by Chris Mullin
Except that the man was His Majesty’s Foreign Secretary.
Tom Newsome first met Maureen Jackson when she came to interview him for her newspaper. At the time Labour were in opposition and he was a junior foreign affairs spokesman. If he had known that in a year’s time he would be the Foreign Secretary, he might have resisted getting involved. But New-some had always had an eye for the ladies. As a schoolmaster in Yorkshire he had flirted with the young female teachers, but it was not until becoming a Member of Parliament that he realised the possibilities.
Power, as Dr Kissinger once said, is a great aphrodisiac. Not that backbench MPs have any power, but as Newsome quickly discovered, dinner in the Members’ Dining Room of the House of Commons, followed by a drink on the terrace (weather permitting) did go down well with the ladies.
For his first five years in Parliament his wife, Annette, remained in Leeds looking after their two sons. When the sons left home Annette moved south and they bought a house in Camberwell. For a while Newsome behaved himself. He and Annette were a good team. Their politics were the same and she helped him with his constituency work.
Not until that spring morning when Maureen Jackson walked through his front door was Newsome again tempted to stray from the straight and narrow.
They chatted for two hours. Much of the time he spent interviewing her. By the time she left he knew where she lived, that she didn’t have a steady boyfriend and what she thought of nuclear weapons.
That evening he rang Maureen from the House. He knew he should not, but he could not resist. Did she fancy a spot of dinner? When? Central Lobby at eight o’clock. After that it was back in the old routine. A meal in the Members’ Dining Room, a drink on the terrace, even a stroll after dark round the lake in St James’s Park.
The next day in the lobbies they were ribbing him. “Who was that young floosie I saw you with last night, Tom?” asked a Member from South Wales with a wink.
“Just some journalist in for an interview,” said Newsome, trying to sound casual.
After that he was more discreet. Maureen never came to the House again. Usually they met in one of the parks. When they started sleeping together it was in a cheap hotel in Pimlico, booked under the name of Mr and Mrs Murray. But anyone could see at a glance that she was young enough to be his daughter. In fact one of his sons was older than Maureen. There was a knowing look in the hotel receptionist’s eye.
All very sordid, but what else could he do? They couldn’t go to his home because Annette was there. They couldn’t go to her place because she still lived with her parents.
Then came the election. Labour won. Newsome to his astonishment became Foreign Secretary. Overnight his life was transformed. Cabinet meetings, state receptions, overseas tours, private secretaries to organise every detail of his life and everywhere he went he was followed by the red despatch boxes.
There was scarcely any time for Annette, never mind Maureen. The affair should have ended there and then. More than once he was on the point of ringing her and ending it, but he could not bring himself to. Newsome was in too deep.
Then came that awful September morning. He had given the private secretaries and the red despatch boxes the slip. “Come back to my place,” she had said, “Mum’s out all day.”
He must have been mad, but he went. It was the first time he had ever been home with her. They were in bed within half an hour. Their love-making was just reaching fever-pitch when Maureen suddenly went rigid. He looked up and found himself looking Mrs Jackson straight in the eye at five paces.
She never said a word. Just stood there staring straight at him. For nigh on a minute the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the dressing table. Then she turned and was gone. They heard the front door slam behind her.
Foreign Secretaries are not supposed to panic, but this one did. His hands were shaking as he pulled on his trousers. “Oh, Christ, Maureen, maybe she’s gone for the police.”
“Don’t be silly, Mum would never do anything like that. It’s not as if I’m under age.” Young Maureen remained as cool as a cucumber.
Newsome was out of the house within minutes. He glanced to right and left but there was no sign of Mrs Jackson. Then he practically ran all the way to Hampstead Underground station.
For days afterwards he held his breath and waited for the storm to burst. But life went on. Maybe Mrs Jackson hadn’t recognised him? A moment’s thought told him this was inconceivable; his photograph had been everywhere since the Arab loan triumph. Yet there was not a whisper in the newspapers. Nothing from DI5 or the Special Branch. His secret seemed safe.
Maureen didn’t contact him for two weeks. For all she knew his phones might be bugged (they were, as it turned out). They met in a café at Euston at eight in the morning and after a quick conference decided to carry on. But one problem remained. After a row with her parents Maureen had decided it was time to leave home. The simplest solution would have been for Newsome to rent her a small flat but Maureen rejected the idea, saying that she was not going to be a kept woman. Instead she moved into a girl-friend’s flat near Chalk Farm. Maureen failed, however, to tell Newsome that her friend was a member of the Workers’ Revolutionary Party.
Sir Peregrine’s face lit up when he saw the file. “How about that?” he kept repeating as Fiennes showed him the photographs of the Foreign Secretary walking hand in hand with the lovely Maureen.
“Shot with a 300 mm lens in Kew Gardens,” said Fiennes.
“And these?” Sir Peregrine’s eyes lingered over a 10″ x 12″ of Newsome planting a kiss on Maureen’s right cheek.
“Euston at eight-fifteen in the morning. Our chaps had to get up early for that one,” smirked Fiennes.
Sir Peregrine placed the prints on the desk and looked up. Fiennes had never seen the old man looking so happy. “Quite a turn-up for the books, that she should be sharing a flat with a Trot,” said Sir Peregrine. “An unexpected bonus.”
He thought for a moment. “There are two ways we can play this. We can either throw it to the press and let public opinion do the rest. Foreign Secretary in blackmail situation. Threat to security and all that. Or …” He tapped the desk with the flat of his hand. “… or we can go to Perkins and demand the resignation of Newsome on security grounds. Then we can leak it to the press anyway.”
Sir Peregrine revolved his desk chair towards the window. “I think we’ll take the second option. That way we get the best of both worlds.”
He spun back towards Fiennes again. “Does his wife know?”
“Not a dicky bird.”
“In that case,” said Sir Peregrine, “she’s in for an unpleasant surprise.”
Not every visitor to the Prime Minister enters Number Ten Downing Street through the front door. Certain very important persons, whose existence is not officially acknowledged, enter by way of the double doors leading from the Cabinet Office. Sir Peregrine Craddock and Sir Philip Norton were two such persons.
Walking one behind the other and led by a private secretary bearing the key, the two men walked in silence. They passed through the Cabinet Office to the sturdy door leading into Downing Street. The private secretary unlocked the door and they passed through, still without speaking. Tweed was waiting on the other side. Behind they heard the key turn in the lock.
“The PM is in the study,” said Tweed as he led them up the main staircase. Still they walked in single file, still without speaking. A solemn little procession, in keeping with the distasteful task they had to perform.
Perkins was waiting for them in one of the armchairs just inside the door. “Sit down, gentlemen.” He gestured to a settee in the centre of the room. “What can I do for you?”
Sir Philip looked over his shoulder to check that Tweed had withdrawn. Then he told the Prime Minister about Tom Newsome and Maureen Jackson and the flat she shared with a girl from the Workers’ Revolutionary Party. Sir Peregrine sat in silence, his face shrouded in a funereal expression.
Perkins l
istened with his chin resting in his right hand and his elbow on the arm of the chair. As he listened he sank deeper into the armchair. Having outlined the facts Sir Philip went on to review the implications. “First, there is the blackmail potential. His wife doesn’t know.”
It was late October. St James’s Park lay under a thick covering of leaves. The sky was cold and clear. The last rays of sunlight filtered weakly through the bullet-proof glass on the windows. “Second,” said Sir Philip, “there is the fact that she shares a flat with a Trotskyite.”
When he had finished Perkins thought for a moment in silence. A deep melancholy settled over his normally cheerful countenance. At length he raised his chin from his hand and asked, “So what are you advising?”
“Prime Minister,” said Sir Philip gravely, “you have no choice. You have to ask the Foreign Secretary for his resignation.”
But Perkins did not share his intelligence chief’s perception of the threat to the nation posed by one twenty-two-year-old female Trotskyite living in Chalk Farm. “Is there any evidence that security has been breached?” he asked, looking first at Sir Philip and then at Sir Peregrine.
Sir Philip took a deep breath. “With great respect, Prime Minister, that is not the point.”
“Very much the point as far as I’m concerned,” said Perkins.
“In any case, Prime Minister,” Sir Peregrine Craddock was speaking for the first time, “there is still the blackmail question.”
“That can be disposed of quite simply,” said Perkins. “All Newsome has to do is tell his wife and the threat of blackmail disappears.”
Sir Philip tried to conceal his dismay. “Prime Minister, our advice is very strongly that the Foreign Secretary must be asked to resign.”
Perkins stood up. The interview was at an end. “Thank you, gentlemen. I shall bear your advice in mind, but my inclination is to call in Newsome and suggest he tell his wife immediately. As far as the girl is concerned, he can either stop seeing her or she can move to a flat without a resident Trotskyite.”
Tweed appeared, as if from nowhere. The two security chiefs turned to leave. Perkins walked to the door with them. “One other thing, gentlemen.” The Prime Minister looked first at Sir Peregrine and then at Sir Philip. “I’m not expecting to read anything about this in the newspapers tomorrow morning.”
“Too late,” said Sir Peregrine gravely, “the affair is already common knowledge in Fleet Street.” In fact no one in Fleet Street knew Tom Newsome’s secret, but they soon would. DI5 would see to that.
Perkins saw Newsome that evening in the Prime Minister’s room at the House of Commons. Newsome reacted calmly to the news that Maureen had been discovered. For months he had lived in fear of being found out and now the time had come he was almost relieved. He asked for twenty-four hours to consider his position. Perkins agreed. “Think carefully, Tom,” he said, “you’re one of the most valuable members of my team and I can’t afford to lose you.”
The Daily Express got the story first. When the tip-off came the editor sent one of his best photographers, Bill Ham, to sit outside Maureen Jackson’s flat with a telephoto lens trained on the front door.
Ham had had to spend an uncomfortable night before his big break came. He could hardly believe his luck when just after breakfast a green Volkswagen drew up and out stepped the Foreign Secretary. Ham was seated in his own car on the opposite side of the street. He wound down the front window. Before Newsome had reached the doorstep Ham was halfway through his first roll of Tri-X.
Newsome was inside the flat for half an hour. Ham was just about to light a cigarette when the front door opened again and there she was, Maureen Jackson in the arms of the Foreign Secretary. They embraced for a full three minutes before finally parting. If Ham had been closer, he would have noticed that Maureen was crying. And if he had been closer still, he would have noticed that Newsome was also crying.
*
After seeing Perkins, Newsome had made up his mind quickly. He would tell Maureen it was all over and then he would drive home and come clean with Annette. The next morning he was out of the house well before eight. He told Annette he was borrowing the car and drove, as fast as the early rush hour traffic would allow, to Chalk Farm. Normally he would have looked around before getting out, but that morning there was too much on his mind. He did not see Bill Ham’s Nikon lens pointing directly at him as he locked up the Volkswagen.
The scene with Maureen was heart-breaking. She did not try to talk him into changing his mind. They both knew it had to end. For half an hour they held hands in the living room. An uneaten Ryvita and a cold cup of coffee, Maureen’s interrupted breakfast, lay on the table. On the mantelpiece was the gold charm bracelet he had given her on her twenty-first birthday. She had never dared wear it in public in case anybody asked.
He said not to mind about seeing him out, but she followed him downstairs all the same. He was already on the doorstep when she flung herself into his arms. If he had thought for a moment, he would have known it was madness, but then the whole affair had been madness from start to finish.
When at last she let go he kissed her lightly on the forehead and walked away down the garden path. He did not look back, but he knew she was watching because he did not hear the door close.
In the car, driving back to Camberwell, Newsome tried to compose himself. Now he had to face Annette. Truly, he thought as he crossed the river at Waterloo, this must be the worst day of my life. But he was wrong. The worst day of his life was still to come.
The Express went to town on the story. Most of the front page was taken up with Bill Ham’s exclusive shot of Newsome saying goodbye to Maureen. FAREWELL, MY LOVELY said the headline. The story inside was dominated by a picture of Newsome walking away from the house with Maureen watching forlornly from the doorstep. To make matters worse she was still in her dressing gown. As well as a close-up of Maureen and a picture of Newsome and Annette taken at an embassy reception a few weeks earlier, there was even a photograph of the girl who shared Maureen’s flat. The accompanying story said that “Security chiefs were last night urging the Prime Minister to sack Newsome.” It went on to point out that Maureen’s flatmate was a member of the Workers’ Revolutionary Party. The story had DI5’s fingerprints all over it, but no one would ever prove anything.
The first edition of the Express arrived at Downing Street within an hour of coming off the presses. Perkins saw it when he returned from the vote at the House. Twenty minutes later the Downing Street switchboard was jammed by calls from other newspapers demanding a statement.
Poor Newsome buried his head in his hands when Perkins showed him the Express. “Fancy letting yourself be photographed kissing this lass on the bloody doorstep,” said Perkins, but he did not rub it in. Newsome looked as if he were cracking up. He offered to resign there and then, but Perkins refused to discuss the subject. “Go home and see Annette before the rats from the gutter press get to her.”
By the late editions the story was leading every front page. The phone started ringing at 10.15 that evening and did not stop until Annette took it off the hook. Newsome arrived home to find a horde of newspapermen camped in the front garden. Annette was in the kitchen with a mug of tea and a cigarette. It was a year since she last smoked. She was wearing the silk dressing gown he had bought her at a recent foreign ministers’ meeting in Tokyo. Her eyes were red, but she was not crying.
She made him tea and they sat and talked. He tried to apologise, but in the circumstances it did not seem very adequate. Annette wanted to know about Maureen. When had they first met? How often? Where? She received the information calmly. Sitting on the opposite side of the table, puffing her cigarette and sipping her tea. Never quite looking him in the eyes. Taking care that her feet under the table did not touch his.
He told the story quietly, dispassionately. Giving more detail than was strictly necessary. As the words tumbled out, Newsome was conscious for the first time of the extent of his treachery.
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br /> They went to bed around two o’clock. Annette said she preferred to sleep in the spare room and Newsome did not argue. Neither of them slept well. Quite apart from everything else, the doorbell kept ringing.
Newsome got up around seven. Peeping through the curtains he could see that the crowd of pressmen had grown. There were television cameras too. He turned on the radio and the story was leading every bulletin.
At seven-thirty he rang John, his eldest boy who was in his second year at Magdalen. He rented a flat in Oxford with two other students and news of the furore had not yet reached him. Newsome advised him to keep a low profile. He offered to come home at once and fend off the press, but Newsome said that would not be necessary. It would all blow over.
The younger boy, James, was working as a waiter in the South of France. Improving his French before going up to Cambridge next year. Newsome searched in vain for a telephone number. Eventually he gave up. The call could wait a couple of hours. It would be a while before the hacks managed to trace him.
At nine Newsome rang the Foreign Office to say he would not be in. The private secretary did not sound surprised.
All day long the chorus of demands for a statement grew louder. By Prime Minister’s questions that afternoon, these had turned into calls for Newsome’s resignation.
That evening Newsome saw Perkins alone in the study at Number Ten to hand in his resignation letter. This time Perkins did not demur. They both knew resignation was inevitable. The two men shook hands and then Newsome drove for the last time to the Foreign Office. He planned to clear up his papers and then take Annette away somewhere quiet for a few days to give the uproar a chance to die down.
*
When he got back to Camberwell it had gone eleven. The house was in darkness. He turned the key in the front door and switched on the hall light. Annette’s coat was hanging on a peg by the door, so she had not gone out. She must be in bed. Not wanting to wake her he trod lightly on the stairs.