Fifty-First State

by Hilary Bailey

  ‘The point is,’ Julia said urgently, ‘We all know Muldoon’s on his way out unless there’s a miracle. And Petherbridge is likely to be the next PM. He’s tough and right wing. And who’ve we got? Carl Chatterton. So I and the usual suspects want to put you up.’

  ‘You always want to put me up, Julia,’ Moreno said. ‘And I always refuse.’

  ‘It matters, Mark. More than ever—’

  ‘I know. But I don’t want to split the party. That matters, too, now, more than ever.’

  ‘The last time I saw Chatterton he couldn’t even remember my name.’

  ‘I’m not saying he’s got spectacular people skills—’

  ‘He hasn’t got any spectacular skills—’

  ‘He’s a good number cruncher. He did an excellent job in the Treasury.’

  ‘And then he got promoted above his capacity,’ Julia said. ‘Mark, we all know what happened. It was between you and Blackwood. Half the Party didn’t want Blackwood. The other half didn’t want you—’

  ‘That’s how it works,’ Moreno said.

  ‘That’s how it worked. But the party in the House is with you now, ever since Blackwood backed US and British troops landing in the tribal areas in Pakistan, because they thought the Pakistan government hadn’t done enough to root out Al Qaeda there. And now they can’t find them if they were ever there and casualties are heavy – and that’s one good reason why Chatterton and Blackwood are discredited – more and more so, day by day, with every squaddie who dies out there. Come on, Mark – we should challenge now.’

  Mark Moreno looked at the thin, animated face opposite him. He smiled. ‘Leave it until after the summer recess. Conference time. I’ll make my decision then.’

  ‘It could be too late,’ she warned.

  ‘No reason to think it will be.’

  ‘I’ve got a nasty feeling…’

  Moreno stood up. ‘I’ve got a nasty feeling my wife will be an angry woman if I don’t get home now,’ he said. ‘She’s going out for a coffee – first since the twins were born. She’s like a kid on the way to Disneyland.’

  Julia stood also. She kissed the tall man on the cheek. ‘I’m sorry, Mark. I wouldn’t have called you if we didn’t all think—’

  ‘I won’t tell you I haven’t been thinking about it. It’s not just the Hamscott debate. Of course the Lib Dems will walk all over us. It’ll be Amir Siddiqi. They’ll walk all over the Tories, too. It won’t make any difference. When Petherbridge takes over we’ll need a credible leader.’

  ‘Think hard, Mark.’

  He nodded and left to make his way back on public transport to Greenford and his screaming twins. Up to now he had never encouraged the left-wingers of his own party to think he’d challenge the leadership. Loyalty or strategy? Both, of course. But perhaps this time Julia was right. Chatterton was increasingly a liability. Petherbridge would be a bigger threat than Muldoon. As usual, timing was everything. Success or failure depended on it. Timing – and luck.

  Fox Square, London SW1. June 12th, 2015. 8.30 p.m.

  Two figures stood by the base of the statue of General Sir Galahad Montmorency Havelock. Facing the statue with their backs turned to the church they were unlikely to be noticed. Even if they had been observed, an accidental meeting in the Westminster village would not have been too surprising. However, this meeting was no accident.

  Two days after Kim Durham’s death, Alan Petherbridge leaked the memorandum revealing his plan to retake the base using trained officers from the Metropolitan Police and Kent Constabulary, a plan the Prime Minister had approved. Also leaked was the fact that about an hour later the Prime Minister had agreed to the landing of US Marines at Hamscott. The press leapt on it; there was noisy questioning of the Prime Minister in the House of Commons; a week later a poll showed that 82 per cent of the public blamed the Prime Minister for Kim Durham’s death. The effect of the leak was devastating. Only one right-wing newspaper had dared, in an editorial, to suggest that the invasion of a base holding nuclear weapons demanded prompt and forceful action. This was followed by a flood of largely hostile correspondence.

  It would have helped Muldoon if there had been one person with Asian or Middle Eastern connections among the arrested base invaders. But there were none. Those who had seized the base were peace activists, CND supporters and members of religious groups. There were a few hard-core left-wingers. There were nuns. And the Red Vicar, the Reverend Alec Hutchinson, who had been injured by a bullet in the calf but was soon back in full voice from his wheelchair. Admittedly, some of the arrested men and women had convictions for minor offences – trespass, criminal damage, attacks on the police – but hard as Canning and his Press Office tried, it was impossible to spin these characters into terrorists. Meanwhile, there was no escaping the pictures of Kim Durham and her son in newspapers, on TV round the world and now on banners carried by the government’s opponents.

  Two weeks later, a second poll showed that 75 per cent of the public, including 50 per cent of his own supporters, thought that Muldoon should be replaced as Prime Minister. Three weeks further on, the same number said that in the event of another election resulting in another hung Parliament, they would support a National Government.

  Two days later, a firestorm was unleashed on Syria. Damascus and Aleppo were hit two nights running by a fleet of bombers. A third of the armada of bombers were launched from British bases, including Hamscott Common. The justification for the attack was, said the American President, that Syria had been harbouring international Muslim terrorists who had infiltrated Iraq over the border, flooding the country with subversive propaganda, agents and money. Syrian complicity had created the results of the Iraqi elections. In America, the public was divided about the attacks. The British public refused to believe the President’s arguments. The European Parliament met to condemn the raids. The assault on Syria could not have been timed better if the intention had been deliberately to finish Muldoon as Prime Minister. Some thought that might have been the case.

  Predictably, there were demonstrations throughout the country. A suicide bomber, a young man from Harlesden, blew himself up in the gardens of Buckingham Palace. Twelve British oil executives in Nigeria were kidnapped. There were bloody riots in the East End and Southall.

  The Conservative Party had changed greatly since the days when a contingent of Tory grandees would visit a Prime Minister they no longer required, and, with the air of men putting down a loaded revolver on a table in front of a disgraced officer, suggest the Prime Minister should take the only way out and resign. There are procedures these days – but at this point the inner group of the Conservative Party knew they had no time for a bruising leadership contest. Muldoon must go, quickly, on grounds of ill health. The chairman of the CBI, Gisela Sutter, and the Party Chairman, Sir Graham Barnsbury, asked for appointments. So did an old lion who had once been in Mrs Thatcher’s Cabinet (and had been among those who told her she must go). The Party Leader in the House of Commons tried to arrange a meeting with Muldoon. A gentleman closely connected with Buckingham Palace planned to drop in for tea. And there were others – Lord Haver of Blindon, the twentieth richest man in Great Britain, the Chief Whip, the Chairman of the Bank of England, and several more – all men who could not be put off and would not be. The PM’s diary filled with the names of his would-be assassins.

  After the first of these meetings, Gisela Sutter, the CBI Chairman, reported to Lord Haver and then, separately, to Lord Gott – the two men disliked each other – that Muldoon was not taking the hint. Graham Barnsbury told Lady Jenner, the Conservative leader in the Lords, that Muldoon had told him he thought it important to stay on, to stand firm and weather out the storm. Anything else would discredit the party and him, personally. Such statements have been made by politicians in the past, just before clearing their desks and booking a holiday but Muldoon was that most formidable of obstacles, a weak, obstinate and cunning man. The assassins met and made another plan.

  Mea
nwhile, Muldoon, who knew his world to be full of enemies, cancelled as many appointments as he could, sent the Deputy PM to the House of Commons for Question Time and went to ground, as far as he was able to. The British Parliament has no fixed sessions but votes itself, each year, a generous four months of holidays. The House was due to go into recess in mid-July this year, and would reconvene in mid-October. No child, waiting for the start of the summer holidays, could have looked forward to them as much as Frederick Muldoon did to the dissolution of Parliament, due in four weeks.

  Standing in Fox Square by the podium of Sir Galahad’s statue, Petherbridge said to Canning, ‘Tom, you and I have had our differences in the past but we need you now. You know why. You’re the only man Muldoon will listen to. He’s in his bunker, like Hitler, and he won’t come out. You’re practically the only man he trusts. But he can’t survive. You know it, I know it, and at the back of his mind he must know it. Quite frankly you’d be doing him a favour, putting him out of his misery.’

  And you a favour too, thought Canning. You want poor old Fred out because you’re the next in line. He was not surprised. He had seen this conversation coming from the moment, that morning, when Petherbridge had asked for a quick chat. Up to now Petherbridge had stayed out of the fray, presumably because it never looks good when the heir apparent takes the knife to his own father. It was plain to Canning that with Muldoon clinging like a barnacle to the ship of state, Petherbridge had been persuaded to take a hand.

  This was not the first time that Canning had been approached to use his influence with Muldoon. It was not the second, or even the third. Previously, he’d refused, giving loyalty as his reason. This was only part of it, and perhaps not a very big part. Muldoon had been Canning’s living for seven years. Where would he go when Muldoon went to the backbenches or perhaps out of Parliament altogether? Back to The Times? Would they have him – throwing up a career on a national paper to work for seven years as a Press Secretary is not always much of a recommendation? There were other papers. There was PR. There was consultancy work. But a man who has been a PM’s lackey and ends up stabbing his boss in the back is not always welcome on anyone’s staff.

  ‘It’d be an act of kindness to him,’ Petherbridge said persuasively. ‘And I’m sure you’d find many people very grateful if you could spare the PM humiliation and the party an agonizing leadership contest in public’

  Canning was not admitting to himself that at that moment he was afraid of Alan Petherbridge, afraid of those dark eyes of his, eyes which never, whether in light or darkness, seemed to reflect anything back to the person he was talking to. He was afraid of that pale, matt face – his own was sweating, he knew – and the firm line of Petherbridge’s mouth. But he could not deny Petherbridge’s intelligence and effectiveness. Like a man held in a marriage to an ailing wife, tempted by a healthy and willing partner, he saw it was time to jump – and he jumped. ‘How grateful would these people be, do you think?’ he asked. Petherbridge told him. Five years on the board of a state-supported institution, the CEO of which was about to retire in two years, three years as Director, then, in all probability, a peerage. Canning asked about guarantees. Petherbridge stared at him with those hard-to-read eyes. ‘I’m your guarantee,’ he told Canning. ‘Believe me – this is the best you can hope for.’

  He added none of the softening phrases that help a man to do what he thinks he should not do. He had offered his deal. It was a good one and Canning, flinching under that steady, determined gaze, had never been more certain that Muldoon was doomed. He had the impression that Petherbridge would be angered by a request for a few days to think the matter over.

  He said, ‘I agree. Shall we talk tomorrow?’ The two men shook hands briefly and parted straight away, leaving Sir Galahad alone in the square, with a pigeon roosting on his head. Tom Canning went home to Clapham Common and hit the local pub and Alan Petherbridge went into Sugden’s for dinner with some good friends from Amical, the Anglo-American friendship society.

  Petherbridge sat down. William handed him a menu. ‘Good day?’ enquired his American guest.

  ‘Very satisfactory,’ said Alan Petherbridge.

  Three

  10 Downing Street, London SW1. June 15th, 2015. 8 a.m.

  Tom Canning sat down opposite the Prime Minister at his small breakfast table in the upstairs kitchen. Muldoon had eaten his eggs and bacon and had started on the toast. His wife was in the country, planning the annual Conservative Ball.

  ‘So what’s today’s bad news, Tom?’ Muldoon asked, trying to sound as he used to. Canning, deliberately, did not smile. Muldoon looked at him, his expression fading. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s bad, Prime Minister,’ Canning said. ‘Somebody’s got to tell you and I wish to God it didn’t have to be me – but the truth is, you must resign. If you do, you go with dignity. If not, you’ll be gone in a few weeks and without any dignity at all.’ He went on to tell Muldoon exactly who was against him and how they planned to proceed.

  ‘This is a shock, Tom,’ said Muldoon. But his manner, Canning observed, was not like that of a man who has had a shock.

  At that moment Canning did not know what to make of Muldoon. Having put down his knife and fork the Prime Minister crossed the room and turned on the coffee machine which stood, fresh coffee in the filter, ready to go. He turned. His face was grave. Canning had been prepared for bitterness, for talk, even, of a possible compromise. Muldoon only said, ‘I’ll talk to the Leader of the House.’

  Grateful that Muldoon seemed to have accepted that he had to go, Canning reminded him, ‘You’d better ring the Palace.’

  Muldoon shot him a bitter look. ‘Yes, Tom. I know,’ he said. He added, ‘Funny how fast things move when they’re really determined to get rid of you.’

  ‘It’s a rough old game,’ Canning said, in a more sympathetic tone.

  ‘It certainly is,’ Muldoon replied. Canning stood up to go. ‘I’m only upset that it should be you they sent. I thought better of you, Tom.’

  ‘No one could have been more reluctant,’ Canning said. ‘Believe me, I never thought it would come to this. I’m deeply upset.’

  ‘Thank you, Tom,’ said Muldoon. After the door closed behind Canning Muldoon’s expression changed. ‘Bastards,’ he thought, ‘Judases – I’ll fuck the lot of you.’ And he did.

  First, Muldoon asked his attackers if they would allow him see out the session and offer his resignation when Parliament reopened in October. The men and women who had conspired to get rid of him instinctively mistrusted this plan. It had been hard enough to persuade Muldoon to resign and now he had agreed to go, they wanted it over before he had a chance to wriggle out of it. But the current session of Parliament was due to end in three weeks. There was too little time to go through the procedures involved in electing a new leader before the session ended. If Muldoon declared his resignation immediately there would be three or four months of speculation, plots, plans, rivalries and press leaks before the election in October or November. Three or four months during which something could go wrong. Trapped, the party bigwigs agreed to wait.

  Then Muldoon tricked them all. The following week, at Tuesday’s Question Time, he stood up in the House of Commons and declared a General Election. After the first moments of shocked disbelief a howl went up. Over the noise, which gradually subsided, the Prime Minister stated that the country was in urgent need of a government with a sound majority and a public mandate to govern. The present situation was untenable – a state close to anarchy prevailed. He could not in conscience continue to lead his party or his country in such circumstances. Consequently, he would be visiting Her Majesty that afternoon to ask for the dissolution of Parliament. He concluded by saying that for health reasons he himself would be unable to lead his party into the election. He spoke calmly, as if making the most mundane of announcements and only those who knew him best detected the bravado, or the malicious pleasure he felt when he concluded his statement and sank down
into his seat on the front bench.

  The groans of disbelief and disgust, which had begun when it became plain what he was saying and then subsided as he spoke on, swelled again. MPs began to rise in their seats, shouting words that could not be heard over the hubbub. The Speaker’s calls for order were ignored. And, finally, the Speaker dismissed the House. The noise ebbed as suddenly as it had risen. MPs, sobered, walked out of the Chamber, talking to each other in small groups.

  The senior men and women of all parties convened immediately. But the reality was that they could do nothing to reverse Muldoon’s decision. It was unheard of to declare an election without consulting the opposition parties. Muldoon had not even consulted his own. It was unheard of to dissolve Parliament in summer, since an election cannot take place until the autumn. But Muldoon had done it. As Prime Minister he had the power to call an election whenever he chose, subject only to the Queen’s consent, and the Queen, though technically able to refuse, cannot really do so. Muldoon had found a loophole in the (unwritten) British constitution and driven a coach, horses and outriders right through it.

  Muldoon went to see the Queen, in her late eighties now, and tiring, but still very acute. She, reportedly, was so furious with Muldoon that she kept him standing throughout the interview. The Committee for Constitutional Change – nicknamed the Committee for Constipated Change – had been sitting for two years now. Part of its brief had been to examine the traditional powers accorded to the Prime Minister and discuss whether these powers – among others, unilaterally sending troops to war and unilaterally declaring a General Election – were suitable in a twenty-first-century democracy. The Committee was still sitting. Now a platoon of constitutional lawyers was drafted on to it to close the stable door now that the horse had bolted.