by David Laws
Harry, eyes on the red light, nodded, unsure what to say.
“I was thinking,” she said, “you could make a bigger effort with him.”
“He needs to get back to school,” Harry countered. “He wants to go. The physics teacher’s told him he’s got a bright future – but he won’t have if he stays at home and doesn’t sit the exams.”
There was no response from behind. School was still anathema to Erika.
“He’s just not interested in planes or trains or any kiddish stuff,” Harry tried again.
“Of course he’s not, he’s too intelligent for that.”
“Thanks,” Harry murmured, thinking of his own boyhood days spent on the end of Platform 3 with a loco spotter’s handbook. Just then the light turned to green and he put the machine into gear and worked the throttle, conversation cut off once more.
When they arrived forty minutes later at their destination, Wendover, a small town in the Vale of Aylesbury, she seemed to have other concerns altogether. They parked the bike next to the clock tower, a strange edifice by some crossroads, and put on their jogging gear: pumps, lightweight anoraks and minimal haversacks. “Cut down the weight you need to carry,” she told him, and he nodded without comment, thinking of the pain ahead.
Harry took a deep breath and followed her up the high street. There was a temptation to stop and stare at the unusual cheeses on display in the market and the exotic fruits under a vast tent. “How about a Stilton?” he called after her. “Looks irresistible.”
“Resist it,” she called, “until later.”
There were other distractions. Every reason to linger in this nice little town, Harry thought. Some fabulous ivy-clad houses, Queen Anne at the front, Tudor behind, and the pubs…
“Come on!” she urged. “Let’s get going.”
He started up the hill, one eye on the black-and-white thatches and the other on a parked Bristol saloon, one of his favourite cars. “Where’s your friend?” he asked.
“Had to cancel.”
The hill was getting steeper. Trees, stones, long grass, patches of mud. She was giving a running commentary on the stupendous views across the valley, while Harry kept his eyes on the path lest he stumble on a tree root or boulder.
“No stopping,” she said. “Keep going to the top, if this is going to do us any good.”
His breath became shorter and it was painful to talk. Largely as a distraction, he began to think about his pursuit of Tresham, once again asking himself if this was justified. He thought again of his father. The man, he felt sure, had not approved of his choice of career. Why did he have this impression? He didn’t know. He could recall no conversation indicating that Father’s expectations were for a more practical calling, something useful, something with his hands. Instead, Harry was now dabbling around the edges of the dubious world of spies, double agents, personal betrayals, lies and duplicitous behaviour. He could almost hear a voice telling him to wash his hands of the whole unsavoury business.
Finally, they made it to the top of Barrow Hill. Harry was examining the names on a huge memorial to the dead of the Boer War, his eye for historical detail caught by long-gone regiments like the Victoria Bushmen and the Cape Mounted Rifles. Some kids were playing football on the plateau by the memorial which distracted Erika’s attention for a while, and Harry took the chance to scroll through the latest stuff coming out of Downing Street. He might be playing the dumb local for the benefit of anyone watching from Five, but that was a pretence. His interest immediately peaked at the heightened atmosphere of speculation around the PM. The London crowds, too, had sensed something was about to change and had thickened at the gated entrance on Whitehall. They were becoming noisy and the rumour mill was busy. Who would be the new PM? The factions were already on show. He could make out placards saying: Anyone but Jake! and Go for Huckabee. Tresham’s supporters, he noticed, seemed thin on the ground.
Erika was at his elbow, pointing out across the hills and trees to a hint of red tile in the distance. “Chequers,” she said. “All downhill from now on.”
On the way down she began to talk about his pursuit of the Blue List spies. It worried her, she said. She was concerned for his safety. For the safety of all of them. “I wish you’d drop this Kameraden thing, Harry,” she said. “It’ll do you no good. They’re as dangerous as you can get.”
He stayed silent.
They passed some fancy gatehouses and Harry’s attention was drawn to a series of white-on-black notices which lined the road. Criminal trespass, contrary to the Serious Organised Crime and Police Act 2005.
At the top of a ten-foot fence post was a camera which turned to track them. Then another, and another. “Have you noticed?” he asked, pointing. They watched as they passed another pod, the camera following like a robot eye.
“Don’t fret,” she said. “We’ll stay on the footpath, all nice and legal.”
They left the road by a farm, jogged across a field, over a driveway by a gatehouse which announced itself as the Chequers estate, and uphill through some corn to a line of trees. Harry was lagging, the long grasses swishing against his feet, a wasp attacking his head. “Seen enough?”
“Haven’t got a decent view of the house yet,” she said. “I wanted a good snapshot.”
Past a stile, round some trees, along a path bordered by absurdly elaborate fencing made out of railway tracks, and still no picture for Erika. Finally, she was happy. The hump of the hill in front of them fell away and there in the distance was a high brick wall, the top of the house and a mesh of scaffolding.
“There may be an even better view from higher up,” she said.
Into more trees and yet more notices warning against criminal trespass, but no cameras. “Let’s get closer for a quick peep,” she said. “Interesting, don’t you think?”
“Stupidly dangerous,” said Harry, who was only into risk when there was a story on the end of it.
By now she was through a break in the fence, far away down a driveway, ignoring his protests. He leaned against a tree, breathing hard, and wondered why she should go rooting about in the undergrowth. The place was covered in bracken, long grasses and small bushes, but fatigue made his curiosity dull and he was thankful for the rest.
Suddenly, as his heart rate returned to somewhere near normal, she appeared at his side, smiling, her old charming self, no longer the eager taskmaster or the implacable athlete.
“Great pictures,” she said. “All done. We can go home now.”
Chapter 44
3 days to go
A barely perceptible knock came at Jake’s door.
“Come!”
The door opened and a slim man of middle years with balding pate and tiny black moustache entered. He was tentative. The group standing around the desk, drinks in hand, backs turned, would have seemed intimidating to any newcomer. Here were the big beasts of the party, comfortable on their home turf, confident, exuding power and dominance.
“Ah! Jonny, isn’t it?” Jake stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Jonny Boothroyd?”
A nod and a forced smile.
“Come right in and meet my colleagues. We wanted to congratulate you on your fine election success.”
The fact that the polls had closed some five weeks previously seemed not to be a matter of comment. Neither did it appear relevant that Jonny Boothroyd, newly elected Member for Norton South-West, had been wandering like a lost curly-horned Swaledale ewe around the corridors and tearoom of Westminster ever since that day of electoral shock and surprise. The Commons was the strangest and most alien place he’d been in his life.
A day of shock and surprise not just for himself, but everyone else too. He’d managed his great victory by just ten votes on the third recount. Nobody, including the man himself, expected him to win. So the reference to a “fine election success” should perhaps, in truth, have be
en amended to surprise success. A few other descriptions came to mind – amazing, incredible, unbelievable – but these remained unsaid.
There followed handshakes and forced small talk for the next few minutes. Jake was leading the plaudits. “A simply tremendous achievement to take Norton South-West,” he said. “Nobody expected our party to win that constituency; you’ve done extremely well, hasn’t he, Tresh?”
Tresham nodded. “Shows fight and resolution, and that’s what we need today in these difficult circumstances,” he said.
“Not at all bad, a unique achievement,” was the best Quentin Huckabee could manage – he, ever the master of the prosaic comment. Huckabee was the third big beast and easily recognisable as the Brussels negotiator.
Boothroyd looked bemused at all the effusive praise, but after a while realised he was being invited to join in some kind of celebration. Cars were summoned to the underground car park and a convoy set out in regal procession along Great North Street. It stopped outside a mock-pillared entrance announcing itself as the Paradise Club. It was a journey so short that Boothroyd couldn’t understand why they didn’t walk.
On the other side of the swing door there was an effusive flurry of greetings. Deferential waiters in evening dress took charge of coats, and elaborate inquiries were made after health as the four men were shown to a rosewood-enclosed alcove dimly lit by candles. Glasses were laid, velvety napkins supplied. As he took a proffered chair, Boothroyd noticed two large picture windows set each side of the entrance. An elaborate floral arrangement dominated one wall, and on the other was an inset illuminated panel continuing the floral theme. He felt overawed. There was nothing like this in Norton South-West.
Then he looked at the menu and screwed up his forehead in confusion. He hadn’t heard of most of this stuff and his heart did a flip at the prices. Did Parliamentary expenses extend this far? Was this how the Westminster elite lived?
Jake seemed to sense his embarrassment and helped out with a choice of dish. Boothroyd was being carried along on some absurd roller coaster. It had been intimidating enough trying to find his way around the corridors of Westminster. And now this.
They were all looking at him quizzically, like he was a bow-legged heifer in a stall at Norton market and they were trying to decide on a price. Jake said, “Quite apart from the celebration of your most magnificent electoral performance, we also wanted a quiet word in congenial circumstances. That performance of yours shows you have fight and resolution, and that’s what we need today in these difficult circumstances. You are aware of the difficulties we have with the EU?”
There it was again. Mention of fight and resolution and difficult circumstances. “Oh yes,” Boothroyd said. Well, he had heard.
“Fact is, old son, we want you on board. We have a very special job for you, a kind of safety-first man to hold us all together. We need somebody fresh and new to unite the party, somebody who hasn’t been besmirched or compromised by past speeches and actions and a voting record, and who hasn’t got a following…”
Boothroyd looked even more bemused than before, so they spelled it out. He was the preferred man for a fait accompli party coronation to prevent a leadership contest.
This was when he found his voice.
“But how could I do that? I’ve only just been elected, I’ve no experience…”
“We know it’s a tall order but the three of us will be right behind you, holding your hand all the way. We have the experience and I hope we can safely say we have the wisdom, and you have the clean slate. Together we will make a great team.”
Boothroyd was shaking his head. “I’m an absolute beginner. Where would I start?”
“You’re the perfect choice,” Jake said. “The new broom, untainted by the old ways. This is your chance, Jonny, to do something big for yourself. To do something big for your country.”
“But I didn’t expect to be elected in the first place. I only stood on the off chance… and I don’t even know my way around this place.” Boothroyd waved a frustrated hand. “Keep getting lost.”
Jake said, “Time to step into the breach, my friend, and we’re promising you every conceivable help. Any little difficulty, you just come to us for advice. We’ll see you through. With a brains trust like us behind you, how can you go wrong?”
Chapter 45
Wednesday 27th March 2019; 2 days to go
They met in the Prime Minister’s private office, next door to the Cabinet Room. She was alone, her ever-present political mentor surprisingly absent. But they weren’t fooled: they knew Simon Cronshaw would be listening in on an open line. Her room still had a touch of the style from the big room: off-white walls, a large floor-to-ceiling window and solid carved mahogany chairs dating from the Gladstone era. What they didn’t know was that she had watched closely their arrival, using a secret surveillance camera now tucked away under the desk. She’d seen them marching, grim-faced, up Downing Street, glaring and not waving at the assembled TV cameras. If she hadn’t guessed before, their expressions told her this was the moment she had feared on a daily basis.
“Prime Minister.” Jake Pinckney nodded formally in her direction on being shown in by the Private Secretary.
Tresham and Huckabee quickly followed, grunting, “Good morning” with minimal enthusiasm. They stood awkwardly in an arc, surrounding her desk.
“Please.” She signalled the chairs.
What do you say before plunging in the knife? It was a question Jake had asked himself earlier that morning. They all knew what was coming. The Premier lived in constant fear of a Cabinet coup. Her regime was conducted in an atmosphere of siege, of minute-by-minute crisis management. And all four in the room were well versed in the implications for both party and constitution. The party couldn’t afford its usual six-week leadership campaign involving a ballot of all the members. Such a course was likely to trigger a general election, which they would probably lose, and throw the Brexit negotiations wildly off course.
That left only the instant coronation option.
Jake looked closely at the woman he was about to consign to political oblivion. She looked scared, hunted like a fox who knows it’s been cornered by the hounds. He caught her orange-blossom cologne, noticed her quick glance at the silver photo frame on her desk. Her husband. Soon they’d have all the time in the world for those long walks she loved.
His problem – a soft or hard opening? – was solved for him when the Prime Minister spoke first. “I know what’s on your minds,” she said, “but I must insist, you’re quite mistaken.”
They said nothing, momentarily nonplussed, not expecting a robust defence. Surely she knew she couldn’t continue?
“I know I got us all into this hole, a bad election result and all, but I will get us out. I don’t give in. I’m a fighter. I’m working round the clock to get this right. I will rebuild.”
“Prime Minister!” Jake bowed his head and gave a sheepish grin. “Absolutely admire your spirit, your sangfroid, your determination, your work ethic, most impressive…”
“I’ll turn it around,” she insisted.
Her cheeks were pale, contrasting oddly with her rouged lips. And she was wearing that yellow dress again, the one he hated.
“But we have to face reality here,” he said. “Sorry to say, but this can’t continue. Derailed like so many before you by events. Too many things have happened. The plain fact of the matter is, you can’t hold the party together. It’s tearing itself apart over Brexit and your leadership. We have to act to save the day.”
“You’re too quick off the mark,” she said. “Give me time and the polls will come round, you’ll see, they seesaw around and then come back to us. How many times have we seen that?”
Jake glanced at the others, who seemed to have elected him as chief wielder of the knife. “Maybe you’re right about the polls. Goodness knows, mine’s been up and down li
ke the proverbial yo-yo…”
Jake knew all about the fickle finger of public opinion. Popularity could swing wildly, and when the PM’s dipped she simply retreated into her shell. Bad mistake. His attitude was different. One day they love you and think you’re hilarious and a jolly good fellow, and the next day they want to kick your backside into touch. If, like her, you retreat into silence when the going gets tough then you become a mask. He reacted with more assurance. Give ’em a smile, give ’em some reaction. Act like a person, not a puppet. Her recent performances came agonisingly to mind. She’d been stiff in TV interviews, whereas he would have answered directly and bantered with the interviewer. He reckoned he could out-banter anyone, but she still traded in formulaic answers. And when she did let out her emotions, it had gone badly wrong.
He looked up, grimaced, indicating a reluctance to continue, and sighed. “However, in your case, I don’t think the see-saw is likely to swing up again any time soon. And time is something we haven’t got.”
The PM was still fighting back. A pause in the conversation was clearly down to her being briefed by Cronshaw, prompting her by telephone from his little box downstairs. “I’m being made a scapegoat here,” she said. “It was the EC divorce bill that did it.”
Huckabee moved to stifle any further resistance. “I’m sorry to say, Prime Minister, this change is clearly the only way to prevent the Government being defeated and facing an election it cannot win. Surely you can see the situation – the polls are all against you, firmly against you. You’ll do even worse than last time in any election. A change in leadership now to install an interim incumbent is the only sensible course of action.”