The Image in the Water

by Douglas Hurd

  Makewell preferred to work in the Prime Minister’s study on the first floor of No. 10, for the uncomplicated reason that this was the room designed for that purpose. He had none of the political hang-ups that had led John Major to work in the Cabinet Room or Lord Blair in the room designed for the Prime Minister’s private secretary. The authoritative spirit of Margaret Thatcher no longer hovered in the study. It was where Simon Russell had worked, where he and Peter Makewell had often talked informally and in confidence, as is necessary between Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary. However long he remained in office it would not occur to Makewell to change pictures or move furniture.

  Because he did not like Martin Redburn he had thought of returning to his desk after they shook hands and letting Redburn take the hard chair in front of the desk. But Redburn headed straight towards the deep armchairs by the fireplace, and the Prime Minister followed, hoping that his bad-mannered plan had not been spotted.

  ‘Prime Minister, I am grateful for your time.’

  In his day Simon Russell had always expected to be addressed as ‘Prime Minister’. Though a mild and essentially modest man, he had believed in and used the authority of the office. Makewell was ill at ease with the title, but had never been on first-name terms with Redburn and did not want to start now. He nodded silently.

  ‘The leadership contest has taken an unexpected turn.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘You have heard, then?’

  Makewell was puzzled at the question. The story had led the news in every morning paper.

  ‘Roger’s decision will, I suppose, give Joan Freetown a free run, give or take some stray no-hope maverick.’

  ‘I think not, Prime Minister.’ Redburn straightened his tie, which was already straight, and crossed his legs. Makewell could see that the man was preparing to enjoy himself ‘I think not,’ he repeated.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The 1922 executive met last night. I called a special meeting as soon as I heard that the Home Secretary had withdrawn from the contest.’

  Makewell stayed silent. He suspected that Redburn was going to ask him to persuade Roger to change his mind and continue to stand. He could not imagine why, unless that story of Redburn’s support for Joan Freetown had been wrong.

  ‘I have to tell you, Prime Minister, that after a short discussion, a strong majority of the executive concluded that, despite her many talents, Joan Freetown should not be allowed to succeed in the circumstances.’

  Makewell was genuinely amazed.

  ‘This comes as a surprise to you, Prime Minister?’ said Redburn, obviously pleased.

  ‘It certainly does.’

  ‘If I may say so, the sooner you appoint a parliamentary private secretary the better.’ This was patronising, but well founded. The main job of a PPS was to keep the Prime Minister abreast of waves of opinion in the Commons. Makewell had not got round to choosing one.

  He tried to retrieve the initiative. ‘Joan Freetown is admirably qualified, and I had understood that you—’

  ‘Yes, indeed, Prime Minister, but the situation has changed. Up till a few days ago this was a contest between two admirably qualified candidates, as you say, of whom I on balance gave a slight preference to the Chancellor of the Exchequer.’

  God, the man was irritating.

  ‘But you must see that if she became leader of the Party in the new circumstances the real winner would not be Joan Freetown but Lord Spitz. The press, by a disreputable device, would have asserted control over Parliament and the Conservative Party. This must not be allowed to happen.’

  ‘It was certainly a disreputable trick. But are you suggesting that Joan—’

  ‘Not at all, Prime Minister. Whether all of her supporters were equally scrupulous I do not know but according to my information the Chancellor of the Exchequer refused to have any part in the device.’

  ‘Then …?’

  ‘That point is not really relevant, Prime Minister.’

  Martin Redburn rose, and stood in front of the empty fireplace, as if he was in his own home. Behind him was a painting of the younger Pitt, the subject slender and determined, sharp nose in the air. To his surprise Peter Makewell saw that Redburn was about to abandon his elaborate manner and speak his mind.

  ‘You must understand this, Prime Minister. It is the heart of the matter. My only surprise is that so many of my colleagues felt as I did. During the twenty-five years I have been in politics the power of the media has grown. Press, radio, television, I make no distinction. So far as we politicians are concerned they began as the means by which we communicate with the people. In those days they carried columns and columns of our speeches, produced word for word, hecklers and all. Fine and good, a necessary part of the growth of democracy. Then the editors began to take a hand in advising us what we ought to do. Well and good, we had to accept that – though, God knows, they have no qualifications, no relevant experience, no mandate from anyone except whichever prejudiced millionaire happens to have bought them. But they were not content with our public affairs. They began to pry into private matters, who slept with whom, whose son was on drugs, who paid for a good meal at the Ritz. The public laps up all this stuff as entertainment, they buy the papers, listen to the programmes, and the hypocrites who write it up think that it gives them power.’

  ‘So it does, so it does,’ said the Prime Minister. This was a weary discourse, the stuff of many smoking-room grumbles. He tried to remember if there was some small murky episode in Sir Martin Redburn’s past that might have fathered this outburst. The Prime Minister of Dominica would soon be upon them.

  ‘But it’s not real power. It’s bluff. No one really cares a damn if you have a mistress or a couple of bastards hidden away in Blairgowrie.’ This was really most un-Redburn-like. ‘But if they discovered them the media would start to bay at you. And you’d run. That’s the point. You’d run, just as Courtauld has. Once you’ve started to run, they chase you, the hunt is up, the horns sound, and they chase you to death. Everyone enjoys it, and it’s all unnecessary. If you’d stood your ground, you’d see them off.’

  ‘No bastards, I fear, not even in Blairgowrie.’ Make well tried to lighten the atmosphere, and failed.

  ‘Nor had Courtauld down in Devon. Just an afternoon on the beach with a boyfriend. Hand in hand for an hour or two, for God’s sake. I don’t care if they buggered each other senseless in the bushes. It would not in the least affect his ability to lead the Party. He failed us, failed us all, not there on the beach but yesterday when he copped out.’

  Martin Redburn sat down as abruptly as he had stood up. The passion had not gone out of him but there was a pause.

  ‘I agree with you. But I doubt if I could get him to change his mind.’ Make well had no intention of trying.

  ‘Of course you couldn’t. He’s run into some thicket now to hide. There’s nothing so stubborn as a coward. He’s a lost man. We have to find another candidate. Not against Joan, against the media.’

  ‘Ah, I see now. Have you found someone?’ There was no one of any substance. The Prime Minister did not need a parliamentary private secretary to know that. No doubt they’d found some exhibitionist who’d make a show of it.

  ‘Yes, we have. Three of us had the same idea separately. All except two of the executive endorsed it.’

  ‘May I know the name?’

  ‘You may. It is Peter Make well.’

  ‘But …’ Then Makewell paused. The idea was so prepostrous, so foreign to his character, his position in life, his wishes, that he could not immediately find words to reject it. ‘You must all know how reluctant I was to come here, even for a few weeks, how I hate the hassle of it all, how keen I am to get out.’

  ‘Of course we know that. It’s part of the attraction. You belong to a different world, a different generation from the rest of us. A world before spin-doctors and focus groups, a serious world. For the moment, that’s what we need.’

  Peter Makew
ell stayed silent. His main wish was to kill this absurdity once and for all, but he did not know how.

  ‘The people against the press, the people against the press.’ Redburn was relentless. His voice began to rise again. ‘It would win you this leadership election. Indeed, Joan Freetown might pull out and wait for another day. It might even win us the next general election. You’d scrap all this rubbish about a new Freedom of Information Bill. Straw was right about that in the old days. That’s just a piece of media greed tricked out as a service to democracy. You’d need a good Privacy Bill and a stronger Press Commission between now and then. None of that would be difficult – once we realise how fed up our constituents are with being patronised and demeaned by the media slobs. All right, they’ve been amused, bewitched, led astray – and now they’ve had enough. This Courtauld thing is the last straw. The e-mails are pouring in. And you’re the man to prove it.’

  Peter Makewell had found time to collect his words and make them formal. ‘I am flattered,’ he said, ‘but even more I am amazed. I fear I don’t have time to discuss it all now. But I must ask you to thank your executive and tell them that on both personal and political grounds I regard this proposal as completely out of the question. They should dismiss it totally and immediately from their minds.’

  ‘They will not do that, Prime Minister …’ As if on cue Patrick Vaughan appeared in the doorway.

  ‘The Prime Minister of Dominica, Prime Minister.’

  Sir Martin Redburn rose. For the first time in the interview he was irresolute. He had expected more time. ‘Please think of what—’

  ‘I really have nothing more to add.’ Peter Makewell was moving to the door to greet his next visitor who wore bright green. ‘Prime Minister, I’m delighted to see you again … Not since the Commonwealth summit in Kingston. I expect you know Sir Martin Redburn?’

  Now that the burden of work had somewhat lifted, Peter Makewell had reverted to his old habit of taking a bath before dinner. In the Foreign Office there was no bath. Some mean-minded predecessor had installed a flimsy plastic shower in the annex to his office. The dials, hard to manipulate, had often subjected the Foreign Secretary to jets of unwanted cold or scalding water. One small advantage of his promotion to No. 10 had been easy access to a deep, old-fashioned bath in the flat. He missed the soft brown water of the Highlands, the occasional tickle of peat against the toes, but in public life one had to make sacrifices. Peter was in a good mood as, with the water temperature just right, he reviewed the day and looked forward to the evening. He really felt extraordinarily well, and at seventy that was increasingly important. He was pleased that Martin Redburn had offered him the crown, and pleased that he had turned it down. It was all nonsense, of course. It was not surprising that the 1922 executive should feel a spasm of annoyance against the press and against Courtauld for giving in to them, but you could not build a leadership bid, let alone a government programme, on such a flimsy foundation.

  There were several reasons for good humour. The Prime Minister of Dominica had been brief on bananas. The man from the Portrait Gallery in arguing for a bust had been particularly flattering about Peter’s chin and the line of his jaw. But, above all, he was looking forward to his dinner with Louise. She had seemed distant and somewhat formidable as the Prime Minister’s wife. He could see now that she had been struggling to keep for herself and her daughter some thin slices of Simon Russell’s life. She had been devoted to him, there had been no conceivable doubt of that. But now that he was gone she seemed more relaxed and friendly. She was also remarkably handsome and well turned-out. Peter’s own wife had turned somewhat mousy in her last years, to his secret regret. She had stopped buying clothes, even in Perth, and never looked at herself in a mirror. Modest himself in dress, he liked a woman who could carry with conviction a dress that swept the ground and wore diamonds at her throat.

  Not that Louise would be carrying diamonds tonight at Il Gran Paradiso, which was one reason why he had chosen the place. At the Savoy or Claridges they would be fawned on and gaped at; by the time they left the restaurant there would be a photographer in the foyer. There was a risk, too, at Il Gran Paradiso, indeed it would be strange if nothing appeared in any of the gossip columns. Somehow that risk seemed less obvious and vulgar. The food, he knew, was good and the price modest. He did not believe in spending large sums on meals, and persuaded himself that Louise would feel the same. Il Gran Paradiso had offered him their private room, but this would look as if he had something to hide, and he had turned it down. The protection officer on duty had booked a table at the back of the restaurant. He and his colleague would sit at the table nearest to the Prime Minister, and he had arranged for a third table close by to be kept vacant. Peter Makewell chose his blue suit by Hardy Amies with four buttons down the jacket. For years he had felt, without much justification, that this particular suit conveyed a slight dandyish impression. He kept it for the small number of unusual private occasions in his life.

  He prided himself on punctuality, and was irritated to be held up as he left No. 10. Ladies, and in particular perhaps prime ministers’ widows, should not be kept waiting. But the First Minister of Scotland wanted to speak to him on the telephone. The FMS, formerly a Labour Lord Provost of Glasgow, commanded a truly municipal flow of words. There was a tradition – new, like so many in British life – that the First Minister had direct access to No. 10. Peter Makewell knew the man to be worthy, but was irritated by his continuous unwillingness to grasp the depth of the irritation that the Scots were arousing by their voluble demands on Whitehall and at Westminster. As he took the mobile phone in the outer hall of No. 10 he guessed that Mackay would be complaining in some form or other about Joan Freetown, and so it proved. She had refused to see him to discuss compensation for the move of the National Savings Bank from Glasgow to Newcastle.

  ‘She’ll not even speak with me on the telephone. As you know, Prime Minister, we Scots are slow to anger, and for myself I’m told I have a reputation as a man of few words. But you’ll understand that the dignity of my office may compel me to break silence if the Chancellor continues this discourtesy.’

  There had never been any question of silence. The First Minister had been voluble on the subject of the National Savings Bank ever since Budget Day. But the way he phrased the complaint showed Peter Makewell that there was a personal edge to it, which could perhaps be softened. He did not want a great row with Scotland at this moment. He beckoned to Patrick Vaughan who, after six years as a private secretary, was good at hovering at the right time and the right place. ‘Tell the Chancellor’s office, would you, that I hope she will telephone the First Minister personally about the Savings Bank? She can say that as a concession to himself there will be some job compensation for Glasgow, and then tell him in strict confidence what was agreed at EDX yesterday.’

  Patrick mounted a mild protest, so that he could tell the Cabinet secretary later that he had done so. ‘There would be a risk of a leak in the Scottish press, Prime Minister, before the announcement is made in the Commons.’

  ‘Not a risk, Patrick, a certainty.’ The Prime Minister put on a heavy black London overcoat against the cold March night. ‘But that will not, I think, be the first time … or the end of the world.’

  As the door of No. 10 closed, the Prime Minister climbed into his car, and the principal private secretary retreated to his lair. Both had the same thought, which both found new and agreeable. Peter Makewell was picking up the job fast – just as he was about to give it up. If he had allowed himself to continue like this, he would come within range of Simon Russell’s formidable reputation for subtle traffic control. But, of course, within a few weeks he would be gone.

  Patrick Vaughan knew nothing of Sir Martin Redburn’s mad suggestion that morning. Mad indeed, thought Peter, as his car edged out through the gates into Whitehall. So mad that he had genuinely forgotten about it all day. No need to give it further thought. He resolved in particular not to mention it to Louise
Russell that evening.

  The Scottish kerfuffle and red traffic lights at the foot of Whitehall, by the Abbey, and again in Victoria Street made him five minutes late. The proprietor of Il Gran Paradiso was at the door, smiling in the Italian manner, warm but not obsequious.

  ‘The signora is already here,’ he said, with a touch of pleased intrigue in his voice. But as soon as Peter Makewell entered the restaurant it was clear that all was not well. Louise was there, certainly, standing not far from the entrance talking to the protection officer who had gone to the restaurant in advance. Her cheeks were flushed.

  ‘The Prime Minister thought …’ said the protection officer.

  Louise knew him well because for six months he had protected Simon Russell. ‘I’m sorry, George, it just won’t do.’

  What on earth could be the matter? Looking through the restaurant, Peter Makewell could see at the far end the triangle of unoccupied tables as planned. To him they looked crisp and inviting. The rest of the room was fairly full and, of course, knowing eyes began to turn towards Louise and himself.