Chloe was clearing the plates, Damian wondering which single malt to select, when the phone rang.
“Gerry?.... Ah, yes. That Gerry. What can I do for you?”
Damian signalled for some hush and sat down. The new leader of the opposition was known to him only by name and reputation. He had often seen him in the Chamber and the corridors of Westminster, but their paths had never crossed verbally. Gerry Farthing was from a different party, a different generation. They appeared to have now found electoral common ground, but...?
“Hope I’m not disturbing you?” said the voice from the other end.
“No, no, just finished dinner. I’m all yours.”
“Just been crunching the numbers, expect you’ve been doing the same,” began Farthing in his donnish voice.
“Yea, looks a close call.”
“In our camps, maybe. But if you add the Picts and Paddies it’ll be no contest. We have them by the short and curlies.”
“You may be right. Bessie’s of the same opinion.”
“Is Madame Robotham with you?
“She is. Sitting opposite, in her full glory.”
“That’s convenient. You see, I have a problem....”
“Very well, I can take a hint. Where are you phoning from?”
“I reckon about ten minutes away.”
“Okay, come on over....”
“Confidences guaranteed? My lot would do terrible things to me were they to hear I’d been consorting with the Robotham.”
“Our lips will be sealed. Promise. Unless you give us the nod.”
“Does that include your new and lovely personal assistant from the Dreaming Spires?”
“You know about her?” Damian was shaken.
“My dear fellow, Westminster may be a model of inefficiency, but its rumour mill is world class.”
“Yes, that includes Ms. Pettigrew....” He glanced across at Chloe, who had given the thumbs up. “She says Scout’s honour - maybe that should be Brownie’s honour.”
“Excellent. See you in a jiffy.” The line went dead.
28
Judging by his ascent of the Pimlico alps Gerry Farthing was in better shape than the Tory Chief Whip. But there wasn’t much in it. By the time Damian ushered him in, the Labour leader’s brow was distinctly moist, his breathing as laboured as the party he represented. Compared with the sartorial splendour of the Interim Prime Minister who always wore an impeccable suite and waistcoat, Farthing was a mess. To say that he had selected a pullover to wear under his jacket would be inaccurate. Gerry didn’t so much select his clothing as simply grab what had been discarded the night before. This tended to be comfortable rather than snappy. And none too clean.
The leader of the opposition accepted a large Glenfiddich, then slumped into a chair with a sigh.
“What can we help you with?” asked Damian.
“It’s your boss, the PM.”
“Yes...? And...?”
“Foolish of him to rush off to Buck House like that, get himself anointed by His Maj before he knew the numbers.”
“You mean the makeup of the surviving Parliament?”
Farthing nodded. “When we had a full house you had a majority - just. Not always easy, but you managed to push through most of the Bills you really wanted. You may still be the largest party, but now that overall majority is gone. Might not have mattered had Tichbold seen sense with the only item on our agenda, electoral reform, but he’s decided to be bloody minded. Thwart the will of the majority. It really won’t do.”
“You can always demand a vote of no confidence,” said Damian. “If you win, off he goes.”
Farthing squirmed. “Yes, as a last resort. But it would be much....cleaner if you could settle the whole thing internally.”
“Good God! You want us to stage a palace revolution?”
Gerry smirked. “Why not? It’s something the Tories are rather good at. The name Thatcher springs to mind.”
“By the end Thatcher had leaked a lot of goodwill,” said Damian. “But everyone was very enthusiastic when we elected Tichbold. No way we could get rid of him even if we wanted to.”
“It’s not often that I agree with the leader of the opposition,” said Bessie, entering the fray. “But I think this is an avenue worth exploring.”
Anything that might scupper Tichbold was worth a try, so she continued: “It’s true that a lot of hands went up when Adam was elected, but if he is seen as a stumbling block - a barrier to the will of the people, that could change. Nowadays it can be from hero to zero overnight.”
“Who would replace Tichbold?” asked Damian, beginning to get annoyed. “He stands head and shoulders above anyone else.” Another thought struck him: “You’re surely not angling for the job yourself, Gerry?”
“Good grief, no! I’d hate it. Not PM material. Even if I were, the country’s leader must come from within the largest party. Not that this always happens under PR, but we’re not yet ready for such a big leap.”
“If not Tichbold, whom do you want?”
“You would do nicely.”
“Me?” Damian was stunned. “Don’t be ridiculous! I’m a simple backbencher and likely to stay that way. Never been near a red box.”
“It may have escaped your notice but almost all the red boxes have been eliminated. I believe only three are left on your side of the House: the one we’re trying to jettison, Tichbold: Bessie, who I suspect is as un-keen as me....?
Madly signalling negatives, Robotham blurted out: “Don’t even think about me.”
“...Finally there’s Jasper whats-his-name from Culture and Sport. Who’s a joke.”
“So you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel and my name came up,” said Damian.
“What’s bitten you?” asked Gerry, puzzled. “I’m offering you the ultimate prize and you’re off in a huff.”
“The poor boy is in shock,” said Bessie. “He’ll get over it. Leave it to me.”
Support from the Chief Whip? Now he was really in shock!
“You tick all the boxes from our point of view,” persisted Gerry. “Not part of the Tory establishment and a well-known supporter of fair votes.”
“You forget one thing,” said Damian. “Mistress Harding, our new Speaker, has ordered us back to the classroom in just a few hours: ten tomorrow morning. No time for us - or anyone - to put any pressure of the PM.”
“That had occurred to me,” said Farthing. “So we’ve prepared a delaying action. I wanted a few words so you’d be aware of our intentions. If Tichbold refuses to budge, we intend to remove him. I believe we can muster enough votes to do it. But we’d rather put things off for a few days and let you do the dirty work. However it’s managed, this temporary PM must be….well, very temporary. When he’s gone, we’d be happy to work with someone like you.”
“Can you give me, say, three days?” asked Bessie, a gleam in her eye. Revenge was all the sweeter when served very cold - after a gap of forty years.
“Under the circumstances I’m sure Speaker Harding will allow us a little grace,” replied Farthing. “Reckon you can de-throne Adam in that time?”
“I’ll have a damned good try.”
“Good girl,” Farthing started levering himself into an upright position.
But Damian had regained control over his thoughts and indicated he wasn’t finished: “One more thing, just a suggestion. At present we only have one item on our agenda, right?”
Farthing nodded: “A fairer voting system for the next election.”
“Why just that one item?”
Everyone looked puzzled.
Finally Bessie answered: “Obvious, I’d have thought: we need another election to fill all those empty seats and my old opponent over there insists we do so under a new voting system.”
“Let me put it another way,” persisted Damian. “We are assuming those of us that are left have the power to change electoral law, so why stop there?”
“What else do you want to cha
nge?” asked Chloe.
“How long is a piece of string? Are you, Gerry, a fan of the House of Lords?”
“Good grief, no! Long past its sell-by date. A disgrace.”
“And look at the way the House of Commons votes: first the division bells clang, then we rush into the division lobbies, then they physically count us - a monumental waste of time.”
“You want electronic voting?”
“Of course! This is the twenty first century, for God’s sake! Then there’s the geography of the Commons chamber itself, designed for yelling at each other face to face: no one else does it like that any longer....”
“You appear to have let loose a rebel,” said Bessie. “Sure you want him as our next PM?”
Farthing smiled. “If Damian carries on like this they’ll think he’s one of our lot. Anyway, Bessie, your job now is to fix Mr. Tichbold. Think you can manage?”
“You bet!” she replied with relish.
“Well, mine is to slow the election bandwagon long enough for you to achieve it,” said Farthing. “After that, we might be able to consider anything else Damian has up his sleeve.
29
MARCH 21st.
The meeting of the Interim Parliament next morning did not last long. The leader of the opposition asked for a further adjournment on the grounds of ‘unexpected difficulties’, which the Prime Minister, aware of the precariousness of his position, did not oppose.
At first Madame Speaker was reluctant to agree, so Farthing pointed out that some countries might go for weeks, even months, without any formal government, if they had difficulties constructing a coalition. A parliament, he reminded the House, was a legislature, not an executive, which in the UK comprised the prime minister and his cabinet, who were on call 24/7.
In a retreat from his previous call for an election ‘in the shortest possible time’, Farthing now suggested it would be wise to take a little longer and get it right. Speaker Harding had to agree and set the next meeting for the following Monday.
Both sides went back to their members for some hard figures on which way a vote for change would go. They also contacted the smaller parties who held the balance. On Saturday evening Bessie Robotham phoned her Labour opposite number to compare notes. They were a close match and put the matter beyond doubt. Any proposal to change the electoral system to a proportional one would be passed by a margin of about thirty. A decisive figure in their reduced assembly of 170.
Damian and Chloe were in his Pimlico apartment having dinner when Bessie rang to tell them the news.
“Where does this leave Adam?” asked Damian.
“In difficulties,” replied Bessie. “We have a Prime Minister who says he is opposed to what is clearly the majority opinion of the House. He can either change his mind, depart gracefully or be thrown out. Someone needs to talk to him. That someone obviously can’t be me. Nor Gerry. So you, Damian, have been volunteered. I’ve told Adam you would like to see him and he said that’d be fine. Go down to his place tomorrow and have a chat.”
“Go down where? Isn’t he in Number Ten?”
He’s in Number Ten during the week - sort of. Trouble is, the old PM’s widow wasn’t expecting her husband to be flattened by a rogue flying object, so had made no provision for being thrown out of house and home. Adam has done the decent thing and let her stay on for a few days while she gets things sorted. She should be out by Monday, meanwhile Adam’s off for the weekend to his Berkshire estate. He’s awaiting your call to fix the details. This is his private number: Ready to copy....?”
Five minutes later Damian had been connected to the Prime Minister, who was all the gracious host. Of course he’d be delighted to discuss matters with him. Pack an overnight bag. And do bring that lovely little scribe of yours... what was her name again?”
“Chloe Pettigrew.”
“Yes, Chloe. Also welcome to stay the night.” With the flow of history running against him, Tichbold wanted events recorded to his advantage. He had usually been able to charm the media at least halfway to his way of thinking and this Pettigrew girl was young and therefore malleable; easily influenced by an alpha male like himself.
30
MARCH 24TH.
Damian didn’t keep a car in London, where it was a hindrance rather than a means of transport, so he and Chloe took a train to Reading, the nearest station to the Tichbold estate. There they were met by a prime ministerial limousine, which took some twenty minutes to convey them to a large mock Tudor house set in rolling country. To the left were some outbuildings, probably stables, with an adjacent paddock; to the right an expanse of lawn; behind, well away from the house, was some rough ground which gave way to an area of woodland.
The car crunched round the semi-circular drive, coming to a stop by the front door, through which the prime minister emerged to greet them.
“One of the perks of office,” he commented, pointing to the car and driver. “Come, let me take your bag.” He grabbed Chloe’s overnight grip, at the same time awarding her his most dazzling smile; the smile that made women go weak at the knees and won elections. Damian might have been invisible.
“Hermione - my wife - suggests we have a quick cold collation,” he continued. “Then I’ll show you around. After that, perhaps a brisk walk: it’s such a splendid day....”
The weather had in fact turned up trumps. The storm which had inadvertently caused London’s tower to lean had long since disappeared towards Norway and they were now enjoying a temporary ridge of high pressure. It was the sort of glorious English scene in which Inspector Morse or Hercule Poirot could have counted on for at least a couple of corpses by teatime. Unfortunately, the day would probably remain murder-less; arsenic in the prime minister’s ‘cold collation’ would have solved a lot of problems, but Damian doubted whether he could get away with it. PMs these days had security.
In the hallway they were greeted by Hermione, tall, slim, dark-haired, an English rose, who in middle age retained much of her youthful bloom. She was wearing an apron with “THE BOSS” inscribed across her bosom. To prove the point, she took Chloe’s bag from her husband and with a “Let’s get rid of these” over her shoulder led the way up the stairs.
The house was more ‘Mock’ than ‘Tudor’, probably built during the 1930s. It had double glazing and rooms high enough for even Adam to stand upright in. Not a mediaeval structure. Damian was further impressed when Hermione showed them to their room, which was light and airy with a large double bed. Mrs. Tichbold, an avid fan of ‘Strictly’, was of the opinion that wife Mandy had been over-hasty and Damian hard done by: a man that could do with a new woman in his life.
Lunch was spent in idle gossip, Adam loath to open the Pandora’s box of politics until they were alone. Just after two o’clock he led them to the back door, where a parade of green wellies, mud-less and sparkling, stood ready for use. Adam slipped his feet into the master’s pair, inviting Damian and Chloe to find some that suited them.
“Still a bit soggy out there,” he explained.
As they set off towards the outbuildings, Damian realised they were being shadowed by two bulky figures in their forties.
“I call them Bill and Ben”, explained Adam. “Here to see no one bumps me off.”
Bill and Ben smiled grimly and followed them.
“Let’s say hello to the cavalry,” suggested Adam, as they approached the head of a horse, who was viewing them from above a stable door. “Her name’s Fidget and she’s partial to sugar.”
He produced a handful of sugar lumps from a pocket, gave a couple to Chloe and said: “Go on. You’ll be friends for life. So says Hermione. Don’t understand it myself. If a dog wants to be your friend for life he’ll jump up and lick you. A cat will settle down on your lap and start purring. A horse...? Well, just look at Fidget here, munching away without as much as a thank you. They also crap all over the place, again unlike cats and dogs. Hermione says I’m insensitive to horses. She’s probably right. Usually is.”
“Ah yes. Very sad. It’s Hermione’s in memoriam to dear departed Clipper.”
“Clipper?”
Her grey gelding. Hadn’t been able to ride him much recently, that’s why she bought Fidget. Why a red rosette? Well, at horsey shows they give out these baubles as prizes, so this is her tribute to him: red for first. For God’s sake don’t leak my guilty secret to the opposition.”
Sugar lumps ingested, Fidget still showed no sign of being grateful, so they moved off. Adam led the way towards the deciduous woodland about a hundred yards away up a slight slope. Bill and Ben followed at a respectful distance.
“Don’t suppose you’ve come to hear me talk about horses,” began the Prime Minister.
Damian laughed. “No, I’ve come as bringer of tidings - whether good or bad will depend. You’ve no doubt heard about the straw poll, which showed a clear majority in favour of change to some form of PR. Majority of about thirty it’s reckoned, so no chance we’ll be sticking to first-past-the-post.”
“Did Gerry say which system they’re talking about?”
“He wants STV, like they have in Ireland. Looks like he’ll get his way.”
“Bit of a dark horse, Gerry. Been around a long time, so more influence than you might think.”
“Gerry and Bessie have asked me to come and sound you out. See if you’d be prepared to change your mind. The next election will be under a fresh set of rules, so why not jump on the bandwagon and lead the way?”
NIGHT WATCHMAN Page 10