by Tom Black
“Sir Keith Joseph did his best to bring about the economic sanity that the United Kingdom requires, yet found himself sacked, removed and outnumbered by erstwhile colleagues. He has confided in me that he believes the old Liberal-Conservatives to have lost their way, and agrees with me that a new paradigm is needed.”
The member for South Down continued his speech, introducing new members as their portfolios emerged. There was John Biffen at Health and Social Security, Richard Body at Education, Nicholas Ridley at Defence. Norman Tebbit, elected only three years prior, was to act as Party Chair alongside Chichester-Clark – who would be the party’s standard-bearer in Northern Ireland.
“I have not forgotten, nor shall I ever forget, Ulster. Who was it that came into office promising to protect and support the present constitutional status of the province ‘without the consent of the Northern Ireland Parliament’ and then, only two years later, wiped out that same parliament within the space of forty-eight hours? Little sign there of acting in the best interests of the staunchest allies that the Conservative Party ever had!”
James Molyneaux walked on, the party’s new spokesman on National Security.
“I have received messages of support from over twenty constituency chairs within the Province – all willing to support the new organisational structures that we set out today. In Ulster, and on the mainland – the standard of true Conservatism is finally raised once again.”
There was a smattering of cheers. It spoke of a legitimacy that he would never have had had he said ‘Yes’ to Cecil King back in November. The momentum was for a Crusade – he used the term deliberately – and he would be the standard-bearer.
“Ulster is an integral aspect of the United Kingdom – and the policies that I announce today to finally bring true peace and harmony to the province shall be applied to the social ills of Great Britain. Any British subject who would rather be an Irish citizen shall be provided with the means to do so. A direct payment of £800 shall be awarded to those who wish to move to the Irish Republic, an offer that we shall also extend to those people who have entered the United Kingdom from the Commonwealth.”
Alan Clark, soon to be dubbed ‘Shadow Minister for Repatriation’, gave a languid wave to the audience, one or two of whom had, admittedly, pointedly risen from their seats and stormed out. Enoch was unfazed. None of them had even had the courage to shout ‘shame!’. Lightweights. Besides, almost a decade of heckles and flying saliva had thickened his skin – and strengthened his resolve. The occasional gin helped, too.
Among the still-large remaining crowd – only a handful of weaker spirits had left – there was genuine discussion now, most of it positive. Powell raised his voice as he made his final remarks.
“Today therefore represents the formation of the ‘Unionist Party’,” he concluded, “being as it is a name with much pedigree, from William of Orange, to Joseph Chamberlain, to Edward Carson. It is one that shows our recourse and sacrifice to the greater good, to the integrity of the nation, and to the preservation of the values that we hold dear to ourselves. Not for us is this wild belief in a ‘multi-racial’ society, nor the hurtful lie that one must accept it, lest we hang together. Some nine years ago, in Birmingham, I made a speech that many of you assembled here today may recall. I warned the Prime Minister, as he was then, of the dangers that mass immigration would cause to our nation.”
The room quickly fell silent, but Enoch could tell this was a crowd on the edge of its seat. He paused, cocking his head to one side ever so slightly. He hoped his eyes would not bulge too much as he read out the next paragraph.
“That Prime Minister has now been unmasked as the greatest traitor in our history. I cannot help but think that what I warned of was then a very real, and very deliberate attempt to occupy our streets and impede our freedoms. Many of you, I know, found what I said to be offensive. I did not speak to offend, but to warn. I hope that now, after the chaos of the past fourteen months, that those words be given a little more credence than they were at the time.”
There were now whoops and cheers, and some audible attendees crying out ‘you bet!’ and ‘if there’s any justice, they will!’. Enoch permitted himself a statesmanlike smile. It was good to be back.
“The overriding issue – and I hope that I have made myself perfectly clear – is of the need to preserve the constitutional and societal Union of these Isles. It is to that cause that the Unionist Party commits herself, and to sacrificing herself for the greater good that she pledges.”
There was a momentary pause before the applause began. It lasted for some time.
When he had last been smuggled into Downing Street to meet with Ted Heath, Jeremy Thorpe had rather enjoyed it. It had been fun to see the Prime Minister, fatigued by nearly four years of constant stress, insisting that a coalition government was the only way of saving the country from another decade of edging towards a North Sea Cuba.
Thorpe, flush from leading his party to their best result since the days of Lloyd George, had said nothing, preferring instead to watch the man opposite twist in the wind. Heath had offered him the Home Office, but not Proportional Representation. The Member for North Devon had not especially liked the idea of dealing with internment camps in Northern Ireland, but without the castle in Belfast to show for it – and had said ‘No’ with as little relish as he could manage.
Three years on, the situation was somewhat inverted.
“I can obviously offer you up to three spokesmen,” the Chancellor was saying, “foreign affairs for yourself, and I’d be happy for you to keep Pardoe as Chief Secretary to the Treasury. Up to you if you want to continue with Hooson at the Wales Office.”
Thorpe – who had not slept properly in weeks – nodded infinitesimally.
“It may be possible to swing for a Royal Commission into the voting system,” Heath continued, “but that would have to depend on how our vote holds up in the marginals – at the moment, I am still personally opposed to the idea, but if the nay-sayers in your camp do decide to jump and upset the apple cart – we may be able to arrange something.”
The Chancellor paused, noticing that Thorpe was still paying a great deal of attention to the desktop.
“Jeremy,” he continued, “I don’t have to do this, you know.”
The Leader of the Liberal Party gave a large double blink and shook himself back to reality.
“Sorry, Chancellor,” he said, marvelling at how strange the words sounded, “I suppose it is hard to turn down the offer.”
Heath nodded, smiling like a man who knew he had won on the fourth card.
“Obviously,” he said, resisting the urge to put his hands behind his head, “I doubt that we would be able to offer you more than twenty unimpeded runs. Humphrey Atkins had the suggestion of your party focusing on the old National Liberal strongholds – which I can see the merit in, we still aren’t polling nearly as well as I would like there. Maybe a couple of the market towns as well, Huddersfield looks like a much easier run for you than us—”
“Ted?”
“Yes?”
“Am I,” Thorpe finally said, half-whispering, “am I going to have to step down?”
The Chancellor suppressed another smile.
“Why on earth would you want to?”
You utter, utter bastard, Thorpe thought.
“You know full well,” Thorpe said, himself resisting a slightly more reflexive urge to punch the man opposite, “this whole, dog malarkey.”
Given the tell-tale flash across his eyes, Heath knew about it very well.
“Oh that,” the Chancellor replied, as if Thorpe had been referring to nothing more serious than a mild outbreak of chickenpox. Thorpe glowered instead.
“This ‘coupon’ then,” he eventually said, succumbing to fatigue again, “I suppose I don’t really have a choice?”
Heath looked back, impassively.
“Of course you do,” he said brightly, “although – obviously – a ‘no’ may make it a litt
le bit trickier for us to win the next election, and who knows what files could re-emerge if Tony Benn is in charge of the Home Office.”
Thorpe decided to shoot back.
“A proposal that may have suggested using the army against the miners back in ’73?”
“Who knows?” the Chancellor said with an air of someone wearing a bulletproof vest, “better not leave it to chance, eh?”
The Lord President of the Council paused.
“I’ll see what I can do – you’re looking at at least a third of the party jumping ship, though.”
“It is enough,” Heath said, “after the election we’re likely to be able to make an arrangement with Roy’s lot in ‘the Reform Party’, and the BLP still gives us enough of a buffer for now – if a third of your fellows do disappear, I think we can manage a net loss of four.”
“What about the fifteen or so of yours that have jumped ship to Enoch’s mob?” Thorpe replied, choosing to ignore the subtle jab at the size of the Liberal Parliamentary Party.
Heath paused. Thorpe basked in the momentary glory that came from catching the impossibly well-adjusted Silver Fox of Whitehall off-guard. It did not last long.
“We shall have to wait and see,” said Heath with an affected brightness, “though I will admit I am looking forward to watching the old racialist bring his whole temple crashing down around him.”
So Enoch Powell was Samson, mused Thorpe. Did Heath mean to be his Delilah? As Ted put on his jacket and readied himself for First Lord’s Questions, Jeremy Thorpe regretted the mental image he had given himself.
It promised to be a fractious, nasty FLQs – most of them had been since the Conference Season, especially since Reggie had flown the kite about ‘another February election’. Thorpe was one of the last people to arrive from the frontbench, and he ended up finding a space next to Sally Oppenheim-Barnes, the Minister for Overseas Development and – sadly – the only woman in the Cabinet.
Penhaligon had looked him square in the eyes as Thorpe had walked past the Liberal caucus on the far end of the Government side of the House of Commons Chamber. With the government now nursing a majority that had almost been wiped out with Monday’s mass defection of the Monday Club to ‘Enoch’s Barmy Army’ – the Liberals were now the only thing keeping the National Government afloat.
“Questions to the First Lord of the Treasury,” Speaker Grimond intoned, “Mr James Lamond.”
“Number One, Mr Speaker!” came the first cry from the Member for Oldham East.
“This morning,” Lord Mountbatten said, rising to his feet for the customary statement, “I had a number of meetings with Parliamentary colleagues, as well as a meeting of the Cabinet. Following the business of this House, I hope to have a number of similar meetings, later today.”
Mr Lamond was already returning to his feet for the follow up.
“Mr Speaker,” the non-descript member began, “will the First Lord of the Treasury join me in formally inviting the President of the United States to this country for a summit meeting, aimed at discussing matters of mutual benefit to our two nations?”
The California count had gone on for the best part of two days. First, President Ford was in by a thousand votes, then Senator Jackson by fifty, then – finally – the President had officially nosed ahead by several hundred or so. Coupled with a number of narrow margins in the Midwest, it had been the closest election since 1960.
“I am very much obliged to the Honourable Member for raising the point,” Mountbatten said, diplomatically, “When I sent a greeting to President Ford on his successful re-election I assured him that he would get a warm welcome when he next visited Downing Street. I shall certainly be discussing the matter with Vice President-elect Baker, as well as the mooted proposals for a summit meeting when he makes his maiden visit to this country next month. President Ford has already indicated that he intends to telephone some of the leaders of Western Europe this week. Certainly if there is a desire for a summit meeting in London as a follow-up to discussions that were made in Copenhagen by the Lord Home, and later in Washington by My Right Honourable Friend, the Member for Chipping Barnet, this government shall certainly be happy to accommodate it here, or to go elsewhere if there is general agreement.”
“Mr Timothy Renton!”
There was a forgettable question from the Member for Mid Sussex regarding energy prices. Thorpe let out a sigh of relief. With any luck, this would set the tone for…
“Mr Dennis Skinner!”
Damn.
“Mr Speaker,” the firebrand Member for Bolsover began, “I wonder if the First Lord and his subjects have had the opportunity to read this morning’s edition of Private Eye?”
The magazine, ink already coming off in Skinner’s fingers, was opened. The most observant of his colleagues took note of the front cover – a picture of Enoch Powell inspecting an oven at last year’s Ideal Home Exhibition with the speech bubble saying “Excellent, but it’ll have to be a bit bigger to fit the darkies in” – before he continued.
“Private Eye clearly is of the opinion that the member for...”
“Point of Order, Mr Speaker,” Iain Sproat cried, rising from the back of the Government benches, “I spy strangers.” There was a rumble of outrage from the Opposition side of the Chamber, as well as from a contingent of Liberals. The House divided quickly, the Tory Whips methodically ticking Government MPs through the ‘Aye’ Lobby. The motion passed by a dozen or so votes, as the police and attendants shooed out spectators in the public gallery. Hansard Reporters and members of the Press Gallery dutifully packed up their belongings and vacated their positions above the Speaker’s Chair.
Skinner rose again as the House resumed.
“Mr Speaker, I wonder if the First Lord could comment on the allegations that the erstwhile-Liberal” he continued, snorting the last word decisively, “the Lord President of the Council, gleefully embargoed an exposé into his private life – as well as negative reports of his Lord and Master’s assumption of near-dictatorial power?’
The Conservative loyalists did their best to drown out the braying of the Labour MPs. Out of the corner of his eye, Thorpe noted that Penhaligon had remained silent.
“Mr Speaker,” Mountbatten said, “it is not the policy of this government to comment on matters pertaining to national security issues, nor individual cases before the Ministry of Information.”
Very deliberately, Skinner retook his seat. Almost the entire Labour Party leadership stood up in response, trying to catch the Speaker’s eye. Grimond, giving an apologetic raise of eyebrows to his successor as party leader, reluctantly called the leader of the Liberal awkward squad.
“Mr David Penhaligon!”
“Mr Speaker,” began the Member for Truro, “I too would have liked a response from the First Lord with regard to serious allegations expressed by the Honourable Gentleman opposite, but it is clear that none will be forthcoming – even with the public and the press forced out by an archaic standing order.”
For the first time in as long as anyone could remember, the House was completely silent.
“Since I entered this House in 1974, I have been an entrenched supporter of two things, Cornwall and Liberal values. When the Member for North Devon informed my Parliamentary Colleagues and me of his intentions to support the National Government, he may well recall that I urged caution. He may also have noted my request for…”
“Question! Ask a question!” someone began to bellow. The air was soon thick with heckles, and Grimond hollered for order.
“The gentleman will ask a question, and it will be heard,” the Speaker said testily, directing just as much distaste towards the barrackers as he did toward Penhaligon.
“Thank you, Mr Speaker. He may also have noted my request for clarity on the rumours that were filling the tea rooms and corridors of this place. He gave me his word that he would both protect and entrench Liberal values in this House, as well as his total innocence on matters relating to the pri
vate allegations against him. I know I am joined by a number of my Parliamentary colleagues in feeling a genuine sense of betrayal on both points.”
Geraint Howells and Clement Freud nodded sagely, the latter without hesitation.
“I had wondered if the First Lord would agree to meet with a delegation to discuss these matters in more detail. I strongly suspect that he will not.”
A couple of the loyalist Tory backbenchers jeered and waved their order papers.
“However, even if he choses to do so, the matter is – to my mind – largely moot. The damage is done, and given the recent article in The Spectator regarding an electoral coupon, I cannot help but remember that I was elected as a Liberal representative, not a Conservative in an orange rosette. That may be a path that others within this grand old party may wish to follow, but it is one that I certainly cannot countenance for a moment longer.”
The House erupted as Penhaligon re-took his seat. Mountbatten attempted to make himself heard at the despatch box, before giving up and waiting for the noise to subside. Even with the Speaker’s repeated calls for order, it took the best part of a minute before the Chamber returned to a more manageable noise level.
“I am grateful to the Honourable Member for his candour,” Mountbatten said levelly, “although I assure him that I am not the ogre that he maintains me to be in private. Unlike the Member for Truro, I do not believe – nor have I ever believed – in hanging a good man out to dry without good reason.”
The First Lord of the Treasury gathered himself above cries of “shame” from the usual suspects on the Labour benches.
“I note from a recent interview by the Chancellor, that there is a matter of speculation about the continuation of the National Government beyond the next general election, but that is a matter of discussion for another day, and another person at this Despatch Box.”
There was something about the terms used that caused the grumbling to die down once again as Lord Mountbatten turned a page of notes.