NIGHT WATCHMAN

by Rolf Richardson

  For a while the Adam did not reply. They reached the edge of the woodland, started up a path that was slippery with mud and exposed tree roots; just the job for green wellies. Bill and Ben, equipped only with shoes, were finding the going tough.

  At last Tichbold said: “Every politician dreams of one day landing the top job. I got here by a quirk of fate. Looks like another quirk will make my tenure a short one.”

  “Not if you bow to the inevitable,” said Damian. “Nothing wrong with U-turns if circumstances change.”

  “But circumstances have not changed. Just because we’ve lost most of the old guard doesn’t mean we have to submit to those that are left. I’ve always said this next election should be held under existing rules, any change to those rules having to be passed by the next parliament. If I said anything else now it would be seen as opportunism.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Sleep on it. If I’m of the same mind tomorrow, my position will become untenable. I shall resign. The party will have to elect a new leader. And the country a new prime minister. Which may not be the same person. That idiot who crashed into parliament deprived us of our majority. Now any leader must enjoy not only the support of his own party, but also the House as a whole.”

  “Let’s hope your sleep guides you in the right direction,” said Damian. “In the meantime here’s something else to think about. Do you have any pet hates? Anything in public life you’d like to change?”

  “You must be joking! I’d change the whole shooting match. Tradition is all well and good, but it can become fossilised. I’d start again from scratch: keep the good bits, ditch what’s out of date.”

  “Excellent! That’s exactly what we’d like to do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “MPs usually spend their time pouring over details of coming legislation: first reading, second reading, report stage, back and forth to the lords. The whole thing takes forever. Now, just for once, we have no run-of-the mill stuff to consider. There’s a clean sheet. Why not write something dramatic on that virgin sheet? Gerry wants to get rid of the House of Lords or at least radically change it. We have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to do something dramatic. Maybe many things dramatic.”

  They slithered up another hundred yards, Bill and Ben in town shoes struggling in their wake. Then the prime minister stopped. The rest of the party did likewise.

  Adam stood there amongst the beeches and hornbeams, his height accentuated by being further up the slope. With a smile, he asked: “How does our little Lenin propose getting his ideas passed into law? Or are you thinking of calling out the red guard?”

  Damian grinned: “We have no plans to guillotine His Majesty and the aristos. Just want to test the waters, see what can be done in these peculiar circumstances.”

  The prime minister paused for a moment, looking down at the little gathering amongst the trees. Then he said: “I like it! Shows promise. I need some time for thought, so let’s go back to the ranch. We’ll thrash out some ideas over dinner.”

  Tichbold led the way in an about turn, Bill and Ben stoically bringing up the rear, their town shoes now a sodden mess.

  31

  They reconvened at aperitif time in the Tichbold lounge, the oak beamed ceiling high enough for modern man to stand erect, the windows large enough to allow reading by daylight. The mantelpiece collection consisted of half a dozen items of travel memorabilia plus two small silver trophy cups. The pictures reflected the contrasting tastes of the owners: hers were of horses - one of them a Stubbs? Surely not; his some Edward Seago skyscapes.

  Bill and Ben were not there, maybe busy patrolling the estate, so it was just the four of them. Hermione had produced some Tesco nibbles. Adam had dispensed drinks: G&Ts for the ladies, Scotch for the men. Chloe had changed into a beguiling long skirt and multi-coloured top, a hit with Hermione.

  The prime minister’s wife started things off by saying: “Don’t know what you two have done to my husband, but he’s spent the afternoon locked up in his study. And is now looking amazingly cheerful, considering the circumstances.”

  “Cleared my mind,” Adam announced. “Earlier I didn’t know what was best. Should I or shouldn’t I? Go or stay? Things are now much clearer.”

  “So you’ll stay?” asked Damian, assuming that was what his good humour meant.

  “You’ll have to wait a moment for the punch line,” replied the prime minister with a smile. “First let me lead you through how I got there. Damian asked me if I had any pet hates, so I’ll pass the parcel: what do you think they are, my dear?”

  Hermione considered it for a moment. Replied: “You’re forever on about something Adam, but if I had to pick one I’d say you’re too impatient.”

  “I plead guilty. We live in age of paralysis where getting anything done is well-nigh impossible. When I say ‘we’ I mean here in Britain. Tiger nations like China take about one tenth of the time we do. It wasn’t always so. When Mountbatten went to India in Forty Seven to arrange for independence sometime in the distant future, he was so appalled by what he saw that he had the whole thing done and dusted within six months: too fast some said, but my point is he didn’t hang about. Then there was a lady called Ruth Ellis, in the Fifties if memory serves: shot her lover in April, tried and found guilty in June, hanged by the neck in July. No dithering there either. Again, maybe a little too fast. But now...? Well, there was a fellow called Chilcot, told to merely pen a few words about the Iraq war: it took him over six years! Six years to write a report! I rest my case.”

  “Difficult to ditch entrenched habits,” said Damian.

  “I thought that was what you were about? A complete makeover?” said the prime minister with a sly grin.

  “Well, yes..... We already seem to have enough support to change the voting system. While we’re at it, I thought we might try out a few more ideas. Getting things done faster is an excellent one. We’ll add it to our agenda.”

  “There’s one problem,” said Tichbold. “I can’t be the one to lead us into the promised land.”

  “Why not? Aren’t you the prime minister?”

  “At the moment, yes. But I carry too much political baggage. We’re living in a strange new world where normal party differences have become blurred and the Tories no longer have an overall majority. The opposition don’t trust me: quite rightly. And I don’t trust them. We need someone from the middle ground.”

  “Like who?”

  “Maybe like you, Damian.”

  “I’m far too young. And not well enough known.” This was becoming absurd! First the Labour leader had suggested him for the top job, now it was the Tory leader.

  “Pitt the Younger became prime minister at twenty four,” Tichbold pointed out. “Compared to him you’re geriatric. As for not being well known, maybe it has escaped your notice but virtually everyone in the public eye has been eliminated. Just three of us from the old cabinet are left: Bessie and I, who are ruling ourselves out; and Jasper from Media and Sport, who’s is a cretin. Next one to take over is bound to be unknown.”

  “Actually, Damian is very well known,” said Chloe. “Not as an MP perhaps, but when he was with West Ham: and then Strictly….”

  “I always voted for him on Strictly,” added Hermione. “I’ll bet more people have heard of Damian than Adam.”

  Damian mumbled; “Don’t know what to say.”

  Adam laughed. “A politician who doesn’t know what to say? Get a grip on yourself, man!”

  Hermione: “Don’t be too hard on him, dear. The poor boy’s had a shock.”

  “I spent the afternoon thinking....”continued Adam.

  Hermione, softly: “....is that what you were up to?”

  Adam, taking no notice of his wife: “....And I noticed something interesting. At the end of the last war, when much of the world lay in ruins, which countries then did the best?”

  Hermione: “America.”

  “Of course. But which others?”r />
  Damian, thoughtfully: “Germany?”

  “Exactly! The Marshal plan got their economy going again, but after that it was thanks to their own efforts. One day they were out for the count, the next they were flogging us VW Beetles. Same with Japan. No sooner had they been nuked, the country a wasteland, than they were turning out transistor radios at knock-down prices. Overnight transformations.”

  “What’s your point?” asked Damian.

  “That sometimes we need a good catastrophe to shake us up. Heard of the Black Death?”

  Damian: “Yea, way back. Lots of people died. Nasty business.”

  “Nasty at the time, no doubt. But it killed off the feudal system by making the labourer worthy of his hire. It was the start of the modern world. That’s one theory, anyway.”

  “So you think our political cull might be an opportunity?” asked Damian.

  The prime minister nodded. “Fourteenth century plagues and twentieth century wipe-outs seem to have had unexpected benefits. We’ve now seen most of our top people annihilated. Disasters on such a scale don’t happen too often. It would be a crime to let this one go to waste.”

  “So what do you suggest we do next?” asked Damian.

  “We spend the rest of the evening enjoying my hospitality, then a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow we travel to London in the prime ministerial limousine to attend the next meeting of our Interim parliament. Where, for the reasons just given, I will announce my resignation.”

  “Shock horror all round,” said Damian.

  “No doubt.” Tichbold thought for a moment. “Madame Speaker will then have to announce another adjournment, so that a new prime minister can be found. Gerry Farthing has already said that his Labour party does not have sufficient support for the next PM to come from his party; indeed he’s indicated that the next leader will have to be someone from our ranks.”

  “Another meeting in the Attlee suite?” asked Damian.

  “I would think so.” The prime minister smiled. “Where I shall nominate our member for Mid Oxfordshire, Damian White, as my successor. It will of course be up to the rest of the Conservative members to decide who shall take my place, but you must stand a good chance.”

  “I still don’t get it,” said Damian. “Why do you want me?”

  “It’s not that I want you,” said the prime minister. “You’re a rebel, who takes little notice of the party whip, so in normal circumstances you’d be my last choice. But the numbers now point to a coalition, where that sort of bloody-mindedness will appeal to other parties and so become an asset.”

  Damian smiled. “In spite of that two-edged compliment, I hope you’ll still join us in our adventure. Speeding up Britain’s creaking joints could be your baby.”

  “I don’t intend missing it for anything”. Adam Tichbold raised his glass. “Cheers!”

  32

  MARCH 25th.

  Next morning the prime ministerial limousine set off early to beat the rush hour, Adam in front with the driver, Damian and Chloe in the back. It was another beautiful morning, although the forecast was for more fronts to sweep in by dusk.

  They made it to Central Hall Westminster by 9.30, to find the place already buzzing, Conservatives gathering to the right, Labour on the left. The press and TV were out in strength, keen to capture the moment Britain changed its electoral system. Prime Minister Tichbold was smiling and chatting to colleagues, so it was assumed he had overcome any reservations he might have had and would be leading the charge.

  At 9.55 Speaker Angela Harding ascended the centre stage and sat down on the single chair behind the table. She was dressed in a corporate style blue suit and appeared to have recently paid a visit to her hairdresser.

  At 10 am the babble of conversation began to die. Speaker Harding banged twice on the table and the room fell silent. She was opening her mouth to speak when she - and the rest of the House - saw that Prime Minister Tichbold was on his feet.

  This was most irregular. The Speaker ran the business of the House, always had done. However, Tichbold was clearly determined to have his say. This was only an Interim parliament after all, not a proper one, so the speaker did not argue the point, just said icily: “Yes, Prime minister?”

  “I crave your indulgence, Madame Speaker, but before we start on today’s business it’s only proper that I make a personal statement.”

  “Very well.” Harding was still not pleased.

  Adam Tichbold turned to face his audience. As always he was immaculately turned out in a bespoke grey suit and triangle of blue peeping out of a top pocket. His long black hair had been trimmed to the millimetre and showed no hint of grey.

  “Colleagues, ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “There’s just one item on today’s agenda: that the system for electing our members be changed to the one known as the Single Transferable Vote. Were I leader of the party with the backing of most of us in this room, there would have been no problem. However, fate has cut a swathe of death through our ranks, most cruelly affecting my party. As a result we, the Conservatives, no longer command a majority amongst the living.”

  Adam paused. By now most people had guessed what was coming. TV cameras had zoomed in to close-ups of his face. Everyone held their breath.

  “My views on today’s motion are well known,” he continued. “I’m against it. Our parliament has succeeded throughout the centuries by not changing things too hastily. Had we been afforded enough time to debate the matter properly, with a full - I repeat a full - quota of members, I might have been persuaded. But that is not the case. This motion seeks to radically alter the way we do business. It should not be approved without proper scrutiny. Or by a rump parliament denuded of full membership. I therefore have no option but to resign as prime minister.” He sat down.

  Let’s now roll out that corniest of clichés: you could have heard a pin drop.

  Speaker Harding finally broke the silence: “Mr. Tichbold, has your party had the chance to decide on your successor?”

  On his feet again, Adam replied: “I only made up my mind on the way here, so the answer in no. However, the possibility has been discussed with close friends, so I would like to offer a suggestion: or rather two suggestions.”

  Speaker Harding nodded for him to continue.

  “Normal practice is for the governing party to select its new leader and for that person to then be offered to parliament. However, these are not normal times. With no party enjoying an overall majority, my successor must be someone acceptable to a broad spectrum of opinion; in other words, he or she should be chosen from everyone in this room.”

  Speaker Harding: “Very well, that sounds sensible. And your other suggestion?”

  “I would like to nominate the member for Mid Oxfordshire, Damian White, as the next leader of the Conservative party.”

  “Indeed!” Speaker Harding could not conceal her surprise.

  Before she could say any more, Gerry Farthing was on his feet: “Madam Speaker, I would like to second that. Mr. White would also be most acceptable to those of us on this side of the House.”

  There was a stunned silence. When Madame Speaker found her voice again, she asked: “Are there any further nominations?”

  It was in effect a rhetorical question. If a candidate already had the support of both major parties, no one else was going to put their head above the parapet.

  However, Adam Tichbold was not finished: “A final observation, Madame Speaker. Although I believe Mr. White is the person best suited to guide us through the present impasse, I reserve the right to challenge him for the leadership when we again have a full and properly functioning parliament.”

  “Observation noted.” Speaker Harding was beginning to lose patience with him. She continued: “The motion is that the member for Mid Oxfordshire, Damian White, be elected leader of the conservative party. And Prime Minister. In the absence of division lobbies, we’ll try a show of hands. Those in favour?”

  A forest of hands went up. From eve
ry political area.

  “I’d like this properly recorded,” insisted the speaker. “Will the three main parties each select someone to do a count. When their figures tally, report back to me.”

  By this most interim method it was established that Damian White MP had the support of 103 surviving members of parliament, a clear vote of confidence.

  “I hereby declare Damian White to have been duly elected to serve as our prime minister,” said Speaker Harding. “He will see His Majesty the King to receive the seals of office at the first available opportunity. Meanwhile, may we get back to the matter in hand? Our one and only agenda item: a change in the way we elect the members of this parliament.”

  33

  This was the cue for Gerry Farthing to get up and give a resumé of how STV would work, single member constituencies being replaced by larger ones that elected several members, typically between three and six. Instead of marking ballot papers with a cross, voters would be invited to indicate a numerical preference. To those that said this was too complex, the answer was simple: Ireland had been using the system for the past century. If Paddy could cope, so could we. STV was voter-friendly, fair and practical. He recommended it to the House, which immediately passed it: a first reading majority of 27.

  Speaker Harding then asked Farthing how he was going to process his Bill through the Lord’s for their scrutiny, seeing that the Nobles no longer had a chamber and had not met since the disaster. Although the imposing red-tiered benches of the Lords had escaped AfroAir’s impact, Health and Safety had visited the scene and pronounced the whole Palace of Westminster unsafe, a decision some said should have been taken years ago. Whereas the Commons had immediately got back to business, the Lords, average age nearly 80, had simply dozed off and done nothing.