by Chris Mullin
Thompson did not prevaricate. ‘The one I had in mind was our promise to dispose of Trident. We all know that our possession of nuclear weapons is bonkers. The problem is the Great British Public are rather attached to the British bomb – not that it is all that British, but they don’t seem to care. The Tories know it’s madness, too. And so too do most of the military, with the exception of the navy. Sooner or later the Tories will get rid of it. We should leave it to them.’ This received a mixed reception. Loud applause from the neo-Blairites who, after a long period in the wilderness, were coming back into fashion. Silence from a substantial minority and loud groans from several of the old guard.
‘Harry Perkins would be turning in his grave if he could hear you,’ shouted one old-timer.
‘I’ll tell you what would make Harry turn in his grave,’ responded Thompson angrily. ‘Our refusal to learn lessons from fifteen years of disaster.’ Ignoring an interruption, he continued. ‘Do you think it helps our people if we remain out of power for ever? Do you think they’ll stick with us for ever? Of course they won’t. If we’re not careful some nasty new populist party will emerge from the ruins. Indeed there are already signs that exactly that is happening.’ He sat down to loud applause. The mood of the meeting had turned.
‘I must confess you had me worried for a minute,’ whispered Jock Steeples as the meeting broke up. ‘If I were you, I’d stick to terra firma from now on.’
* * *
Once again Thompson returned to a cold, empty house. He knew as soon as he opened the door that no one had been there all day. He lay awake, worrying. Perhaps he should withdraw and everything would return to normal, but the loss of face would be considerable. Anyway, with any luck, after tonight’s performance he had blown it.
FIFTEEN
As it turned out, he hadn’t. Not quite, but it was a close run thing. Of the three candidates who made it onto the ballot paper, Thompson received the most nominations, just ahead of Ms Mather. Alun Owen Mitchell, the verbose Welshman, scraped on with just two nominations more than the required minimum. There then followed months of navel gazing as the candidates processed around the country addressing closed meetings of members. At every stop Thompson hammered home his message, ‘We’ve lost five successive elections, we can’t afford even a little punt on the outcome of a sixth.’ It was a message many on the ‘no compromise with the electorate’ wing of the party didn’t wish to hear. On the other hand, as several commentators and not a few members pointed out, their hour had well and truly been and gone. The pendulum was swinging back towards the centre and the centre seemed to mean Ms Mather who had ‘Safe Pair of Hands’ written all over her in large letters. Also, having only recently been elected, she was unsullied by failures past. Thompson, on the other hand, was a relic of a glorious defeat. Or at least that’s how some chose to portray him.
The first ballot was inconclusive. On the second Thompson finished narrowly ahead. He was now the leader of His Majesty’s opposition. Acclaim was widespread. As an editorial in The Times remarked, Thompson had been in parliament a mere four years and already had substantial achievements under his belt. What’s more, unlike just about everyone else on the Labour front bench, he had experience of government.
Only in Thompson’s own household was rejoicing decidedly muted. Elizabeth and Lucy had reappeared after an absence of three weeks. Not, as Elizabeth was at pains to make clear, because she had changed her mind, but because Lucy was missing her dad. Thompson did his best to reassure her. He would only do one term and, if he failed, he would resign. Elizabeth’s response was uncompromising. ‘But supposing you win?’ Ah, that was a possibility he had yet to consider in any detail.
In stark contrast to the mood at home, in the world beyond his front door Thompson was a hero, mobbed wherever he went. The novelty would soon wear off – political honeymoons do not last long in this age of the the media feeding frenzy – and as he soon discovered, there was a downside. Two or three mornings a week they awoke to find cameras on their doorstep, notes pushed through the front door, lenses and microphones poked in their faces. Elizabeth couldn’t bear it and she and Lucy soon went back to live with her parents, but it wasn’t long before the cameras tracked them down and speculation about the state of their marriage began to appear in the press.
* * *
Meanwhile the economy was going from bad to worse. The symptoms were unmistakable. Long queues of lorries at customs posts. A ballooning trade deficit. A drying up of inward investment. A succession of announcements by British businesses that they would be relocating to the Continent. Regular crises on the border between Northern Ireland and the Republic when the new technology that was supposed to have resolved the customs problem failed to work. The triumphalism that had once surrounded Brexit had long since faded. Assurances from leading Brexiteers that it was just a matter of time, and inviting the public to celebrate the fact that we were no longer a vassal state, gradually gave way to the apportioning of blame. In order of culpability the Brexiteers blamed first the Eurocrats for playing hardball. Then the British government for its half-hearted response. Then the civil service which they accused of foot-dragging and even outright subversion. The mood grew ugly. The Brexit tabloids published lists of traitors which in turn generated hate mail and one or two incidents of violence. Then it all went quiet, and gradually, very gradually, it was apparent that the popular tide was turning.
Looking back it was easy to identify the moment when the scales tipped. It came in the form of a bland little statement from the motor manufacturer, Nissan, that they would be setting up a plant in the Czech Republic to build the latest model of their electric car. For the time being, said the statement, there would be no change to the size of their Sunderland plant, but they could offer no guarantees for the future. Just in case anyone hadn’t got the message, the Japanese ambassador gave a series of interviews in which he pointed out that Nissan had come to Sunderland precisely to get inside the EU. They had subsequently been assured by the British government that Brexit would make no difference to their business. Sadly, this had not been the case. Immediately alarm bells began to ring. The Nissan statement was followed by one from Toyota saying only that it was ‘reviewing’ the future of its British plant. The blame game intensified. It did not go unnoticed that the citizens of Sunderland, many of whom worked at Nissan, had voted overwhelmingly for Brexit. For the first time the polls began to shift. By Year Zero plus five, a clear and growing majority of the Great British Public thought that Brexit had been a mistake. There was even talk of reapplying for EU membership, though there was widespread scepticism among commentators as to whether the UK would any longer be welcome. Not, at any rate, without the consumption of an enormous quantity of humble pie.
On the advice of Mrs Cook, Thompson no longer attended meetings of the Friends. It would, she said, be unwise for the leader of the opposition to appear as if he were the prisoner of a faction. The Friends, however, were well represented on the opposition front bench. With a bit of arm-twisting, he managed to persuade Mrs Cook to return to office as shadow leader of the House. Jock Steeples was, after initial resistance, persuaded to take the foreign affairs portfolio. Ms Mather, whose well-connected friends were already touting her as a future prime minister, was given home affairs and Stephen Carter (who, little known fact, turned out to be fluent in French and German) was given the Europe brief. The post had been abolished in the wake of Brexit but, as Thompson pointed out, Europe hadn’t gone away and urgently needed to be engaged with.
The shadow chancellor was Michael Peters, a bright forty-something product of Winchester and St John’s College, Oxford who was rumoured to have made a fortune in the City, but who for some unaccountable reason was also a lifelong Labour Party member. The appointment of Cook and Steeples sparked whinging from some among the disappointed about old codgers past their sell-by date, but Thompson was unapologetic. In private he referred to Cook and Steeples as ‘the adults’. In public they became known
as the ‘wise men’, a label that included Mrs Cook. The appointment that attracted the most comment, however, was none of the above. Sir Matthew Bryant (aka Sir Matt Someone) an erstwhile clandestine member of the Friends and a distinguished former civil servant, had been asked to establish a group of experts to assess the impact of Brexit and to report back within six months. His appointment prompted muttering among the surly Brexiteers about ‘mandarins who had sold their country to foreigners’, but it was well received by industry and in the City.
* * *
‘He’s back,’ hissed Mrs Jeffries as Thompson arrived for his Friday evening surgery. And sure enough he was. First in line, the unmistakable tattooed, shaven-headed form of Thomas Walter Merton, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows clearly exposing the Union Jack engraved on his right forearm, a nerve twitching in his left temple.
‘Well, well, you’re a man of influence now.’ His tone was insolent. He slouched, legs splayed.
‘Not yet. I might be one day, but I have to win an election first.’
‘As it happens, that’s just what I’ve come to see you about. What do you say to this?’ From his pocket Merton withdrew a tattered press cutting and spread it on the desk between them. The headline, in large bold capitals, read ‘BREXIT ALERT’. And beneath, a strapline which read, ‘Thompson Plans to Renege on Brexit’.
He offered a cursory glance. ‘I wouldn’t believe everything you read in the Daily Mail.’
‘That’s why I’m asking you – is it correct?’
‘As things stand, Labour has no plans to apply to rejoin the EU.’
‘ “As things stand” – what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means exactly what I said.’
Suddenly Merton was on his feet. ‘You fucking politicians, you’re all the fucking same. Can’t answer a straight question.’ His face was purple. He snatched the cutting from the desk and made for the door, almost colliding with Mrs Jeffries who was hovering there, hand poised over the emergency button.
* * *
‘There’s a man on the phone. Says he’s a friend of Sir Peregrine Craddock’s. He’s called twice,’ said Elizabeth irritably.
It was a Sunday evening. They were staying with Elizabeth’s parents in Oxfordshire.
‘How did he get this number?’
‘Search me.’
‘Did he leave a name’?
‘Just a number.’
He returned the call.
‘Ah, Mr Thompson, so good of you to ring.’ The voice was classless. It reminded Thompson of John Major, who still popped up on the radio from time to time.
‘My name is Evans, Hugh Evans. I don’t think we’ve met, but the name might ring a bell.’ It did indeed; Mr Evans, or rather Sir Hugh, as he would henceforth be known (his name had recently featured in the birthday honours) was the new broom at M15. He was much in the news in these days, now that the secret service no longer bothered to conceal the identity of their top brass. Announcing his appointment, the government spinners, ever anxious to distance themselves from the ancien régime, had made much of his having been educated at a comprehensive, although it was Holland Park.
‘Peregrine Craddock suggested I give you a call. I gather you’ve seen him recently.’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t want to go into detail on the phone, but there are some matters of mutual interest which I would like to discuss . . .’
Thompson said nothing.
‘ . . . I appreciate you may be sceptical in view of what happened last time round, but much has changed since Perry’s day. Indeed he is one of your admirers.’
‘Is he now?’
An awkward pause, and then, ‘I think we should meet.’
‘I will come back to you.’
Thompson replaced the receiver.
‘Who was that?’ enquired Elizabeth.
‘An old friend.’
‘Hmmm. Didn’t sound like one.’ But she didn’t press the matter.
* * *
Sir Matthew Bryant’s much-anticipated report on the impact of Brexit was launched in the oak-panelled lecture theatre at the Institute of Mechanical Engineers, a stone’s throw from the Palace of Westminster. He was flanked by half a dozen captains of industry and commerce, including one who had been prominent in the Brexit campaign, but who had now changed his tune. It was not a lengthy document. One by one it enumerated the arguments advanced by Brexiteers in the run-up to the referendum and its aftermath and then demolished each in the light of experience. The analysis was clinical, avoiding hyperbole and the apportioning of blame. The tone was one of regret rather than anger. The word ‘disappointment’ featured repeatedly. The conclusion was unequivocal. ‘So far as the economy is concerned, with the exception of the fishing industry, Brexit is a disaster. It is not in the national interest to continue down this road.’
‘So what are you recommending?’ chorused the assembled hacks.
‘I do not underestimate the difficulties, but I . . .’ He glanced at his colleagues on the platform, several of whom nodded gravely, ‘we . . . are firmly of the view that we have no realistic choice but to reapply . . .’ At which point his words were drowned. The launch of the report had, it transpired, been infiltrated by a posse of hard-line English nationalists. A punch-up ensued amid cries of treason. Slogans were chanted, microphones wielded, a television camera knocked to the floor and shattered, the flag of St George unfurled. Amid the chaos Sir Matthew and his colleagues slunk from the platform and disappeared through a side door, which was quickly locked. Later, in a series of interviews at an undisclosed location, he repeated his conclusion. In response Number 10 issued a bland little statement saying simply that Brexit was Brexit and there would be no turning back. This prompted a letter, signed by thirty Conservative MPs, urging the prime minister to reconsider. A statement from the leader of the opposition simply thanked Sir Matthew for his report and said the shadow cabinet would consider it in due course. From Brussels there was uncharacteristic silence.
As if to emphasise the sense of gloom and turmoil, the Palace of Westminster was, after years of prevarication, in the process of being vacated to enable the long-delayed renovation to commence. Much of the building was swathed in scaffolding and tarpaulin. For the indefinite future the House of Commons would be meeting under a vast marquee erected in the courtyard of what had once been the Department of Health. Officials had done their best to recreate the atmosphere of the old chamber. The speaker’s chair, the mace, the table that separated the two front benches and even the rows of green benches had all been transplanted, but it wasn’t the same. Some self-styled modernisers argued that the Palace should be permanently abandoned and converted into a museum, but it took only a few months in the so-called Great Tent to trigger a wave of nostalgia for the old place.
Meanwhile in the Brexit heartlands the mood was growing ugly. Stirred up by the tabloids, angry mobs laid siege to the constituency offices of alleged vacillators. Homes were picketed, slogans daubed, windows broken, death threats received – often in envelopes enclosing the very newspaper cuttings that had provoked the ire of the righteous. The EU liaison office in Smith Square was the subject of an arson attack, as was the Suffolk cottage of Sir Matthew Bryant, pictures of which had featured in several newspapers, more or less identifying the address. ‘Won’t this thatch burn nicely,’ read a message scrawled across a photograph of the cottage torn from one of our most notorious tabloids. Sir Matthew, now under twenty-four-hour police protection, had been advised to relocate until the fuss died down. Thompson, too, was under growing pressure to state his position. He, after all, had commissioned Sir Matthew’s report.
* * *
A shadow cabinet awayday was arranged. In strictest secrecy. A wealthy friend of the shadow chancellor was persuaded to offer the hospitality of his Lutyens mansion in the South Downs. Thompson, Jock Steeples, Mrs Cook and Stephen Carter arrived for dinner the previous evening and the rest were bussed in early next morning from Br
ighton station. They convened in the library around a long, plain oak table, double doors opening out onto a terrace flanked by two great urns overflowing with petunias. The gardens were by Gertrude Jekyll. Herbaceous borders along each side of a brick path, lined with lavender, and white peonies. ‘Nice place you’ve got here, Fred,’ remarked Steeples as they took their seats.
‘Don’t get too comfortable, Jock. We turn into pumpkins at six p.m.’
Thompson was seated in the centre of the table, his back to the fireplace. Jock Steeples and Michael Peters were opposite, in more or less the positions they would occupy around the cabinet table should the happy day ever dawn when Labour formed a government. Sir Matthew Bryant, still somewhat shell-shocked by the reception his report had received, was seated at Thompson’s left hand, a position, which in government would be reserved for the cabinet secretary. The dress code was informal. Only Sir Matthew wore a tie.
‘Order.’ Thompson banged the table with the flat of his hand. ‘First, you have all been asked to leave your mobiles, iPads and any other digital paraphernalia in the safe box in the study. Please confirm that you have done so. If you haven’t, please do so now.’
‘Oops, sorry.’ Tina Morris, the youngest member of the shadow cabinet, said by some to be a rising star, rose from the table and scuttled out of the room, her face flushed.
‘Anyone else?’
Silence.
‘Good, thank you. Would the general secretary please go to the study and lock the safe?’ The general secretary, a smooth young man recently recruited from a Westminster think tank, rose and disappeared through a side door.
‘Your gadgets will be returned when we depart, and not until.’
Ignoring the murmurings of dissent, the gist of which was that they were being treated like schoolchildren, Thompson continued. ‘Next, I want to thank Sir Matthew for his valuable report which has had the great merit of focusing the minds of the British public on the disaster that is Brexit.’ This prompted murmurs of approval from most, but not quite all, of those assembled. This was accompanied by a bout of table banging, the peculiar ritual by which our elected representatives customarily indicate their approbation. Sir Matthew glanced along the table, benignly nodding. After a lifetime in the shadows, he suddenly found himself exposed to the harsh world of front-line politics and, as he didn’t mind admitting, he was not at all comfortable. His wife, Lady Emily, was still less enthused. Still, there were worse fates. The fire at their Suffolk cottage had done mercifully little damage, thanks to the vigilance of a neighbour, and they had spent the last three weeks staying with friends in Gascony, waiting for the furore to die down. As a result he was none the worse for wear. On the contrary, he was looking fit and tanned.