First Among Equals Read online

  “But do you love him?”

  Joyce considered the question. “No, I can’t pretend I do. But we’re good friends, he’s very kind and understanding and, more important, he’s there.”

  Raymond couldn’t move.

  “And the break would at least give you the chance to ask Kate Garthwaite to give up her job in New York and return to London.” Raymond gasped. “Think about it and let me know what you decide.” She left the room quickly so that he could not see her tears.

  Raymond sat alone in the room and thought back over his years with Joyce—and Kate—and knew exactly what he wanted to do now that the whole affair was out in the open.

  He caught the last train to London the same evening because he had to be in court by ten o’clock the next morning to attend a judge’s summing up. In the flat that night he slept intermittently as he thought about how he would spend the rest of his new life. Before he went into court the next morning he ordered a dozen red roses via Interflora. He phoned the Attorney General. If he was going to change his life he must change it in every way.

  When the summing up was over and the judge had passed sentence Raymond checked the plane schedules. Nowadays you could be there in such a short time. He booked his flight and took a taxi to Heathrow. He sat on the plane praying it wasn’t too late and that too much time hadn’t passed. The flight seemed endless and he took another taxi from the airport.

  When he arrived at her front door she was astonished. “What are you doing here on a Monday afternoon?”

  “I’ve come to try and win you back,” said Raymond. “Christ, that sounds corny,” he added.

  “It’s the nicest thing you’ve said in years,” she said as he held her in his arms; over Joyce’s shoulder Raymond could see the roses brightening up the drawing room.

  “Let’s go and have a quiet dinner.”

  Over dinner Raymond told Joyce of his plans to accept the Attorney General’s offer to join the bench, but only if she would agree to live in London. After a second bottle of champagne which Joyce had been reluctant to open they finally returned home.

  When they arrived back a little after one the phone was ringing. Raymond opened the door and stumbled toward it while Joyce groped for the light switch.

  “Ray, I’ve been trying to get you all night,” a lilting Welsh voice said.

  “Have you now?” Raymond said thickly, trying to keep his eyes open.

  “You sound as if you’ve been to a good party.”

  “I’ve been celebrating with my wife.”

  “Celebrating before you’ve heard the news?”

  “What news?” said Raymond, collapsing into the armchair.

  “I’ve been juggling the new team around all day and I was hoping you would agree to join the Shadow Cabinet as …”

  Raymond sobered up very quickly and listened carefully to the new leader. “Can you hold the line?”

  “Of course,” said the surprised voice on the other end.

  “Joyce,” said Raymond, as she came out of the kitchen clutching two mugs of very black coffee. “Would you agree to live with me in London if I don’t become a judge?”

  A broad smile spread across Joyce’s face with the realization that he was seeking her approval.

  She nodded several times.

  “I’d be delighted to accept,” he said.

  “Thank you, Raymond. Perhaps we could meet at my room in the Commons tomorrow and talk over policy in your new field.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Raymond. “See you tomorrow.” He dropped the phone on the floor and fell asleep in the chair.

  Joyce replaced the phone and didn’t discover until the following morning that her husband was the new Shadow Secretary of State for Social Services.

  Raymond sold his flat in the Barbican, and he and Joyce moved into a small Georgian house in Cowley Street, only a few hundred yards from the House of Commons.

  Raymond watched Joyce decorate his study first, then she set about the rest of the house with the energy and enthusiasm of a newlywed. Once she had completed the guest bedroom Raymond’s parents came down to spend the weekend. He burst out laughing when he greeted his father at the door clutching on to a bag, marked “Gould, the family butcher.”

  “They do have meat in London, you know,” said Raymond.

  “Not like mine, son,” his father replied.

  Over the finest beef Raymond could remember he watched Joyce and his mother chatting away. “Thank God I woke up in time,” he said out loud.

  “What did you say?” asked Joyce.

  “Nothing, my dear, nothing.”

  Although Raymond spent most of his time on the overall strategy for a future Labour Government, like all politicians he had pet anomalies that particularly upset him. His had always been war widows’ pensions, a preoccupation which dated back to his living with his grandmother in Leeds. He remembered the shock when he first realized shortly after leaving university that his grandmother had eked out an existence for thirty years on a weekly widow’s pension that wouldn’t have covered the cost of a decent meal in a London restaurant.

  From the back benches, he had always pressed for the redeeming of war bonds and higher pensions for war widows. His weekly mail showed unequivocally just how major a problem war widows’ pensions had become. During his years in Opposition he had worked doggedly to achieve ever-increasing, smaller rises, but he vowed that were he to become Secretary of State he would enact something more radical.

  Joyce left a cutting from the Standard for him to read when he returned from the Commons that night. She had scribbled across it: “This could end up on the front page of every national paper.”

  Raymond agreed with her, and the following day he tried to press his view on to a reluctant Shadow Cabinet who seemed more concerned with the planned series of picketing by the Yorkshire miners’ union than the case of Mrs. Dora Benson.

  Raymond researched the story carefully and discovered that the case didn’t differ greatly from the many others he had looked into over the years, except for the added ingredient of a Victoria Cross. By any standards, Mrs. Dora Benson highlighted Raymond’s cause. She was one of the handful of surviving widows of the First World War and her husband, Private Albert Benson, had been killed at the Somme leading an attack on a German trench. Nine Germans had been killed before Albert Benson died, which was why he had been awarded the VC. His widow had continued working as a cleaner in the King’s Head at Barking for over fifty years. Her only possessions of any value were her war bonds, but with no redemption date they were still passing hands at twenty-five pounds each. Mrs. Benson’s case might have gone unnoticed if in desperation she had not asked Sotheby’s to auction her husband’s medal.

  Once Raymond had armed himself with all the facts he put down a question to the minister concerned asking if he would at last honor the Government’s long-promised pledges in such cases. A sleepy but packed House heard Simon Kerslake, as Minister of State for Defense, reply that his department was once again considering the problem and he would make known their findings in the near future. Simon settled back on to the green benches satisfied that would pacify Gould. But Raymond’s supplementary stunned him and woke up the House.

  “Does the Right Honorable Gentleman realize that this eighty-four-year-old widow, whose husband was killed in action and won the Victoria Cross, has a lower income than a sixteen-year-old cadet on his first day in the armed forces?”

  Simon rose once more, determined to put a stop to the issue until he had had more time to study the details of this particular case.

  “I was not aware of this fact, Mr. Speaker, and I can assure the Right Honorable Gentleman that I shall take into consideration all the points he has mentioned.”

  Simon felt confident the Speaker would now move on to the next question. But Raymond rose again, the Opposition benches spurring him on.

  “Is the Right Honorable Gentleman also aware that an admiral, on an index-linked income, can hope to en