The Friends of Harry Perkins

by Chris Mullin

  It was apparent that there were no takers and Steeples didn’t press the point. The discussion petered out and they fell back upon a well-worn theme: the fallout from Brexit, devaluation, the growing trade deficit. ‘Surely,’ remarked Molly Spence, ‘the Great British Public will sooner or later notice that Brexit isn’t working?’

  ‘They may well do,’ said Anne-Marie Freeman, the Times columnist, ‘but it doesn’t follow they will turn to Labour.’

  ‘What’s the alternative?’

  ‘Fascism.’ Ms Freeman did not often intervene in their deliberations, but when she did she tended to have the final word.

  * * *

  The election came earlier than expected, pre-empting any further talk of coups. It turned out that the Great British Public were not that bothered by the loss of the British seat on the Security Council. Nor had many of them – at least those who were unfamiliar with ‘abroad’ – noticed the declining value of the currency. What they had noticed – indeed it was repeatedly drawn to their attention by much of our free press – was that there had been a steep decline in the number of foreign migrants. This was a card played with great zeal by the governing party. No matter that it reflected a reduction in the number of foreign students or that the fall in overseas nurses and doctors was the cause of a growing crisis in the NHS. There were fewer foreigners and that’s what mattered. The outcome was yet another Tory triumph, albeit by a narrower margin than previously.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ remarked Elizabeth as the last results trickled in. ‘All this politicking is a complete waste of time. We live in a one-party state and that’s that. Time you gave up and did something useful.’

  ‘And what might that be? Ex-MPs, particularly ex-Labour MPs, are virtually unemployable these days.’

  ‘Oh you’d find something. Why don’t you write a biography of Harry, like you’ve been promising to do for the last five years? There would be a market for that, surely.’

  ‘Maybe, but it would be a five-minute wonder. What would I do after that? I don’t think I could bear being unemployed in middle age.’

  Elizabeth sighed deeply and closed her eyes. Deep down she knew he was right. Anyway, if truth be told, it wasn’t Fred who needed something useful to do, it was her. There had to be more to life than ferrying Lucy to and from school and volunteering at a food bank.

  * * *

  An envelope arrived, addressed in a spidery hand to ‘Frederick Thompson Esq.’. In the top left-hand corner, in the same spidery hand, were the words ‘strictly personal’. Unusually, it was delivered to his home address. It stood out because in these days of digital media so few people, most of them elderly, communicated by letter. The stamp was first class and the just-about-legible postmark suggested it had been posted in Somerset. He opened it cautiously, using a kitchen knife. Inside was a single handwritten sheet topped by a printed address, ‘Quantock Manor’. The message, in a scrawl that was barely legible, was brief. It read as follows:

  Dear Frederick (if I may),

  I have followed with great interest your progress in public life and I believe you have a great future. As you can see from my rickety hand, I am getting on a bit now and wondered if we might meet up before I finally kick the bucket. Don’t get up to London these days so, assuming you are willing, I must prevail upon you to visit me down here. To arrange an appointment please call the above number.

  My warmest regards,

  Peregrine Craddock

  * * *

  ‘Well I never, the cheeky old rascal,’ remarked Mrs Cook when Fred showed her the letter that evening in the tea room.

  ‘What do you reckon he wants to talk to me about?’

  ‘Goodness knows. Perhaps he wants to confess his many sins.’

  ‘Should I go?’

  ‘Can’t do any harm. Let me know how you get on.’

  An appointment was duly arranged.

  * * *

  A sign on the gatepost stated firmly, in solid black block capitals, that this place was PRIVATE, though the gate was open. The drive was long and winding, through an avenue of ancient oaks which eventually parted to reveal a crumbling mansion, mullioned windows, trailing wisteria and a sundial on which the date 1615 was just legible. The house nestled in a small valley between low wooded hills.

  The porch contained a swallow’s nest. A bell with a frayed rope attached hung from a rusting bracket. Thompson rang and waited. Nothing happened. He rang again and eventually faint footsteps could be heard from within. The door was opened by a stout, elderly woman in a light blue housecoat. The housekeeper, he thought at first glance, but it turned out to be Lady Craddock. She shook his hand firmly. ‘Sorry to drag you all the way down here, but Perry is rather frail these days. He has been looking forward to your visit. Perked him up no end, it has. He’s waiting for you in the library.’

  She led him through the hall, along a dark passageway, and into an oak-panelled room, lined along one side from floor to ceiling with books. ‘Perry, it’s your visitor, Mr Thompson.’

  He was seated in a wheelchair by double doors which opened out onto a small terrace; sunlight streamed through, a copy of The Times, half open, lay at his feet. ‘Ah, dear boy, so good of you to come.’ He made as if to rise, but the effort was too great and he fell back into the chair, emaciated right hand extended for Thompson to shake.

  ‘Can I get you a drink, Mr Thompson? And something to eat perhaps? You’ve come a long way.’ They settled on a cheese and pickle sandwich and a glass of peppermint tea. Sir Peregrine said he’d have the same. With that Lady Craddock disappeared.

  ‘Lovely place you’ve got here.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it? Badly in need of repair, I’m afraid. Like its owner. In the family for 300 years. Not sure what will become of it after we go. Neither of my two boys interested. Damn pity, but what can one do?’

  Sir Peregrine’s glasses hung by a string (or was it a shoelace?) from his neck. He looked very much as he had always done: a good head of grey hair, the same boyish, soft pink cheeks, bushy eyebrows. He still spoke in the same clipped tones. ‘Not very mobile these days. Old age terrible. Don’t recommend.’

  Lady Craddock appeared with the sandwiches and two mugs of peppermint tea. Sir Peregrine’s she placed on a small table which folded down on the front of his wheelchair, Thompson’s on a mat on a small table beside his armchair. ‘I think you know my nephew,’ she said, ‘Rupert Farquar. He speaks very highly of you.’

  ‘Yes, I like him, too.’

  ‘A good boy. Chip off the old block. Out of place in the modern Conservative Party, I’m afraid. Probably has more in common with your lot than the present management.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Thompson weakly, not wanting to reveal the full extent of his collaboration with Farquar.

  ‘Anyway, I’ll leave you to Perry. It’s him you’ve come to see.’ And with that she disappeared into the gloomy interior.

  * * *

  ‘First, I wanted to say how dreadfully sorry I am about Harry. Greatest regret of my life. Decent man. Always knew that, but naive. So naive.’

  ‘Naive about what?’

  ‘To imagine the Americans would let him get away with chucking out their bases. The other stuff, House of Lords, public schools, he could probably have got away with, but not the bases.’

  ‘Don’t you think you ought to have left it to the electorate?’

  ‘Perhaps we should – these days we probably would. More important things to worry about. Islamist terror and all that. A different world then. Sterling an international currency and we were so heavily in debt to the Americans that they could have wrecked the economy if they’d set their mind to it.’ He shook his head gloomily.

  ‘And Trident?’

  ‘Ah yes, Trident. A virility symbol, nothing more. Useless, except as a stick to beat your side with. The Americans never wanted us to have it in the first place. They were afraid that if we got the bomb the French and the Germans would want it, too. They were right about th
e French but not, thank God, about the Germans.’ He smiled wearily.

  ‘And expensive.’

  ‘Oh yes, very. Madness, actually. Most of the military know that and so do the Tories. One day they will get up and announce they are going to phase out Trident. It will be a five-minute wonder and then forgotten. If I were you, I’d leave it to them, instead of banging on about it.’

  Outside the sun was shining. A sprinkler played on the lawn, the water sparkling in the sunlight. ‘Would you like to see the garden? You’ll have to push me, I’m afraid. Legs no use these days. Such a bore.’ They made their way cautiously to the open French windows, Fred manoeuvring the wheelchair slowly down a little ramp onto a stone patio beside a herbaceous border, not yet in full flower, and then to a winding path through the rose garden.

  ‘My wife does most of it, though we have a chap who comes in twice a week to do the lawns and the heavy lifting.’

  They had come to rest in a shaded arbour overlooking a pond in which white lilies floated.

  ‘Very sorry to hear about your daughter, by the way. Saw a picture in the paper. Beautiful little person.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I lost a daughter, too. Years ago. Aged fifteen. Killed by some idiot on a motorbike.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘One never gets over the loss of a child. Think about her every day. Expect you do, too.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They sat in silence. A full minute passed.

  ‘Used to be fish in the pond, but the heron took them. Tried putting a net over it, but that didn’t seem to work either.’

  * * *

  They talked about China. Sir Peregrine was of the opinion that the dispute with Japan would blow over on the grounds that war wasn’t in either country’s interests. As for the Americans, they would back down, too.

  They talked Brexit. To Thompson’s pleasant surprise Sir Peregrine was of the view that the great falling out with the EU was a disaster which would sooner or later have to be reversed. ‘Until the recent election I’ve voted Tory all my life, but I can’t forgive them for the mess they’ve got us into. And the gap between rich and poor is getting too wide. You may be surprised to hear that a lot of my posh friends down here think that. It’s gone too far.’

  Another longish silence and then, ‘Expect you are wondering why I asked you down here.’

  ‘I did, rather.’

  ‘I’ll be frank. My friends in high places – oh yes, I still have a few – have high hopes of you. Not to put too fine a point on it, they think you could go all the way. And, if you get my drift, they don’t want any repeat of previous misunderstandings.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘I think I might be able to help you.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘I realise you may be sceptical in the light of previous experience, but believe me, a much more enlightened view prevails these days. On our side of the river, anyway. Can’t speak for Vauxhall Cross. Still a few idiots there. Plus, of course, this EU business. The government have sold out the country just to satisfy a handful of zealots on their own side. For all that phony flag-waving they’ve done more damage to the national interest than your lot ever would have done.’ His tone reeked of contempt. He was a man who felt badly let down. ‘What I want to suggest is this. If your career progresses as I anticipate, and if you are serious about power, you will at least need to have a modus vivendi with my friends in high places. That’s where I may be able to assist. But for God’s sake get a move on, because I have a feeling I may not last much longer.’

  * * *

  That evening, as anticipated, Mrs Jones announced that, having presided over two successive election defeats, she was standing down as leader of the opposition. Her announcement prompted a good deal of faux dismay. Some immediately declared that she must be succeeded by another woman, but the general view was that in the circumstances winning would have to take priority over political correctness.

  FOURTEEN

  An emergency meeting of the Friends was convened. It took place in Mrs Cook’s office on the third floor of Portcullis House, a corner room with a big bay window affording fine views over Parliament Square towards the Abbey. ‘Well, son, it’s now or never. Are you up for it?’ enquired Jock Steeples.

  A momentary hesitation and then, ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about Elizabeth’? asked Mrs Cook.

  ‘Not so keen, I’m afraid.’ In fact, as Thompson well knew she would be utterly opposed.

  ‘Is she persuadable?’

  ‘I hope so. Perhaps you ought to talk to her.’

  ‘If not Fred, who else is there?’ asked Stephen Carter.

  An awkward pause. ‘How about Joan?’ asked Thompson.

  ‘Past my sell-by date, I’m afraid,’ Mrs Cook said brightly.

  ‘Seriously, you have a national profile, you’ve been home secretary.’

  ‘That was yonks ago. Downhill all the way since then. No, it’s got to be someone fresh and bright. On the way up, not on the way down. A new broom, and Fred’s the only one we’ve got. Besides,’ she added with a smile, ‘I no longer have the necessary killer instinct.’

  ‘And Fred does?’

  ‘Oh yes. In spades.’

  The meeting was adjourned to allow time for Elizabeth to be consulted. Thompson was dreading it. She would not be happy.

  * * *

  He broke the news next morning, after delivering Lucy to school. They were in the kitchen. Elizabeth, a mug of coffee in hand, was gazing out of the window at a posse of blue tits squabbling over a place on the bird feeder in their little garden.

  She sighed deeply, ‘Oh Fred, won’t you ever learn?’

  ‘Learn what?’

  ‘That it’s all a waste of time. The chances of a Labour government are low at the best of times. And even if it did happen, it will end in disappointment.’

  ‘I can’t accept that we are destined indefinitely to remain a one-party state.’

  ‘But why does it have to be you?’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be me—’

  ‘Then don’t do it!’ She slammed her coffee mug on the table so hard that the dregs splashed over the top.

  ‘Odds are I won’t get it anyway, but I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t give it a try.’

  ‘But you’ve given it a try once already. With Harry. And look how it ended.’ She was almost shouting now.

  ‘I am under a lot of pressure to run.’

  ‘Pressure from whom? If you mean that fucking stupid little dining club of yours . . .’ It was unlike Elizabeth to swear.

  ‘Wider than that.’

  ‘Supposing you get it? It’ll take over our lives. Just for once think about Lucy and me . . .’ She had played her strongest card.

  He stood up, picked up his briefcase and walked out, slamming the door behind him. That afternoon, in a brief statement, Fred Thompson announced that he was putting his name in the ring for the Labour leadership. He told himself that it was what Harry would have wanted.

  ‘What did Elizabeth have to say?’ asked Mrs Cook when their paths crossed in the tea room.

  ‘She wasn’t keen, but she’ll get over it.’

  ‘Listen, Fred,’ said Mrs Cook leaning forward and touching his arm, ‘whatever you do, don’t sacrifice your marriage. It’s not worth it. I should know.’ Mrs Cook’s husband had run off with a French au pair. It made headlines at the time.

  ‘Don’t worry, Joan. I won’t.’ Already part of him hoped that he would lose and that life would return to normal, but deep down he feared the worst.

  When he got home the house was dark and empty. There was a note on the kitchen table. It read, ‘Gone to my parents’.

  * * *

  Hustings were held in a committee room dominated by a huge oil painting of Mr Gladstone and his cabinet. In those far-off days, when Britain ruled a third of the world, a mere fourteen members was deemed sufficien
t. Today, now that our sphere of influence had shrunk somewhat, the cabinet consisted of twenty-two ministers and goodness knows how many juniors. In those days, of course, there had been no secondary education, no pensions, no unemployment pay and no health service to manage.

  Just four members of the parliamentary Labour Party had offered themselves up for the poisoned chalice. Beside Thompson the others were Alun Owen Mitchell, a verbose Welshman who prattled on about Nye Bevan; Felicity Mather, an impressive London barrister who radiated self-confidence; and Albert Stanley Collins a fifty-something northerner who made much of his working-class origins, although, like many of his class, he had adapted with remarkable ease to the perks of office.

  Each candidate was given five minutes. They drew lots to decide in which order. The Welshman went first and had barely finished setting out his credentials when he was told, to his evident surprise, that his time was up. Ms Mather set out her stall with admirable clarity, no notes and not a hint of nerves. The gist of Albert Collins’ contribution was that the party had had enough of being led by a metropolitan elite and needed to return to its roots. When Thompson’s turn came he said, ‘We have lost five successive elections, a feat that no principal opposition party has achieved in 200 years. We are in a deep hole and we need to stop digging. That means we are going to have to pay more attention to the concerns of the electorate and abandon some of our cherished shibboleths . . .’

  At this, muttering could be heard from certain quarters, not all of them predictable. As far as many of them were concerned, ‘listening to the electorate’ was code for surrender to the prejudices of the day.

  ‘We are also going to have to rethink our position on the management of migration and relations with the EU.’

  On that note he sat down. The tribal banging on tabletops which usually greeted speeches from the platform was decidedly muted. Jock Steeples, in his usual seat just below the rostrum, did not look happy.

  Most of the questions were directed at Thompson. ‘Which of our “cherished shibboleths” are we going to abandon?’ enquired an overweight Scotsman, one of a cabal who could be found at the same table in the tea room on most sitting days.