“I’m sure the Foreign Secretary - correction, our provisional leader - will come up with something,” said Damian, who loved uncharted waters. “But the rest of us need to make sure he doesn’t overstep the mark.”
“You can say that again!” Muttered Bessie.
Like everyone at Westminster, Damian had heard the rumours that Bessie and Adam had ‘history’. But he decided to tread carefully, so just asked: “How many of you in the cabinet?”
“Twenty three.”
“Of which we’ve so far only seen three survivors: you, Adam and Jasper. Culture, Media and Sport is a lightweight portfolio, so we can discount pretty-boy Jasper, which leaves you, Bessie, as the only political heavyweight able to stand up to Adam.”
“Sounds like you don’t trust Tichbold,” said Chloe.
“In Westminster nobody trusts anyone,” said Damian. “I jest of course. Bessie’s favourite word for me is ‘frivolous’. To be serious for once - and this is off the record, okay....?”
Chloe nodded.
“....You can use as background my opinion that Adam Tichbold is clever, well-connected, and a hard worker. But as slippery a customer as you’ll ever find. Would you agree Bessie?”
“You’re being far too generous. Also off the record.”
“What are you afraid of?” asked Chloe. “What can your new leader actually do?”
“Difficult to say,” replied Damian. “That’s the problem. There are people who can rattle off whole chunks of Erskine May....”
“Erskine who?” from Chloe.
“Bible of parliamentary procedure,” explained Bessie. First came out in the eighteen forties, with later updates. Gives chapter and verse for what we can and can’t do.”
“I don’t suppose Erskine May covers the current situation, so it’s impossible to forecast what Adam might do,” said Damian. “Our constitution works largely by precedent and we’ve never lost most of the government overnight before. It’s like being in a boxing ring and discovering the Queensbury Rules no longer apply. Your opponent may suddenly be able to hit below the belt, kick or bite. Until we get things sorted, we need to make sure no one tries anything underhand.”
“Surely Tichbold can’t be that bad,” said Chloe.
“No, no, I’m not suggesting that for a moment....” began Damian.
Bessie interrupted: “Why not? I wouldn’t put anything past Adam.”
There was an awkward pause. Damian had underestimated the strength of animus between the two.
Chloe broke the silence: “How long until things are back to normal?”
Damian shrugged. “First priority is a full house again. A normal quota of six hundred MPs. Not much point in having hundreds of by-elections, so that’ll probably mean a general election; which takes a fair amount of organising. Then there’s the little matter of where we can meet. A replacement for the House of Commons chamber should ideally be somewhere near home base in Parliament Square. May not be easy to find.”
At that point the food arrived: fish and chips for the ladies, lamb shank for Damian. They continued to dissect their new situation, with Chloe noting down interesting snippets. Just after nine Bessie announced she was knackered and would be calling it a day. She rang for a cab, her lodgings being up in West Kensington, too far to walk.
When Bessie had gone, Damian turned to Chloe: “Better get you off as well. Pimlico tube station is just around the corner: Victoria line to Oxford Circus, then onto the Bakerloo for Paddington. Twenty five minutes, with luck.”
For a moment the reporter said nothing. Then: “Think I’ll stay in town. Need to be here for that nine thirty meeting, so there’s no point in going home to Oxford only to have to come all the way back again first thing.”
Damian smiled to himself. Had seen this coming. Playing along he asked: “Where had you thought of staying?”
Chloe shrugged. Tried acting the waif - and failed: wasn’t the waif type. Finally replied: “I’ll find somewhere. If necessary sleep on the floor.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Damian got up. “Can’t have the Oxford Herald telling its readers that their MP is in the habit of throwing ladies out onto the street.”
“Are you sure?”
“Come on.” He took her arm. “A five minute walk. I’ve got a nice sofa, so no one need sleep on the floor.”
18
Damian had omitted to say that although his apartment was about five minutes away on the flat, there was then a four storey climb to what had originally been an attic for servants, but today housed the likes of city high rollers and MPs. Fortunately they were both fit, Damian careful not to have lost all of his body tone from West Ham days, while Chloe was young enough not to have to think of such things.
Only slightly out of breath, Damian opened the door to reveal a modern interior with off white walls and hidden lighting. In a corner stood a glass-topped dinner table; along one wall a phoney-coal gas fire; in the middle a large low-backed sofa, most acceptable as a bed should it be needed: and on the walls four paintings with lots of colours and patterns - and no discernable relevance to the real world.
“Nice,” said Chloe, looking around.
“It’s what I call home when I’m in town.” Damian drew the curtain. “Fancy a nightcap?”
“What have you got?”
“Take a look.” He indicated a drinks cabinet. “Pour yourself something. While you’re at it, do one for me. Should be some Laphroaig left. One thumb, no ice. Got a taste for it during that Glasgow by-election.”
Chloe announced she was going to try a Drambuie and found a couple of glasses. With London’s streets still soggy after the storm, she had taken off her boots and was sitting on the sofa with her feet up. Her hair, a halfway colour between brown and red, was starting to come adrift from its perch on top of her head; when fully collapsed it would be below shoulder length. He had been given to understand she was a cub reporter, new to the game, but she didn’t appear to be new to life: late twenties, perhaps.
Damian moved his personal viewing chair from opposite the big TV screen to a more companionable position closer to her, said “Cheers!” and let Scotland’s finest suffuse his system.
Now he could really relax, something that had not been possible with Bessie around. It wasn’t only the generation gap - she was old enough to be his mother - it was more that he always felt guilty when defying her voting orders. She was a nice old bird, honest to a fault, which was almost unique at Westminster. And strangely pathetic. She had never married - married to politics was the usual phrase - and apart from that one hint at a youthful indiscretion, appeared to have no private life. Although Damian liked and respected the Chief Whip, there was always some tension between them.
Now that Bessie had departed, leaving just Chloe, Damian was not only more at ease, he was also curious. Looking at the reporter lying there, glass in hand, she reminded him of that old rhyme that girls are ‘sugar and spice and all things nice’. He reckoned this particular example was more hot spice than sugar. Sweet things did not choose a career in journalism and she had already shown herself to be single-minded in pursuit of her trade. Chloe had not latched onto him because of his good looks - maybe a bit of that as well, he had always got on well with the ladies. No, her main aim was a good story, for which he was the conduit.
That suited him fine. He still missed Mandy and the kids and since their departure female company had been at best fleeting. So if Chloe wanted to use him, why not? He was a sucker for being used by attractive ladies.
“Reckon you got a good story?” he asked. “Saw your fingers dancing away texting.”
“If I haven’t filed a good one after today’s events, I deserve the sack,” she replied, taking a sip of Drambuie. “It’s what happens next that interests me now.”
Damian smiled. “What do you think will happen next?”
She twirled her glass around, considering a reply. Although that square jaw and Roman nose could hardly be described as beaut
iful, her full figure and poise promised a seductive political discussion.
“First thing is to find out how many of the government are still alive,” she said at last. “If the PM really is dead, as seems likely, your new provisional leader will then be able to decide what to do.”
“I think you’ve got it the wrong way round.”
“What do you mean?”
“My guess is that Adam will decide what to do before we know the fate of the rest of them. You may have noticed he didn’t hang around after the meeting. Rushed off to.... God knows where. He won’t have been sitting at home twiddling his thumbs. We’ll find out what he’s been up to in the morning.”
“You don’t much like Tichbold, do you?”
“Whether I like him on a personal level doesn’t matter. In fact, I hardly know him. He’s Foreign Secretary, remember, and I’m a new and lowly backbencher. But Tichbold gets things done, which in my book is a plus. The downside is he’s often headstrong, which can get him into trouble.”
“Miss Robotham certainly doesn’t like him.”
Damian nodded. “Goes back to student days, although no one seems to know what happened.”
Chloe nodded, thought for a moment, said: “Getting into that meeting today was a bit of luck: I just happened to be around. Tomorrow will be more difficult. Think you could swing it for me?”
Damian smiled. “Can certainly try. As one of the few Tory MPs still alive and kicking, I have to be there of course. I’ll say you’re my Personal Assistant.”
He levered himself out of the chair: “We need to get there in good time to make sure of a place. By nine at the latest. So time call it a day.”
Chloe also rose, came towards him, put her arms around his waist. More hair had given up the struggle against gravity and was cascading over her shoulders. She murmured; “Personal Assistant. I like it.”
He looked into her eyes, which were a walnut brown: artificial light distorts colours, so he would have to check again in daylight. Doing his best not to be hypnotised, he said: “If we’re to be up at the crack of sparrows, I’d better assist you to your boudoir. I’ll take the settee.”
Tightening the armlock around his waist, she said: “I hate sleeping alone.”
Damian nodded solemnly. “In that case perhaps I should give you my mattress test drive. Good Personal Assistants are hard to find and I need to know whether you’re up to scratch.”
Chloe grinned, took his hand and led him bed-wards. “Vroom vroom! Be warned, I’m a Ferrari.”
“Then go easy. Tomorrow is an important day and we need an early start.”
19
MARCH 14th.
The alarm woke them at seven. Chloe had managed her nocturnal Personal Assistant test without coming off the road, although there had been the equivalent of much burnt rubber and squealing tyres. She must have passed because they had both slept well and were ready to go.
While Damian shaved, Chloe turned on Breakfast News for the latest from the Leaning Tower.
“The first six bodies have been brought out,” she shouted towards Damian in the bathroom. “No names, except they were all MPs. No sign of life under the rubble, so hopes for survivors are fading. But structural engineers have given the Leaning Tower a cautious bill of health; said the one in Pisa has lasted a few centuries, so London’s should be able to manage a few more days.”
Damian’s breakfast was always continental so Chloe was stuck with the same: mug of coffee, banana and/or tangerine, yoghourt, toast. They watched the box as they ate, but there was little more to add. They were keen to get going, so set off shortly after 8.15, the weather sunny after yesterday’s storm, albeit still windy.
Damian had wondered whether getting Chloe into Portcullis House would be a problem, but her press pass plus his personal guarantee earned her an easy entry. They went straight up to the Attlee suite, where Bessie Robotham was already fussing around. Good old dependable Bessie. She greeted them absentmindedly, her attention on the TV team, who were setting up their equipment. Damian suggested to Chloe that she take a back seat - literally. The Attlee was not a big room and today it would play host not only to the surviving Tory MPs, but also the world’s press. If places became tight, someone might try and eject Chloe should she be too obvious.
Damian aimed to be very obvious. Yesterday, by chance and cheekiness, he had managed a seat at the top table beside Bessie and Adam. Familiarity breeds acceptance, so could he manage this trick again? At the worst they could only demote him to a place amongst the plebs.
So he sat down in the same seat as yesterday. Removed some papers from his briefcase, tried to look important. Shuffled papers around, intense and busy. Someone Not To Be Disturbed. Bessie took no notice. No one took any notice.
At 9.20 Adam Tichbold breezed in, his usual dapper self. Yesterday the storm-ravaged look had been appropriate but today he wanted to give the impression of calm. A man in control. He always wore his hair long, so it was generally assumed he rarely visited a barber. In fact, a personal coiffeuse attended him once a week to make sure those fulsome black locks were exactly the right length and any hint of grey had been airbrushed out. Many men of his age were bald, or at least thinning on top, so Tichbold was proud of his full mane. His trademark blue hankie, peeping out of his breast pocket, was again immaculate
The Tory Provisional Leader gave Damian no more than a passing nod before sitting down next to him in the centre chair. They were soon joined by the Chief Whip, making the same triumvirate as the previous day. On the dot of 9.30 Adam Tichbold brought the meeting to order. Every chair was taken, many of the press corps having to stand.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome: if that’s the right word in these tragic circumstances.” Adam did ‘tragic’ as well as any Shakespearean actor. “Fourteen bodies have now been recovered from the wreckage, including that of our beloved Home Secretary, Freddy Bosanquet. May I ask for a minutes silence to remember Freddy and all those who have given their lives in the cause of democracy.”
Damian always found such silences embarrassing; difficult not to fidget. But it was soon over - only one minute, after all - after which Tichbold turned business-like:
“We must now put our grieving on hold, because those of us that are left have a job to do. Yesterday I was honoured to be elected as your new leader...”
Damian heard Bessie give a sharp intake of breath. Adam had been elected their provisional leader, an adjective he was now omitting.
“.....and I realised there was no time to lose. The country can’t afford to be rudderless any longer, so I requested an audience with His Majesty the King. As you may know, His Majesty was at his West Country estate when the incident occurred, but as soon as it had been established that no terrorism was involved, he was airlifted to Buckingham Palace. It was there that he received me last night. I kissed hands and he delivered to me the Seals of Office.”
Bessie Robotham held up her hand: “What happens if the Prime Minster is in fact still alive?”
“Then we revert to the status quo ante,” replied Adam smoothly. “However, my information is that this is most unlikely. No survivors have so far been found and the possibility that there may still be anyone left alive seems remote.”
Bessie made some grumpy grunts, but could find no rational objections.
Adam continued: “We now have to govern this country until a general election can take place and a new Parliament installed. You will remember that a previous administration reduced the number of members of Parliament from six hundred and fifty to six hundred - a figure some people still consider too high. As of yesterday morning we, the Conservatives, had three hundred and eighteen members, with Labour on two hundred and twenty three; the balance made up of Lib Dems, Greens, Scottish Nats, Northern Irish. Our small majority was more comfortable than it might seem because of the divided opposition.”
“By yesterday evening this had all changed. Every party has spent the past few hours in a frantic roll call to try
and establish who has not been buried in that necropolis across the way. We have so far only been able to confirm seventy six Conservative MPs as being alive and well.”
As Adam paused for this to sink in, the Reuter’s man, whose maths was faster than others, shouted: “Does that mean two hundred and forty two Conservatives are unaccounted for?”
Adam nodded grimly. “When the dust settles I doubt whether we’ll manage more than eighty living MPs. My Labour opposite number tells me they’ve only been able to locate fifty three of theirs. The fringe parties, especially the SNP, appear to have suffered less, but as yet I have no figures for them.”
The Reuter’s calculating machine had another question: “So you’re left with about one hundred and thirty people from the two major parties and maybe forty from the others; say one hundred and seventy in all, is that correct?”
Adam agreed that seemed about right.
“How do you propose to govern with that number?”
“Much as we did with the full six hundred,” replied the new, if provisional, Prime Minister, irritably. “I don’t anticipate any major legislation, more a holding operation until we’re back to full strength again.”
“Where will all this take place?” Persisted Reuter. “Where will you hold your debates?”
“I’m glad you asked that,” replied Adam, immediately in a better mood. “This room would be far too small, so His Majesty and I discussed other options, the most obvious one being that we take over the House of Lords. However a couple of phone calls put the kibosh on that: first problem was that the whole area is still a disaster zone and likely to remain so for a while: secondly, we’ve been talking for years about moving all of us out of the Palace of Westminster, the place being in need of a complete overhaul; no point in moving into somewhere that was unfit for purpose even before this latest event.”
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