First Among Equals Read online

  That was before he met Ronnie Nethercote.

  Andrew Fraser had often read that the anger or jealousy of one man could block the advance of a political career but he still found it hard to accept that it could apply to him. What annoyed him even more was that Hugh McKenzie’s tentacles seemed to have spread through every other department.

  Andrew’s marriage to Louise Forsyth had been expansively covered in the national papers and the absence of the Secretary of State at the wedding did not escape the notice of the Daily Express’s William Hickey. They even published an out-of-date photograph of Alison McKenzie looking sorrowful.

  Sir Duncan reminded his son that politics was for long-distance runners, not sprinters, and that he still had a few more laps to complete yet. “An unfortunate analogy,” considered Andrew as he had been a member of the Edinburgh University 4 x 110 relay team. Nevertheless he prepared himself for the marathon.

  “Don’t forget, Harold Macmillan spent fourteen years on the back benches before holding office,” Sir Duncan added.

  Louise accompanied Andrew all over the country for his speeches “of major importance,” usually to an audience of less than twenty; she only stopped traveling to Scotland every week when she discovered she was pregnant.

  To Louise’s surprise, Andrew turned out to be a keen anticipatory father, determined his son would not think of him only as a politician. Single-handed, he converted one of the upstairs bedrooms in Cheyne Walk into a nursery and sought her approval for a variety of blue decorative schemes.

  Louise was anxious that Andrew should extend the same feelings to their unborn child, if they had a daughter.

  Raymond Could quickly gained a reputation at the Department of Employment. He was thought of as extremely bright, demanding, hard working and, not that it was ever reported to him, arrogant. His ability to cut a junior civil servant off in mid-sentence or to correct his principal Private Secretary on matters of detail did not endear him even to his closest staff, who always want to be loyal to their master.

  Raymond’s work load was prodigious and even the Permanent Secretary experienced Gould’s unrelenting “Don’t make excuses” when he tried to trim one of the minister’s private schemes. Soon senior civil servants were talking of when, not whether, he would be promoted. His Secretary of State, like all men who were expected to be in six places at once, often asked Raymond to stand in for him, but even Raymond was surprised when he was invited to represent the department as guest of honor at the annual CBI dinner.

  Joyce checked to see that her husband’s dinner jacket was well brushed, his shirt spotless, and his shoes shining like a guards officer’s. His carefully worded speech—a combination of civil-servant draftsmanship and a few more forceful phrases of his own to prove to the assembled capitalists that not every member of the Labour party was a “raving commie”—was safely lodged in his inside pocket. His driver ferried him from his Lansdowne Road home toward the West End.

  Raymond enjoyed the occasion; although he was nervous when he rose to represent the Government in reply to the toast of the guests. By the time he had resumed his seat he felt it had been one of his better efforts. The ovation that followed was certainly more than polite from what had to be classified as a naturally hostile audience.

  “That speech was dryer than the Chablis,” one guest whispered in the chairman’s ear but he had to agree that, with men like Gould in high office, it was going to be a lot easier to live with the Socialists.

  The man on Simon Kerslake’s left was far more blunt in voicing his opinion of Could. “Bloody man thinks like a Tory, talks like a Tory, so why isn’t he a Tory?” he demanded.

  Simon grinned at the prematurely balding man who had been expressing his equally vivid views throughout dinner. Corpulent and ruddy-faced, Ronnie Nethercote looked as if he was trying to escape from every part of his bulging dinner jacket.

  “I expect,” said Simon in reply, “that Gould would have found it hard to join the Young Conservatives, born in the thirties and living in Leeds.”

  “Balls,” said Ronnie. “I managed it and I was born in the East End of London without any of his advantages. Now tell me, Mr. Kerslake, what do you do when you’re not wasting your time in the House of Commons?”

  Raymond stayed on after dinner and chatted for some time to the captains of industry. A little after eleven he left to return to Lansdowne Road.

  As his chauffeur drove slowly away from Grosvenor House down Park Lane, the Under-Secretary waved expansively back to his host. Someone else waved in reply. At first Raymond only glanced across, assuming it was another dinner guest, until he saw her legs. Standing on the corner outside the petrol station on Park Lane stood a young girl smiling at him invitingly, her white leather miniskirt so short it might have been better described as a handkerchief. Her long legs reminded him of Joyce ten years before except that they were black. Her finely curled hair and the set of her hips remained firmly implanted in Raymond’s mind all the way home.

  When they reached Lansdowne Road Raymond climbed out of the official car and said “Good night” to his driver before walking slowly toward his front door, but he did not take out his latch key. He waited until he was sure the driver had turned the corner before looking up and checking the bedroom window. All the lights were out. Joyce must be asleep.

  He crept down the path and back on to the pavement, then looked up and down the road, finally spotting the space where Joyce had parked the Sunbeam. He checked the spare key was on his key-ring and fumbled about, feeling like a car thief. It took three attempts before the car spluttered into life, and Raymond wondered if he would wake up the whole road as he moved off and headed back to Park Lane, not certain what to expect. When he reached Marble Arch he traveled slowly down in the center stream of traffic. A few dinner guests in evening dress were still spilling out of Grosvenor House. He passed the petrol station: she hadn’t moved. She smiled again and he accelerated, nearly running into the car in front of him. Raymond traveled back up to Marble Arch but, instead of turning toward home, he drove down Park Lane again, this time not as quickly and on the inside lane. He took his foot off the accelerator as he approached the petrol station and she waved again. He returned to Marble Arch before repeating his detour down Park Lane, this time even more slowly. As he passed Grosvenor House for a third time he checked to be sure that there were no stragglers still chatting on the pavement. It was clear. He touched the brakes and his car came to a stop just beyond the petrol station. He waited.

  The girl looked up and down the street before strolling over to the car, opening the passenger door and taking a seat next to the Under Secretary of State for Employment.

  “Looking for business?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Raymond hoarsely.

  “Come on, darling. You can’t imagine I was standing out there hoping to get a suntan.”

  Raymond turned to look at the girl more carefully and wanted to touch her despite the aura of cheap perfume. Her black blouse had three buttons undone; a fourth would have left nothing to the imagination.

  “It’s ten pounds at my place.”

  “Where’s your place?” he heard himself say.

  “I use a hotel in Paddington.”

  “How do we get there?” he asked, putting his hand nervously through his red hair.

  “Just head up to Marble Arch and I’ll direct you.”

  Raymond pulled out and went off toward Hyde Park Corner, and drove round before traveling on up toward Marble Arch once again.

  “I’m Mandy,” she-said, “what’s your name?”

  Raymond hesitated. “Malcolm.”

  “And what do you do, Malcolm, in these hard times?”

  “I … I sell secondhand cars.”

  “Haven’t picked out a very good one for yourself, have you?” She laughed.

  Raymond made no comment. It didn’t stop Mandy.

  “What’s a secondhand car salesman doing dressed up like a toff, then?”