Agent Lavender: The Flight of Harold Wilson

by Tom Black

  As Barbara Castle walked smartly to her podium, Tony was the first on his feet. He clapped until his hands hurt.

  Chapter thirty-five

  Wednesday 19th January 1977 – 7:55pm

  Sir John Hunt had a discreet look at his watch. Edward Heath, the PM-in-all-but-name and the man who in all probability would shed that hyphenated suffix next month, was in full flow.

  “There is much to be done. I am confident I can leave Whitehall in your capable hands during the campaign, though as the First Lord isn’t, er, ‘standing for re-election’, he will be quite legally on-hand should any crisis emerge. No purdah for him!”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I am – if you’ll forgive me – confident of a Moderate, sorry, Conservative victory in the election, and upon my return, I plan to continue the sterling work I began, with you at my side, in the early years of this decade. A social market, so long out of reach, is within our grasp at last.”

  Sir John supposed historians would be baffled that a man viewed by most as a military dictator had, apparently by accident, transformed the relationship between Britain and her trade unions. For the better.

  “It will indeed be a mammoth task, sir,” he replied.

  Heath beamed, pacing round to his desk and placing his hands on the back of his chair.

  “And, Sir John,” he said with excitement, “I shall very much look forward to working closely with you again. Whitehall will be in need of reinvigoration once more, and I—”

  “Forgive me,” Sir John said with a raise of his hand, his tone perhaps a mite too sharp, “but I am afraid I must inform you, Mr Heath, that it is my intention to retire from the civil service, effective immediately.”

  There. It was done. Sir John had known he’d have to say it all at once to make sure he said it at all. Heath, for the first time in weeks, looked like he had been caught completely off-guard.

  “Why, Sir John!” he cried, “why on earth are you leaving us now? Mr Wilson’s trial notwithstanding, the domestic situation is more peaceful now than it has been for many years, inflation is falling, and… and…” he rifled through the desk for something to gesture with, finding a relevant set of papers and holding them up, “there are very promising reports about the ratification of the Industrial Relations Council by the TUC! Tell me, John, why go now?”

  Sir John Hunt – the most put-upon figure in Whitehall since Sir Thomas More – could have said so much in response.

  He could have told him that he still had heart palpitations when he thought back to the moment when Marcia Williams had informed him of the flight of Harold Wilson.

  He could have told him that he was still catching up on bed from the quite literally sleepless fortnight that he had endured in 1975.

  He could have told him that he occasionally wept with remorse when he remembered how limited his resistance had been to two constitutional coups.

  He could have told him about how the amount of work involved in the near-abrogation of the Bill of Rights, the Act of Settlement, and Magna Carta had cost him his friends, his health, and – almost – his marriage.

  He could have just told him how tired he was.

  But Sir John did not. Instead, he held out his letter of resignation, tried to stop his hand shaking as he simultaneously tried to prevent himself from bursting a blood vessel, and said a few simple, entirely honest, words.

  “I would like to spend more time with my family.”

  Heath was motionless. His eyes narrowed infinitesimally, and Sir John wondered whether he would in fact be ordered to sit down, have a glass of whisky and put aside such silly talk of retirement. After what felt like three days, the leader of the Conservative Party broke into a polite smile, and took the letter.

  “Of course,” he said, “quite understandable. You have served this country well enough. I daresay you will again, too! A peerage is yours the moment you desire it.”

  “I apologise, of course, for the short notice. But the election announcement surprised me,” Sir John lied.

  “Again, quite alright. There are men ready to take your place – though none that can fill your shoes,” Heath said through his shark-like grin.

  And that was effectively that. Heath shook his hand, Sir John took one last look around the Prime Minister’s office – the one that had not had a Prime Minister in it for fourteen months – and out he went, into the corridor.

  Sir John barely noticed the staff rising from their desks as he walked downstairs. The applause from his colleagues did not ring in his ears, but might as well have been coming from the other side of the world. A handshake – or was it a dozen handshakes? – later, he was stood in the most famous doorway in London, receiving a polite nod from the policeman outside. Barely pausing to return the gesture, Sir John Hunt stepped forward.

  He had to muster everything in his power to stop himself skipping away from Downing Street. Hailing a taxi, he reached into his pocket and made sure the tickets to Bordeaux were still there.

  “Bit of traffic today, sir,” said the cabbie as Sir John entered and sat down.

  “Not to worry,” the former Cabinet Secretary exhaled, “I’m not in the slightest hurry.”

  Contrary to popular belief, the so-called ‘Red Telephone’ between Washington and Moscow was neither red, nor a telephone. Nor was it – for that matter – even in the White House. Instead, if the President of the United States wanted to consult with the Premier of the Soviet Union, he instead would use a secure teleprinter in the Pentagon, routed via London and Scandinavia. Gerald Ford had known about this even before entering the Oval Office, but it still came as a disappointment whenever he had to talk to his opposite number in the Kremlin.

  He was grateful, then, that on this occasion, Charles Percy had done it for him. It meant he didn’t have to leave the office.

  “Certainly,” the Secretary of State said, skimming the file in front of him, “if Andropov does intend to open this ‘Special Economic Zone’ in Magadan, it would require us to dramatically re-think our overall policy towards the Far East – especially since Nakasone’s assumption of power in Tokyo.”

  “Better him than the Reds, surely?” Ford countered.

  “Perhaps,” Charles Percy continued, “but this ‘Article Nine’ stuff – that basically sets out a refoundation of a formal military – well, really has not gone down well with either Peking or with the Koreans.”

  The President put his arms behind his head. A nationalist in power in Japan, just after Pyongyang and Seoul had signed a ‘Memorandum of Understanding’? The entire region really was a ‘Two Steps Forward, One Back’ sort of place lately.

  “That said,” Ford found himself saying, “surely our main priority should be the Brits?”

  “Not really,” Percy replied, “it’s all over bar the shouting, and you’ve dealt with Heath before.”

  Ford had indeed dealt with Heath before – although the strangled verbs and mercurial attitude of the Prime Minister-to-be presented an unflattering contrast with his taciturn, reserved sort-of-predecessor.

  Like Mercury and Saturn, Ford thought to himself, Betty’s recent interest in Astrology having already worn off on him. Dick Cheney cleared his throat.

  “Speaking of England,” the new Chief of Staff said, “Lord Mountbatten is waiting on the other end of the line.”

  Ford looked his watch, tutting.

  “We’d better call it a day, Charles,” the President said, “I promised I’d speak with the First Lord before he tendered his resignation.”

  The State Department had been very sad to have seen Mountbatten go. Regardless of what Teddy Kennedy had said about ‘dictatorship’, the Admiral had been praised by many Irish-American leaders, and had been a stabilising, reliable figure to have around the place. The spirit of Eisenhower had lived on across the Atlantic, it had seemed, certainly far more than it had done in De Gaulle. Gerald had been vaguely disappointed when he heard the old man was retiring, even though at the time, he had
objected to a man never elected to anything taking over the UK. He had been aware of the hypocrisy.

  “Put him through, Dick,” the President said, as Percy left.

  The connecting call came through two minutes later.

  “Mr President,” the First Lord of the Treasury said.

  “Mr First Lord,” the President replied.

  “One day, I shall really have to take you up on the difference between a title and a position,” Mountbatten said, cracking an unseen smile.

  “Wait until 1981,” said Ford, putting his feet up on his desk, “then you will have all the time you need to educate me in all of your English customs.”

  The voice at the other end of the line laughed.

  “I shan’t attempt to explain why you ought to have said ‘British’, then,” Mountbatten said.

  “It’s not going to be the same without you, Louis,” Ford said warmly, “I do hope that you will find the time to continue to serve the country as you have done so well over the past year or so.”

  “It’s actually been nearer sixty years, Mr President,” Mountbatten replied without a hint of false modesty, “I would rather like to think that I’ve done my bit.”

  That much was certainly true, Ford thought to himself, although if an insult had been taken, Mountbatten’s voice didn’t betray it.

  “I suppose that I should really be thanking you, Mr President,” Mountbatten said, his tone changing, “I know how difficult it has been for the White House to have continued to stand by the United Kingdom during this difficult time. Our domestic situation notwithstanding, I shall certainly always be grateful for your unshakable support for, and commitment to, the Atlantic Alliance.”

  “Louis,” Ford said, “this administration has always believed in the patriotism and the common zeal of the British people. It is epitomised by you – but every dealing that we have had with your people has shown that this belief is shared by many others.”

  “I am grateful for that, Mr President,” Mountbatten replied, deciding not to mention the large, unflattering effigy of himself that was currently being constructed by the ‘Democracy Village’ camped out on Parliament Square.

  “Obviously, we shall entirely respect the outcome of next week’s election – although I sincerely hope that your successor is someone that I can count on you to place your trust in.”

  Mountbatten chuckled.

  “A very circulatory means of saying that you hope it isn’t Mrs Castle,” the First Lord of the Treasury replied, “I assure you that that outcome is rather unlikely.”

  “Even so, Louis…”

  Mountbatten rubbed the bridge of his nose, and gave a resigned sigh. What was right, was right.

  “And, Mr President,” he began forcefully, “speaking for myself – you can be assured that everyone in the Labour Party Leadership is of impeccable credentials. I would trust any of them, Mrs Castle in particular, with my life.”

  Dick Cheney, holding the other receiver and jotting down the conversation, pulled a face. The President ignored him.

  “In any case, Louis,” Ford continued, “I would once again like to reiterate my heartfelt gratitude to you. I know that Betty and I would be honoured for you to visit us here in Washington whenever is convenient.”

  “An invitation that I likewise extend to you, to visit the United Kingdom, Mr President.”

  “We would, I am sure, be delighted to accept.”

  There was a respectful pause from both men. Dick Cheney pointedly jabbed at the timetable with his pen.

  “I appreciate you even giving it some thought,” Ford said, wrapping the conversation up.

  “’Twas ever thus, Mr President. I am sure that we shall speak again very soon – even though I shall quite contentedly be in retirement by then.”

  “It has been an honour speaking to you, Louis. I think history will remember you when I am old news.”

  “Nonsense, Jerry,” said Mountbatten, “and you know it.”

  There was a ‘click’ and the conversation between the President of the United States and the First Lord of the Treasury came to an end.

  As Ford replaced the receiver, he realised that that had been the first time that Mountbatten had ever called him by his first name – old habits, it seemed, did not always die hard. The President made his way through the West Wing for his most important meeting of the day, soon entering the President’s Dining Room.

  Betty Ford didn’t often get her husband to herself at lunchtime. As the most powerful man in the world gave her a warm smile as he drew up a chair, she smiled back.

  “We should do this more often,” the President said.

  “I’m not the one who’s usually too busy,” Betty said with a soft laugh.

  Jerry reached across the table, and put his hand on his wife’s.

  “Four more years. Then I’m all yours, my darling.”

  Betty leant forward and kissed her husband on the cheek, then spoke in a tender whisper.

  “You take every day as it comes, Jerry. Do some good today. Do some more tomorrow.”

  Forgetting, for a moment, that tomorrow would begin another long period of uncertainty in Britain, the President squeezed her hand.

  “That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

  “I know, dear. And by the way, you shouldn’t say ‘four more years’,” she added with a wink.

  Jerry rolled his eyes at himself and stared out of the window, across the North Lawn towards Pennsylvania Avenue. The blue skies that had been there in the morning had been replaced by the tell-tale dark clouds of an impending snowstorm.

  Despite the heat of the room, he shuddered.

  “Jerry? What’s on your mind?”

  Gerald Ford looked back from the window towards his wife.

  “Tomorrow.”

  The night was already drawing in as Mountbatten left Downing Street for what was to be his final private audience with The Queen.

  There was to be no formal resignation of the government pending the appointment of the new Prime Minister – that had already taken place with the dissolution of Parliament. However, despite how ‘effective’ the Civil Service had been in running things during the purdah, Ministries still needed to be run, and a Prime Minister (or First Lord) still needed to talk to his fellow heads of government. Ideally, Mountbatten would have preferred to have stepped down as soon as he had announced the date of the general election, but Heath had been adamant for him to carry on until election night.

  He probably didn’t want to run the risk of being a month-long Premier, Mountbatten thought to himself, somewhat unfairly.

  The motorcade swung past the Victoria Memorial through the front gates of Buckingham Palace and through into the Main Quadrangle. It was a familiar route, the routine only broken as one of the flanking police bikes narrowly avoided running over a couple of Italian tourists. After the surfeit of negative press headlines that Mountbatten had endured from every newspaper from Le Monde to Der Spiegel, killing a few EEC citizens would probably be the last straw for Brussels. Even Enoch Powell probably wouldn’t endorse it as a campaigning mechanism.

  The car door was opened by one of the Palace flunkies, who – for the purposes of tradition – escorted him through the Palace to the White Drawing Room.

  There was no need for the First Lord of the Treasury to knock – he was expected.

  The Queen was sat in her usual seat, facing the window. A teapot steamed next to a pair of cups and saucers. Even for such a momentous occasion such as this, there was a certain element of decorum to be maintained.

  Mountbatten cleared his throat.

  “Ah, there you are, Dickie,” The Queen said, “I was starting to wonder if you had changed your mind again.”

  There was a slight hint of disapproval in her voice.

  “You thought that I wasn’t going to come?” Mountbatten replied.

  The Queen looked at him directly, before turning her head away.

  “No,” she said quietly, “
that was unwarranted of me, Dickie.”

  Mountbatten noticed the stack of newspapers on the coffee table. The Guardian was on the top of the pile, the headline “Mountbatten to Resign’” above a crowd of cheering protesters in Parliament Square.

  “I see that Mr Jenkin is letting standards slip at the Ministry of Information,” Mountbatten said jocularly, “if I were the demon that Fleet Street seems to think, I could probably have had him breaking rocks on Orkney by now.”

  The Queen said nothing.

  “Ma’am,” he continued, “I am here to formally tender my resignation as First Lord of the Treasury and to request a dissolution of Parliament – pending an election to be held on Thursday the Twenty Fourth of...”

  “I know why you are here, Dickie,” The Queen interrupted, “I only wish that people weren’t being quite so beastly to you.”

  If Mountbatten had been a less reserved man, he may well have shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly at the comment. Instead, he gave an indifferent nod of the head.

  “I did my duty for Queen and country, ma’am,” he eventually replied, “nothing about that necessitated popularity.”

  “History will be kind to you, I am sure.”

  “And more importantly, it will be kind to you as well. A premiership is fleeting and debatable, a reign is not – it must be seen as the fulcrum upon which the people and the constitution turn. You have endured far worse criticism, yet emerged as the symbol of the people that has stood you in such excellent stead for the past twenty-five years. I have every belief that the Jubilee celebrations will confirm that.”

  The Queen smiled.

  “I am grateful to you, Dickie, you always know the right thing to say.”

  “I’ve had an excellent role-model to follow.”

  There was a shared laugh – the first either of the two people in the room had had for quite some time.

  “As I said to the press just after breakfast,” Mountbatten continued, “I shall be ready and willing to serve as a caretaker until the next Prime Minister emerges from the election.”