Then there had been a newsletter from the secretary of the local Conservative Association in which plans for several social events had been revealed to members. The ball a few months earlier, of course, had been most enjoyable, although the 118 Ramsey Dunbarton
attendance, it was pointed out – six people – had been a little disappointing. The secretary, who had been unable to attend herself, exhorted the members to make next year’s ball an even greater success, and noted that an attempt would be made to secure the services of a different band. “We had some very critical comments about the performance of the band,” she wrote,
“and these have been forwarded to the ball committee (convened by Sasha and Raeburn Todd). One member has raised with me the question of whether it is proper for bands to allow their socialist convictions to interfere with the performance of their duties at paid functions. This is a very pertinent point and I believe that we should take action. If anybody knows of a Conservative ceilidh band, please contact us as soon as possible so that we can book them for next year. So far, no suggestions of possible bands have been received.”
Ramsey Dunbarton read this with interest. He was the member who had raised the question of the band’s performance and he was pleased to see that his complaint had been taken up.
There had been a lot wrong with the organisation of the ball, in his view. To begin with, somebody had tried to put him and Betty at a separate table from the other four guests. This was a ridiculous idea, and he had soon dealt with it by the simple expedient of moving the tables together. Then there was the question of the raffle, about which he still felt moderately vexed.
There had been some very generous prizes donated by the members, and it was imperative that any raffle for these should have been carried out fairly. He was not convinced that this had happened; in fact, he was sure that Sasha Todd, who had arranged the whole thing, had actually fixed the lottery so that she and her family should get the most desirable prizes. In particular, Ramsey had noted that she had made sure that she would win the lunch with Malcolm Rifkind and Lord James, which was the prize that he would most have liked to win. It can hardly have been much fun for the two politicians to have to sit through a lunch and listen to her going on about the sort of things that she tended to talk about. She was a very superficial woman, in his view, and she would have had no conversation of any interest.
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He, by contrast, could have talked to them about things they understood and appreciated.
Ramsey’s thoughts on the newsletter were interrupted by the arrival of Betty in his study.
“Coffee, dear,” she said, handing him his cup with its small piece of shortbread perched on the edge of the saucer.
“Bless you, Betty,” Ramsey said, taking the cup from his wife.
“Deep in thought?” Betty asked. “As always.”
Ramsey smiled. “Politics,” he said. “I was reading the newsletter. That made me think about politics.”
Betty nodded. “You would have made a wonderful politician, Ramsey,” she said. “I often wonder what would have happened had you entered Parliament. I’m sure that you would have reached the top, or close enough to the top.”
“I don’t know, Betty,” said Ramsey. “Politics are dirty. I’m not sure whether I would have had the stomach for it. They are very rude to one another, you know. And the moment they get the chance, they stab you in the back.”
Betty nodded. “Of course, if you had gone into politics, you’d now be sitting down writing your memoirs. That’s what they all seem to do these days.”
120 The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part 1 – Early Days Ramsey spun round and looked at his wife. “Memoirs?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Betty. “Your political memoirs.”
Ramsey put down his cup. “Betty,” he said. “There’s something that I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. The question of memoirs.”
Betty looked at him inquiringly. “Yes?”
Ramsey lowered his gaze, as if in modesty. “It’s funny you should have mentioned memoirs,” he said quietly. “I’ve actually been writing them. I’ve got quite a bit down on paper already.”
For a moment, Betty said nothing. Then she clapped her hands together. “That’s wonderful, my dear. Wonderful!”
Ramsey smiled. “And I thought that you might like to hear a few excerpts. I was plucking up courage to offer to read them to you.”
“I can’t wait,” said Betty. “Let’s hear something right now.
I’ll fetch more coffee and then we can sit down.”
“It’s not going to set the heather on fire,” said Ramsey modestly. “But I think that my story is every bit as interesting as the next man’s.”
“Even more so,” said Betty. “Even more so.”
37. The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part 1 – Early Days Ramsey Dunbarton, having shuffled through a sheaf of papers, looked at his wife over the top of his reading glasses. “I shan’t bore you with the early stuff,” he said. “School and all that. I had a pretty uneventful time at school, and nothing much happened; it’s hardly worth recording. So I’ll start off when I was a young man. Twenty-five. Can you imagine me at twenty-five, Betty?”
Betty smiled coyly. “How could I forget? The year we met.”
Ramsey frowned. “No, sorry, my dear. Not the year we met.
We met when I was twenty-six, not twenty-five. I remember it very well. I had just finished my apprenticeship with Shepherd The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part 1 – Early Days 121
and Wedderburn and had been engaged by another office. I remember it very well.”
Betty took a sip of her coffee. “And I remember it very well too, my darling. You were twenty-five because I remember –
very clearly indeed in my case – going to your twenty-sixth birthday party, and I couldn’t have done that if I hadn’t already met you. You don’t normally go to the birthday parties of people you have yet to meet, do you?”
Ramsey laid down the sheaf of papers. “That party – and I was going to say something about it in the memoirs – was not my twenty-sixth. It was my twenty-fifth. I did not celebrate my twenty-sixth because – if you cast your mind back
– I had tonsillitis and was having my tonsils removed in the Royal Infirmary! I remember getting a card from the office wishing me a speedy recovery, and a happy birthday too. It was signed by the senior partner, and I kept it. I was very pleased to have received it.”
Betty pursed her lips. For a moment it seemed as if she was about to speak, but then she did not.
“I suggest that we stop arguing,” said Ramsey. “If you’re going to find fault with my memoirs on matters of detail, then I’m not sure if it will be at all productive to read them to you.”
Betty sprang to her own defence. “I was not finding fault, as you put it. I was merely wanting to keep the historical record straight. These things are important. Imagine what the world would be like if memoirs were misleading. You have to be accurate.”
“And I am being accurate,” retorted Ramsey. “I’m checking every single fact that I commit to paper. I’ve been consulting my diaries, and they are very full, I’ll have you know. I’ve gone down to George IV Bridge to make sure that everything I say about contemporary events is true. I am being very historical in all this.” He paused, and then added peevishly: “I don’t want to mislead posterity, Betty.”
Betty thought for a moment. She was certain that she was right about the birthday being the twenty-sixth rather than the twenty-fifth, but she felt that she should let it be, even if it was 122 The Ramsey Dunbarton Story: Part 1 – Early Days a serious mistake on her husband’s part. “Of course you don’t want to mislead, Ramsey,” she said placatingly. “Let’s not discuss it any further. Twenty-five, twenty-six – it’s very much the same thing. You carry on, dear. I’m listening.”