by Tom Black
Why not indeed, thought Paddy as he leant out into the aisle, that smile back on his face.
Margaret Thatcher had always put a great deal of faith in her hatpins. Now, as the makeup girl dabbed what the Prime Minister hoped was foundation onto her face, Thatcher hoped that her choice of pin this morning would keep the functional yet fetching blue number in place. The man from the BBC blustered through the room, barking an order about levels. The fellow behind the camera looked at his watch, checked a clipboard and raised a hand to show three fingers. Three minutes, then. Or seconds? Margaret’s heart began to race, but calmed when it became clear the red light was not going to come on just yet.
“Is everything ready?” she demanded of nobody in particular.
“Yes,” shouted the ‘floor manager’ briskly. The pompous idiot had been treating the Prime Minister’s office as a studio, nay, a fiefdom, since his arrival. Margaret fumed but, as she had before the selection committee at Finchley, and a thousand times before and since, she steeled herself. Everything would—
The red light came on.
Everyone in the room froze, while the cameraman helplessly shrugged and motioned for her to begin. Margaret looked up, into the camera, which suddenly seemed very close to her face. After perhaps slightly too long a moment, she spoke.
“Good morning. Harold Wilson, the Leader of the Labour Party, has fled London and is currently being sought by police…”
Tony Benn pressed his ear through the bars of his holding cell. He’d demanded the radio be turned up so he could hear Thatcher’s statement, and now almost regretted it.
“...these allegations are extremely serious, and the government and country must tread very carefully, as we seek the truth of what has happened.”
Benn tutted, but noticed the various constables all nodding as they gathered around the radio set.
“...whatever changes may have occurred at a party political level, Her Majesty’s Government remains in place. The rule of law stands...”
Benn idly considered muttering ‘whose law?’ but once again, the murmured approval of his guards advised him against it.
Using a radio to listen to a TV broadcast being made in the next room was not particularly efficient. But neither was 10 Downing Street.
“...the suspicion that is now levelled at the Labour Party is not groundless, but nor is it certain. Those members who are committed, patriotic democrats will be soon exonerated and invited to return to the House. The work of government can only continue with the consent of Parliament, and while unity is...”
At the Cabinet table, Airey Neave massaged his temples and tried to subtly read the faces of his colleagues around him. Keith Joseph had been nodding profusely since ‘good morning’; Willie Whitelaw had his eyes closed but was not, at least, rocking backwards and forwards and moaning; Reginald Maudling was obviously half-cut, and didn’t seem too pleased with proceedings, but was at least looking more positive than Francis Pym, who looked like he’d just been made Ambassador to Democratic Kampuchea.
“...an invitation to Mr Thorpe and the Liberal Party to enter negotiations on forming a National Government, to unite the country in this trying time...”
John Biffen looked fairly unhappy with this, but it probably wouldn’t dent the spring in his step he’d had all day. Airey allowed himself a moment of relaxation. It might just be alright.
Enoch Powell allowed his jaw to drop as That Woman seemed to muddle her way through the destruction of eight-hundred years of Parliamentary tradition, dignity and propriety. Her voice was shrill, her eyes manic and her tone like that of a hectoring Mathematics mistress. The owner of the betting shop – whose televisions were now, involuntarily, broadcasting the same thing that could be found on all frequencies – piped up.
“She hasn’t got a clue!”
Someone hushed him, but others spoke.
“What gives her the right? Who voted for her?”
“I don’t believe it. Our Harold? This is a fix.”
As a bearded man in a cloth cap bellowed “Remember Chile!”, Powell frowned and thought it best to position himself nearer to the door. The face on the screen continued.
“The investigation into Mr Wilson’s alleged treason is complex and, no doubt, will go on for quite some time, but the full resources of the British intelligence, justice and police services are at the government’s disposal...”
“I bet they are, you fascist bitch!” the bearded fellow shouted, and Enoch suddenly felt very worried.
It was an acceptable speech. There was no denying it. The sight of a PM in a lady’s hat would take some getting used to. As would the PM being a lady, Sir John Hunt supposed. But overall?
“Not bad,” he said quietly.
“But not… perfect,” said Sir Michael Hanley, who, now Sir John thought about it, hadn’t really left his company all day.
“Do we need perfection?”
“I think now, more than ever.”
“She is leader of the Tories,” Sir John said as ‘She’ began to wrap up with more well-chosen but slightly unconvincing platitudes about national unity, “I’m not sure there is any constitutional alternative.”
“I’m not saying the government needs a new leader, Sir John. Only a new spokesman.”
“With respect, that sounds irregular.”
“Such arrangements have been made before. Cripps spoke for the government on radio when Churchill was indisposed during the war.”
“Mrs Thatcher is not indisposed.”
“But she is better-equipped for managing a crisis than defusing one.”
Sir John looked the Director-General of MI5 in the eye.
“Who do you have in mind? There are a number of highly experienced public speakers in the cabinet.”
“If I may be so bold, Sir John, can we continue this conversation somewhere with a telegraph?”
Not entirely sure what was going on, or indeed whether he liked it, Sir John nodded and led the way.
With as much dignity as was possible, Paddy Ashdown stretched out his right leg in the queue for passport control. It had gone to sleep on the plane and was still somewhat painful. Next to him, Jenkins was agitatedly looking at his watch.
“We’ll be through in no time, I’m sure, sir,” Paddy offered. Jenkins only grunted.
“I must say, I’m very grateful for your company on the journey,” Ashdown continued, unfazed, “it makes a change from the usual stony-faced stockbroker, ordering scotch after scotch to drown the shame of his infidelity with the pretty Dutch girl who carries Mr Rutjer’s bags.”
Jenkins chortled.
“And you wouldn’t know anything about infidelity, would you, Ashdown?”
Ashdown laughed and held up his hands.
“I’m a happily married man, sir.”
“I’m sure.”
Ashdown put a hand into his pocket for his passport as they reached the front of the queue. Jenkins was having his own passport handed back to him by the officer at the desk. As he walked past it, a man in a grey suit stepped to the Home Secretary’s side and asked him to follow. Paddy, flashing his passport but with his eyes glued to Jenkins, followed the two men as soon as he was able.
They walked in silence through the airport, which Paddy gradually realised was practically deserted. Staff were present, but apart from those who had just arrived from Brussels, there didn’t seem to be anyone around. Keeping about twenty paces behind Jenkins, Paddy followed them into the car park and nimbly made his way behind a pillar to eavesdrop. He just had to make sure the handover was complete. The man in grey had started speaking, and Jenkins suddenly looked angry.
“...on suspicion. You...”
“Excuse me?” Jenkins bellowed.
“Sir—”
“No, repeat what you just said.”
With an embarrassed shuffle, the man in grey spoke again.
“Roy Jenkins, I am arresting you on suspicion. You...”
“On suspicion of what?! I am the Home bloody Secret
ary, don’t expect me not to know how an arrest is supposed to work!”
Paddy’s eyes widened and he instinctively closed his hand around his Browning. Was this man a fraud? An imposter out to abduct the Home Secretary?
His question was answered when two police cars came screaming towards Jenkins and the man in grey. Uniformed officers got out and one of them immediately started putting Jenkins in handcuffs.
“What on earth is going on?”
“Mr Jenkins, I assure you that you are under no particular suspicion, it’s just that events have moved somewhat quickly in the last few hours—”
“Events? Will you stop speaking in code and tell me what the Hell—”
Paddy didn’t hear what Jenkins said next, as the Home Secretary was bundled into the back of the police car. He frowned and stepped out from the pillar, just in time to dodge out of the way of the now-accelerating vehicle. The man in grey got into the second car, which raced after it. Paddy steadied himself against the pillar and scratched the back of his head. It was about time he bought a newspaper.
Chapter six
Saturday 1st November 1975 – 9:20am
Enoch Powell was a man prone to briskness, but the usual spring in his step had mutated into a rather ungainly jog. Thatcher’s speech and the shouts and cries of the betting shop clientele among whom he had watched it were still ringing in his ears. As he rounded the corner, he groaned inwardly at the mass of people, at least fifty-strong, that had gathered just outside his front door.
“Make way,” a uniformed constable was saying, “do allow the Honourable Member through.”
Powell pressed through the admiring rabble and host of microphones, barking snarled denials that he had any intention of serving in the new Prime Minister’s cabinet. For each reporter felled, a dozen others replaced them, funnelling him away from his sanctuary. The door opened fractionally, revealing his wife’s perturbed face looking worryingly towards him.
Eventually, throat raw from uttering a hundred variations on “nothing to say at this moment in time,” Enoch finally pushed his way to the front of the crowd, where a police officer was finally able to drag him inside. With a murmured word of thanks, Powell entered the hallway, slamming the door behind him.
Groaning in frustration, he entered the living room and slumped into the welcoming armchair. After about thirty seconds, he noticed that the adjacent sofa had two Record Breakers sitting in it. He looked at them incongruously.
“Good morning, Mr Powell,” one of them said, “I’m Ross McWhirter.”
“And I’m Norris McWhirter,” the other one added.
“Right,” Powell replied, “What are you both doing here?”
“We wish to approach you formally on behalf of our organisation,” Ross, or possibly Norris, said. “In addition to a number of senior members of the House of Lords.”
“Have you made an appointment?” Powell asked, looking irritated at the duo. “Or did you elect to shimmy in via the vestibule window?”
Norris, or perhaps Ross, responded. “Your wife...”
Powell glared at Pam, who had reappeared holding a tea tray. She set it at the coffee table and retreated, looking apologetic.
“I see,” Powell said. “Whilst I would dearly like to assist you two...” He paused, searching for the correct term. “...gentlemen, I was rather hoping to finish translating another chapter of Gibbon into Persian before lunch.”
“This won’t take long.” said either Ross or Norris.
Before Powell could respond, Norris or Ross began to explain. Against his better judgement, Enoch listened.
“The KGB?” he asked after about ten minutes.
Ross or Norris replied. “Indeed. Hardly a surprise, although the question remains why Mr Whitelaw or Mrs Thatcher did not pick up on it.”
“Mrs Thatcher in particular,” added either Norris or Ross.
“I fail to understand what you expect me to do with this,” Powell retorted, “it isn’t as though I am a member of the new governing party.”
“We expect you to take action.” Ross or Norris replied. “The current Prime Minister has already proven herself rather incapable of doing so.”
“That, Mr McWhirter, would be treason.”
“With respect, Mr Powell, it would be the opposite,” said Norris and Ross, in harmony.
“I have nothing more to say to either of you,” Powell said angrily, rushing to his feet, “I respectfully ask that you leave. Via the back entrance would be better, and I wish to add that this conversation never occurred.”
The Brothers McWhirter shrugged their collective shoulders, calmly leaving the room. Norris (or Ross) turned before he reached the door.
“You shall hear from us again, Mr Powell.”
“I may do, but you shall find me as unreceptive as today,” said Enoch.
“Cometh the hour, Mr Powell. Cometh the hour.”
Powell advanced. The McWhirters fled.
“...and on the same day that the British Prime Minister resigned under mysterious circumstances, this is Radio Luxembourg with Mr Bob Dylan...”
Harold Wilson relaxed in the bath as the water, already tan with mud, sloshed around his ears. It was a curious indulgence to have had the radio brought in, but it had quickly become clear that nothing much was going to be resolved until the end of the day. With the BBC being so dull, it had seemed perfectly sensible to tune into another station, especially as the Continental media seemed less bothered by the whole business.
Harold Wilson closed his eyes. He thought back to ’65 and the memo about British involvement in Vietnam. The version he had prepared for the Cabinet was rather less detailed than the one that had been presented to him. For a start, the proposal to share the counter-insurgency tactics with the Americans had been whited out and largely replaced with a load of faff about ‘containment’ and the prevention of the War moving outside the regional sphere.
There had been a lot of furious notes being sent between Downing Street, the Foreign Office and the MoD during the first few summers. Wilson remembered it well. The engineered bust-up in Smethwick and Leyton had removed the irksome Secretary of State from the picture, allowing him to ensure that nothing much was done to antagonise Control whilst Gordon Walker hurried around trying to win a seat.
‘Permanent Revolution’ had been the watchword, Harold thought as he grabbed the loofah from the side of the bath. Of course, that hadn’t been the term used whilst discussing South East Asia at dinner. It had been far more palatable to talk about ‘Confrontation’ as they had done whenever Malaya had come up whenever Michael had been engaged in one of his increasingly bitter arguments with Dean Rusk.
He’d given a sigh of relief when Nixon had won back in ’68. It had been a perfect example of showing that, when all was said and done, capitalism couldn’t be rolled back by weak-willed progressives. He had feared Lyndon’s ‘Great Society’ nonsense for a while, but just as Clem’s legacy had unravelled during austerity and Roosevelt had been undone during the Great Patriotic War, so too had the limp-wristed idiocy of Progressivism been undone by the legacy of My Lai and Hue.
For a while, he had entertained some notion of making a bigger fuss about it. It was so typical of the British public’s hatred of the establishment that even when a manifesto pledge was kept, people protested it. He had laughed when Woy had been pelted with eggs at the LSE that one time, but Lilac had been very clear not to push any further outside Washington’s zone during the first term. ‘Leave it to your successor’ had been the implied remark.
Yet Vietnam had not been the end of everything. Nixon was gone now, of course, but when Ford lost the nomination, either Reagan or Jackson would be along to point the missiles back towards Leningrad.
Wilson grabbed a cigar from the battered box he’d placed on the side of the sink and, with an accomplished single handed-cut, lit it and exhaled the first smoke of the day.
There were days when it was good to be the Earl Mountbatten of Burma. This
one was not turning out to be one of them. He’d been woken at the crack of dawn by two absurdly agitated twins bearing ‘news of the highest importance to the future of the country’, he’d told them where to go and found himself unable to get back to sleep. By the time he had given up and resigned himself to a morning of Radio 3 and a relaxing read of the paper, he found all frequencies broadcasting a mix of some interminable loop of Holst’s The Planets and some hysterical proclamation about the latest business in Whitehall. On top of that, the newspaper (thanks to a hastily-added wrapping sheet) was anything but relaxing.
Now, dressed in his favourite dark blue suit and wishing his coffee were something stronger, he read through the telegram again. It read, in full:
“LORD MOUNTBATTEN STOP YOU ARE INVITED TO FORM PART OF THE NEW GOVERNMENT OF THE UNITED KINGDOM STOP POSITION OF MINISTER FOR INFORMATION STOP PLEASE CONTACT DOWNING STREET FORTHWITH STOP ON A PERSONAL NOTE THE COUNTRY NEEDS YOU STOP MARGARET THATCHER STOP”
“Stop Margaret Thatcher?” he pondered aloud. Furthermore, there hadn’t been a Minister for Information since the war, had there? The whole thing left a bad taste in his mouth. Yet, however unconvincing Mrs Thatcher had been on the television, one thing was clear. She was – for better or worse – Prime Minister. Somehow. If, in her wisdom, she required his services, who was he to turn her down? The telegram had come from Downing Street, after all.
Mountbatten sighed. He felt he ought to ask around. He rose from his chair and moved to the telephone, dialling a number only a handful of people knew about. After the usual pause, it connected.
“The Sorting Office,” said the rather brusque woman at the other end.
“This is Pelican. I’d like to speak to Kestrel, if I may.”
The woman’s voice immediately softened and Mountbatten could hear her smiling as she spoke.
“I’d know your voice any day of the week, Lord Louis. I’ll put you right through.”
“Much appreciated.”
Before the second hand on his watch had made a full cycle, a familiar voice came on the line.