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  Emma’s first call was not to Giles to congratulate him on retaining his seat in the Cabinet, but to Margaret Thatcher at her home in Flood Street, Chelsea.

  “You have to stand for the leadership of the party, Margaret.”

  “There isn’t a vacancy,” Mrs. Thatcher reminded her, “and there’s no suggestion that Ted is considering giving up the post.”

  “Then kick him into touch,” said Emma firmly. “Perhaps it’s time to remind him he’s lost us three elections out of four.”

  “True,” said Thatcher, “but the Tories are not known for ditching their leaders, as you’ll discover when you talk to the party faithful at your next area committee meeting. By the way, Ted has spent the last week calling every constituency chairman one by one.”

  “It’s not the constituency chairmen who will choose the next leader of the party,” said Emma, “but your colleagues in the House. They’re the only ones who have a vote. So perhaps you should be calling them one by one.”

  * * *

  Emma watched from a distance as speculation over the party leadership became more and more rife. She’d never read so many newspapers, listened to so many radio discussions or watched so many television debates, often late into the night.

  Apparently oblivious to what was going on around him, Ted Heath, like Nero, went on playing his fiddle. But then, in an attempt to stamp his authority on the party, he called a leadership election for February 4, 1975.

  Over the next few days Emma tried repeatedly to call Margaret Thatcher, but her line was constantly engaged.

  When she finally got through, Emma didn’t bother with pleasantries. “You’ll never have a better chance of leading the party than now,” she said. “Not least because Heath’s old cabinet chums aren’t willing to stand against him.”

  “You may be right,” said Margaret, “which is why some of my colleagues in the Commons are trying to gauge my chances, should I decide to throw my hat into the ring.”

  “You have to make your move now, while the men still think they’re part of an old boys’ club that would never allow a woman to become a member.”

  “I know you’re right, Emma, but I only have a few cards to play and must be careful about which ones I select and when to show them. One mistake, and I could be on the back benches for the rest of my political career. But please keep in touch. You know how much I value your opinion as someone who’s not holed up in the Westminster village, only thinking about what’s in it for them.”

  Emma turned out to be right about the “old boys’ club,” because all the big beasts in the party remained loyal to Heath, along with the Telegraph and Mail. Only the Spectator kept pressing Mrs. Thatcher to stand. And when, to Emma’s delight, she finally did allow her name to go forward, the announcement was met by Heath’s inner circle with ridicule and contempt, while the press refused to take her challenge seriously. In fact, Heath told anyone who would listen that she was no more than a stalking horse.

  “He’s about to discover that she’s a Thoroughbred,” was all Emma had to say on the subject.

  * * *

  On the day of the vote, Giles invited his sister to join him for lunch in the House of Lords so she would be among the first to learn the result. Emma found the atmosphere in the corridors of power electric, and understood for the first time why so many otherwise rational human beings couldn’t resist the roar of the political jungle.

  She accompanied Giles up to the first floor so she could watch the Tory members as they entered committee room 7 to cast their votes. There was no sign of any of the five candidates, just their acolytes swarming around, trying to persuade last-minute waverers that their candidate was certain to win.

  At six o’clock, the door to committee room 7 slammed shut so the chairman of the 1922 Committee could preside over the count. Fifteen minutes later, even before Edward du Cann had a chance to announce the result, a loud cheer went up from inside the committee room. Everyone standing in the corridor fell silent as they waited for the news.

  “She’s won!” went up the cry, and like falling dominoes, the words were repeated again and again until they reached the crowds on the street outside.

  Emma was invited to join the victor for a celebratory drink in her room.

  “I haven’t won yet,” said Thatcher after Airey Neave had raised a glass to the new Leader of the Opposition. “Let’s not forget that was only the first round, and someone else is bound to stand against me. Not until then will we discover if a woman can not only lead the Tory party, but become prime minister. Let’s get back to work,” she added, not allowing her glass to be refilled.

  It wasn’t until later, much later, that Emma called Harry to explain why she’d missed the last train to Bristol.

  * * *

  On the journey back to the West Country the following morning, Emma began to think about her priorities and the allocation of her time. She had already decided to resign as area chairman of the Conservative Association if Ted Heath had been reelected as leader, but she accepted that, having trumpeted Margaret Thatcher’s cause, she would now have to remain in her post until after the next general election. But how would she juggle being chairman of Barrington’s and deputy chairman of the hospital’s trustees, along with her responsibilities to the party, when there were only twenty-four hours in each day? She was still wrestling with the problem when she got off the train at Temple Meads and joined the taxi queue. She was no nearer solving it by the time the cabbie dropped her outside the Manor House.

  As she opened the front door, she was surprised to see Harry come rushing out of his study during a writing session.

  “What is it, darling?” she asked, worried that it could only be bad news.

  “Nick Croft has called three times and asked if you’d ring him the moment you got back.”

  Emma picked up the phone in the hall and dialed the number Harry had written down on the pad next to the phone. Her call was answered after only one ring.

  “It’s Emma.” She listened carefully to what the chairman had to say. “I’m so very sorry, Nick,” she said eventually. “And of course I understand why you feel you have to resign.”

  SEBASTIAN CLIFTON

  1975

  29

  “THERE’S A DR. WOLFE on line one for you,” said Rachel.

  Although Sebastian hadn’t spoken to the lady for some time, it wasn’t a name he was likely to forget.

  “Mr. Clifton, I’m calling because I thought you’d like to know that Jessica has several paintings in the school’s end-of-term exhibition that prove she’s been well worthy of your scholarship. There is one piece that I consider quite exceptional, called My Father.”

  “When does the exhibition take place?”

  “This weekend. It opens on Friday evening and runs through Sunday. I appreciate that it would be a long way to travel just to see half a dozen pictures so I’ve put a catalogue in the post.”

  “Thank you. Are any of Jessica’s pictures for sale?”

  “All the works are for sale, and this year the children have chosen to give the proceeds to the American Red Cross.”

  “Then I’ll buy all of them,” said Sebastian.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr. Clifton. Other parents would rightly complain if any of the pictures were sold before the show opens, and that is a rule I’m not willing to break.”

  “What time does the show open?”

  “Five o’clock on Friday.”

  Seb flicked open his diary and looked down at what he had planned for the weekend. Victor had invited him to White Hart Lane to see Spurs play Liverpool, and Uncle Giles was holding a drinks party at the Lords. Not a difficult decision. “I’ll fly over on Friday morning. But I don’t want Jessica or her mother to know I’m in town while her husband is still alive.”

  There was a long pause before Dr. Wolfe said, “But Mr. Brewer died over a year ago, Mr. Clifton. I’m so sorry, I assumed you knew.”

  Sebastian col