The Image in the Water

by Douglas Hurd

  There was no uncertainty about the timing of the election of the new Conservative leader. Martin Redburn, chairman of the 1922 Committee of Conservative backbenchers, was in effect their group leader. He had the job of fixing the date, and had chosen Thursday, 25 March, for the first stage. Nor was there much doubt about the two likely candidates – Roger Courtauld and Joan Freetown. The problem for Makewell as acting Prime Minister was different. Joan Freetown had told him yesterday that she intended to produce a special Budget on 20 March. She had talked in his study as if this was a decision for her alone, although they both knew that his assent and that of the Cabinet were needed.

  ‘The economy needs stimulating. The country and the Party need encouragement. I have carefully worked out proposals to achieve this. It’s all ready. The case for a March Budget is overwhelming.’

  She had closed her folder with something approaching a bang. The bracelets on her wrists had clacked vigorously in applause. She had not mentioned the immense impetus a popular Budget would give to her leadership campaign. She had chosen a date five days before MPs would vote on the new leader. She had dared the caretaker Prime Minister to object.

  And he had not objected. Nor had he assented. He had muttered, in a way he now admitted was feeble, about wider considerations, about the need to reflect and consult.

  ‘A decision is needed within forty-eight hours,’ she had said, closing the interview.

  The pros and cons were obvious enough. No point in spelling them out to Simon Russell, who in his present situation somewhere above the altar would see it all clearly. Neither of them, in their hearts, would want Joan Freetown to lead the Party and become Prime Minister. But that was not quite the point. Without actually slipping to his knees he asked Simon Russell for advice.

  Chorus angelorum te suscipiat

  Joan Freetown had no ear for music, and did not believe in God. She had mixed views about the Church of England. She found its priests and bishops tedious. In her experience few of them had even an elementary understanding of economics, though their ignorance did not deter them from frequent utterance on the subject. But she saw the point of churches, of establishment, and of pulpits if properly used.

  Today, however, she was not thinking about these things. She was thinking for the last time about Simon Russell. Her worry was that he had never worried. More than once she had tried to reach him with her concern about the economy, about Europe, about the growing depredations of the Scots. He had always been courteous, but she had felt she never reached him. He had managed the government well, but she could not understand someone for whom that was the main purpose of a political career. She had never detected in him any driving idea. At first she had thought he was simply disguising his hostility to her own ideas, but latterly she judged that at the level of ideas he was genuinely empty.

  Now she would be up against the same difficulty, only worse. She supposed, though he had not yet said so, that Roger Courtauld would be her opponent for the leadership. Here again was a man without ideas. At least Simon Russell had had an educated mind, and indeed a natural authority in taking decisions which she respected. Roger Courtauld had none of that. He was shrewd, but that was the only thing to be said for him.

  She did not relish the forthcoming contest. She knew that she lacked what Roger Courtauld possessed, the knack of slapping shoulders, exchanging jokes, attracting personal loyalty. She would need help. Not with the Budget: she would spend that afternoon working alone on her proposals, confident that Peter Makewell would let her present them. She must find someone to help her with the in-fighting and the public relations. Her eyes strayed eastward and, like Julia Russell, she fastened on David Alcester, in the pew to the right towards the high altar. Tactically quick, a good grasp of economics, young, ruthless, but not more than was needed, she thought. She allowed her eyes to rest for a moment on the long fair hair, the strong profile, the well-cut suit. Of course he was still a boy. He needed someone to recommend a good barber and would need careful guidance. The blue tie was a mistake. She persuaded herself that it was only his political gifts which attracted her.

  By her side her husband Guy was on his knees. He prayed for the soul of Simon Russell, but he did not seriously doubt its well-being. If anyone deserved the approval of his Maker as well as of his country it was the last Prime Minister. But principally he prayed for his own wife, whom he loved. He prayed that she might fail in her ambition to succeed Simon Russell. Partly he was selfish, because he was praying for the safety of his marriage. But he was also praying for his wife’s happiness, and for his country’s well-being.

  Et cum Lazaro quondam paupere aeternam habeas requiem

  It was odd, so odd that she could tell it to no one, but that day in the Abbey Louise felt content. Indeed, with the exception of the day of his cremation, she had felt content through the weeks since she had found Simon calm and finally at rest in Joan Freetown’s spare bedroom. Contentment might not have been odd had she disliked her husband or wanted him to die. On the contrary she had deeply loved Simon Russell and passionately wanted him to live. But after his first heart-attack last summer she had prepared herself for the second, supposing that when it came it would be fatal. He had died quickly and she hoped without more than a few seconds of pain. He had died before his powers began to crumble, while he was still doing well the job which he enjoyed. That evening in the Cotswolds he had known that his wife was comfortable by the fire downstairs and that his daughter was on her way through the winter evening to see him.

  Louise had felt a moment of desolation in the newly built raw, red brick crematorium on Highgate Hill when Simon’s body in the impersonal coffin slid through the curtain into the fire. Her own body for a few seconds had seemed torn apart at the knowledge that she would never again quarrel with Simon, organise a week or a holiday with Simon, buy a shirt for Simon, sip morning tea with him in bed, see him patiently waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. But that pain had passed quickly and was replaced by this miraculous crop of memories, which she was still bringing to harvest. Sometimes nowadays she had to force herself away from memories. She made herself go and sculpt in the studio in Wandsworth, which Simon had hardly ever visited. She entertained Julia’s friends, whom Simon had never met. She even toyed with the idea of selling the house in Highgate and living somewhere where Simon had never set foot. She knew that he had valued her independent spirit and would have approved of all these acts of recovery through separation.

  But today in the Abbey, when the nation was remembering its prime minister, she might indulge herself in memories of the man she had married. Politics had been there all the time. At first she had resented this bitterly. During the first years of marriage she had fought against each evening destroyed by a late vote, each weekend conference, each dull dinner made worse by speeches. Latterly she had continued to fight, but more as a matter of habit than in hope of victory. She no longer expected to drive politics out of Simon’s life or even to loosen its grip. Indeed, in these later years she had dreaded the task of living with him once his political career had ended. She could not imagine how either of them would fill the void.

  Was the close of the anthem too calm, even sentimental? But that was how she felt that morning. All was well, particularly with her. No one else in the congregation, not even Julia, shared with her the particular heap of small recollections that added up to a sound marriage. When she met him Simon had been short of money. Little habits from that time had stayed with him. He turned off lights when they left a room. He kept the tawdry razors issued by airlines and soap from hotel rooms. He entered a running total on the stub of their joint cheque book, source of many misunderstandings. She had tried to tease him out of some of these habits, and now was glad that she had failed. Hide-and-seek with Julia and her friends in the Highgate garden, the tie she had bought him each year for the Party Conference, a slope of olives in Tuscany, the exercises he did in the bedroom each morning, walking together through the first sparkle o
f autumn frost on the lawns at Chequers – this jumble of unrelated snapshots was hers alone. It was useless to explain marriage to the young, for they thought of it only in terms of sex and children. Sex they had without marriage, and often nowadays children too. But they missed the point. Sleeping together and bringing up children were not great matters in themselves. They helped, along with a mass of other events, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to create a familiarity between two human beings that went beyond anything else in life. Familiarity, that was a feeble word. Comradeship, alliance, teamwork, harmony, oneness – none of these was quite right either, but Louise knew exactly what she meant. Now death had parted her from Simon. They had always known that death, and death alone, had that right.

  A loss to the nation, to the Party, to this and to that – so everyone told her and, of course, it was true. But death was not a thief, or malevolent: death was simply the stage hand who rang down the curtain on a particular act. That morning Louise felt no loss, just her own happiness.

  Chapter 2

  Extract from the Budget speech of Rt Hon. Joan Freetown, Chancellor of the Exchequer:

  Chancellor of the Exchequer: I turn now to a number of secondary decisions taken in the name of good housekeeping. I propose to move the headquarters of the National Savings Bank from Glasgow to Newcastle. This is estimated to save fifteen million euros in running costs each year.’

  Hon. Members: Shame!

  Mr Hamish Sandbeg (Hamilton): This is appalling news for Scotland. It is an act of obscene vandalism. How many Scottish jobs will be lost?

  Chancellor of the Exchequer: I have no idea [Interruption], of course I have no idea. It will depend on how many of the existing employees are willing to move across the border to Newcastle. The Honourable Member should put his question to the leader of his party. If the Scottish National Party were not pressing for the break-up of the United Kingdom I might have been willing to leave this United Kingdom institution in Glasgow despite the extra labour costs imposed by the recent lamentable and destructive decision of the Scottish Parliament.

  Mr Alexander Mackie (Glasgow Cathcart): Is the Chancellor telling us that this vindictive decision is being taken for purely political reasons?

  Chancellor of the Exchequer: It is a matter of common prudence. I cannot ignore the chance of saving fifteen million euros. But I also cannot ignore the growing disquiet among English savers at the prospect of their savings being handled in a city that might, if the SNP have their way, be separated before long from the United Kingdom. If this decision is disliked in Glasgow, its citizens know who to blame. My responsibility is to the prudent savers of the United Kingdom.

  Later:

  The Chancellor of the Exchequer: … I have had to take into account the effect on the English regions of the interest rate rises imposed by the European Central Bank in Frankfurt at their meeting in March … Unless counteracting action is taken I am advised that unemployment would probably rise by 1 per cent in Cornwall, 1.5 per cent along the southern coast of England and by up to 2 per cent on both Teesside and Tyneside. The ECB seems to have taken no account of these consequences. It will be for the Welsh and Scottish Executives to assess any similar outcome in those parts of the United Kingdom. My responsibility in this matter is for England. I am tonight laying an order under the Regional Assistance Act 2004 providing for an employment grant of twenty euros per week for employees to all employers in the regions which I have just mentioned.

  Hon. Members: Brilliant. That will show them.

  Mr John Turnbull (Leader of the Opposition): Has the Chancellor consulted the Attorney General on the legality under European law of the measure she has just announced?

  Chancellor of the Exchequer: I am shocked that the Right Honourable Gentleman should take such a legalistic line. Those facing the sack as a result of this European decision on interest rates will note that the Labour Party is more concerned with legal niceties than with jobs. Even Lord Blair’s government did not give away the right of government and Parliament in this country to fix our own expenditure and taxes. I am exercising that right today. The European Court is the place where matters of legality could in theory be tested. Should there be a challenge – I am confident there will not, but should there be a challenge – it would not come to court for several years. We would strenuously contest it – and meanwhile the grant will be paid.

  Hon. Members: Brilliant again.

  Extract from political commentary by Miss Alice Thomson in the Daily Telegraph:

  Joan Freetown yesterday produced a highly political Budget. There is no harm in that. It should delight all Conservatives. She used a relatively small administrative decision on the National Savings Bank to highlight her increasing alarm at the loudmouthed vituperation of the SNP. She showed that part of the price of Scottish independence may be paid by the Scots in advance of a referendum if the SNP continue their present campaign.

  Her employment subsidy for the English regions may raise greater doubts. The justification was distinctly broad brush. Conservative chancellors have usually supported, not undermined, the general policy of the EU in hacking away at state subsidies. When the Bank of England in the old days raised interest rates and some regions suffered, Conservatives would certainly have argued against compensating state aid. But, that said, the Chancellor received and deserved a loud ovation, even from Conservatives who support Roger Courtauld in the leadership battle. In contrast to the Home Secretary she has shown herself a Conservative of firm ideas and strong will.

  ‘So we either go on or go out,’ said Joe Seebright, the editor of Thunder, at his daily meeting, with the air of one coining an epigram. These were the words the proprietor, Lord Spitz, had used to him on the telephone just half an hour earlier.

  Joe did not repeat the further wisdom of the proprietor, who had added, ‘The truth is, Joe, you yourself don’t have a choice. You’re too far in. You chose Freetown, so for you she’s got to win. Me, I’m different. I’m just a goddamn South African Jew. For me Thunder’s in the business of selling newspapers, not choosing prime ministers.’ A pause had followed, while across the Atlantic Lord Spitz slurped coffee.

  ‘Remember the Sun,’ he continued. ‘Murdoch changed editors four times before he finally quit. That’s not my style.’ Another pause. ‘One would be ample.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Seebright cultivated a monotonous tone in dealing with his proprietor. Either encouragement or dissent led to longer conversation. Anyway, he reminded himself, it was not just a matter of self-interest and survival. He genuinely believed Joan Freetown was right for Britain – brave, experienced, above all definite. Like Thunder. The conversation had ended there.

  ‘How’s the form book today?’

  Seebright’s question went to the political editor, Robert Macdowell, who sat as usual in a corner though entitled by seniority to a seat at the table. Two years earlier Macdowell had moved from the broadsheet press to the tabloids. The rewards for his work had thus increased as its quality deteriorated. This did not make him a happy man. Occasionally he exacted small revenges – by slipping words of more than two syllables into his reports, or by prosing away in almost academic vein at meetings such as this.

  ‘As you know there are two stages to the count under the Hague rules of 1997. In the first stage next Thursday Conservative MPs and peers cast their votes. There Courtauld has been edging ahead. Freetown has lost the immediate advantage she gained from the Budget. She made the usual Treasury mistake of supposing that a Budget’s immediate popularity will last. Her real difficulty is that MPs know her too well’

  ‘They only know the silly little weaknesses,’ said Seebright. ‘They don’t like the bracelets and the sharp voice in the tea room. They lose the big picture.’

  Macdowell did not comment, but continued, ‘By contrast, she’s well established in the constituency vote of party members, which follows in a fortnight. She’s worked that scene for years, endless supper clubs
and annual general meetings, whereas Courtauld has never bothered.’

  ‘Lazy sod,’ said Seebright.

  ‘Out there they like her toughness against Europe and the Americans, and now against the Scots. They don’t want anything really done about any of that because most of them know it’s difficult, but they like to hear the noise of their own resentment. She provides this.’

  ‘If the two votes clash? If the MPs and the constituencies produce different results?’

  ‘The total party membership wins. But they haven’t clashed since ’97. There’s always been a strong deference vote, party members still believing MPs must know best. So her main worry is that the MPs will just tip against her and the membership reluctantly follow suit.’

  ‘We must change tack,’ said Seebright unexpectedly. Even the sports team, hitherto inattentive, sat up. This could not mean switching to support Roger Courtauld. Could it mean less space on politics? They sighed wistfully. For a few seconds most of those present nourished a hope of return to the golden days of total concern for football and the sex life of TV personalities. That was how the British press had grown great. But Seebright thrust round copies of a draft leader, and hopes fell. So it was not pulling out of politics, after all, but plunging further in. They read:

  The time for genteel politeness has passed. This morning Thunder has to speak its mind. The leadership contest in the Tory Party, always dull, has become a bloody bore. Why? Because we’ve allowed the politicians to treat it as their own affair. Day after day they’ve drooled on about the Budget, Europe, devolution, the rest of the political agenda. Excuse us while we yawn. We’re about to choose the human being with the most important say of anyone in our lives for years to come – more than the Queen, of course, more than the President of the Internet, more than the editor of Thunder, more than, dare we say it?, David Beckham at the head of Man United.’