm the people’s wishes, on this occasion the choice itself had to come
direct from the palace.
There was,
however, one man whose advice he suggested might prove invaluable.
Whatever his past party loyalty or personal prejudices, the Speaker
of the House could always be relied upon to offer an unbiased judgment as to
which candidate would be most able to command the support of the House.
The monarch
nodded thoughtfully and later that evening called for Charles Hampton.
Mr. Speaker
spent forty minutes alone with the sovereign. Just as the Lord Chancellor had
predicted, Hampton gave a fair and accurate assessment of the strengths and
weaknesses of the 434
two
leaders. However, Mr. Speaker left the monarch in no
doubt as to which of the two men he believed would make the most able Prime
Minister. He added that the man in question enjoyed his utmost personal
respect.
After Charles
Hampton had left, the sovereign requested that the private secretary contact
both Simon Kerslake and Raymond Gould and explain that his decision would be
made by the following morning.
When Raymond
learned that Charles Hampton had been consulted, he couldn’t help worrying that
despite the Speaker’s traditionally neutral
role,
Hampton’s Tory background would cloud his final judgment.
When Simon watched Charles being driven from the Palace on “News at
‘ren” that night, he switched off the television and, turning to Elizabeth,
said, “And I really believed that man had harmed me for the last time.”
K
ING CHARLES III MADE the final decision. He requested his private
secretary to call upon the Right Honorable Raymond Gould and invite him to
attend His Majesty at the Palace.
As Big Ben
struck ten o’clock on that Saturday moming, Raymond stepped out of the Labour
Party headquarters on the comer of Smith Square and into the clear monfing
sunlight to be greeted by crowds of wellwishers, television cameras and
journalists. Raymond only smiled and waved, knowing it was not yet the occasion
to make a statement. He slipped quickly through the police cordon and into the
back seat of the black Daimler. Motorcycle escorts guided the chauffeur-driven
car through the dense
crowds
slowly past Conservative
Party headquarters. Raymond wondered what was going through Simon Kerslake’s
mind at that moment.
The chauffeur
drove on to MWbank past the House of Commons, round Parliament Square, and left
into Birdcage Walk before reaching the Mall.
Scotland Yard
had been briefed that the Labour Party Leader had been called to see King
Charles, and the car never stopped once on its journey to the Palace.
The chauffeur
then swung into the Mall, and Buckingham Palace loomed up in front of Raymond’s
eyes. At every junction a policeman held the traffic and then saluted. Suddenly
it was all worthwhile: Raymond went back over the years and then considered the
future. His first thoughts were of Joyce, and how he wished she could be with
him now.
He frowned as
he recalled the low points of his career.
The near-disastrous
brush with blackmail.
His resignation and the
subsequent years of political exile.
He smiled as his thoughts turned to
the high points: his first ministerial appointment; being invited to join the
Cabiaet; presenting his first budget, the political exhilaration of his climb
to the Leadership of the Party.
And Kate.
He could
anticipate the telegram she would send by the end of the day. Finally, he
recalled the little room above the butcher shop, where he was first guided by
his grandmother onto the path that would lead him to Ntimber 10.
The Daimler
reached the end of the Mall and circled the statue ol’Queen Victoria before
arriving at the vast wrought-iron gates outside Buckingham Palace. A sentry in
the scarlet uniform of the Grenadier Guards presented arms. The huge crowds
that had been waiting around the gates from the early hours craned their necks
hoping to find out who had been chosen to lead them. Raymond smiled and waved.
In response some of them waved back and cheered more loudly while others looked
sulky and downcast.
The Daimler
continued on its way past the sentry and across the Courtyard through the
archway and into the quadrangle before coming to a halt on the gravel outside a
side entrance. Raymond stepped out of the car to be met by the King’s private
secretary. The silent equerry led Raymond up a semicircular staircase, past the
Alan Ramsey portrait of George 111. The equerry guided Raymond down a long
corridor before entering the audience room.
He left Raymond
alone with his new sovereign.
Raymoad could
feel his pulse quicken as he took three paces forward, bowed and waited for the
King to speak.
The
forty-three-year-old monarch showed no sign of nervousness in carrying out his
first official duty, despite its unusual delicacy.
“Mr. Gould,” he
began, “I have taken advice from many quarters, including Mr. Speaker, and having
done so, I wanted to see you first.
“I thought it
would be courteous to explain to you in detail why I shall be inviting Mr.
Simon Kerslake to be my first Pfime Minister.”
The End
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