“No party politics!” said Reuter, sotto voce. “I’ll believe that when I see it.” There was an appreciative titter from his colleagues.
“However, there’s one Parliamentary function we must attend to,” continued Adam. “It would be quite improper for me as Prime Minister to chair these meetings. We must elect a new speaker. Jeremy Cauldwell is of course no longer with us and will be a hard act to follow. We need to find someone like him, able to stand above the hurly-burly of debate. Be impartial. Do I have any nominations?”
A moment for thought, then Bessie Robotham got to her feet: “If you want someone truly impartial, you can do no better than the member for Mid Oxfordshire, Damian White.”
The hint of a snigger from the Tory ranks was quickly suppressed. Damian was considered impartial to the point of mutiny. Under normal circumstances this had placed him close to treason. For a Speaker it was ideal. Chloe started to clap, a most un-parliamentary thing to do, but this was hardly a normal parliament. It triggered a general burst of applause.
Damian was stunned. Got to his feet so that everyone could see him. Flapped his hands feebly. Until recently his relationship with the Chief Whip had been fraught, mostly confined to telling her why this or that Bill was rubbish and he would be voting against it: or at best abstaining. But chance had brought them together and, with the cause of friction now removed, they had got on rather well. If you collapse in a drunken stupor on someone’s settee, it must mean something.”
Damian’s moment of glory did not last long. As the applause died, Gerry Farthing was heard from the top table:
“Thank you, Bessie. A most interesting nomination. I would now like to propose one from our side of the House. Although Speaker Cauldwell has been tragically lost to us, we’re fortunate in still having one of our Deputy speakers. I’m referring of course to Angela Harding. Angela has won our respect for her handling of affairs on those days Jeremy was absent. I therefore commend her to you as the Speaker for this Provisional Parliament.”
Once more Damian found himself on the wrong side of a vote. Angela Harding knew the ropes, was the obvious choice. He was secretly relieved; didn’t think he was really Speaker material. Bessie had been quite wrong to describe him as ‘impartial’. On the contrary, he had been far too partial for party discipline. Although he could never subscribe to Labour’s vision of a Big State, there were also occasions when his party embarked on something idiotic. If that happened he saw no reason to support them.
So Ms. Harding was duly elected Speaker and took her place on the stage, while Adam and Gerry, the two party leaders, descended to the floor. The new Speaker was a prematurely greying lady in her fifties, dressed in comfortable tweeds and sensible flat shoes. She quickly established that the only agenda for what she called ‘This Interim Parliament’ was to arrange for a general election at the earliest possible date. Adam Tichbold moved that there was nothing to discuss. The mechanism for general elections was well established. All they had to do was set the process in motion.
Gerry Farthing demurred, saying this should not be rushed and requesting forty eight hours for his party to consider the matter.
Tichbold was annoyed, but could hardly object to such a short delay. It was therefore agreed that the Interim Parliament should re-convene two days hence, at 10 am on Wednesday. They would then rubber-stamp the calling of a general election.
As Damian and Chloe walked off to find somewhere for lunch, she patted him consolingly on the back: “Never mind. You had your moment in the sun.”
“Becoming a habit,” he said. “Just brief moments: score a goal for West Ham and I’d get a couple of minutes of yelling; in Strictly Come Dancing it lasted a little longer. This time....well, I never really wanted the job.”
“Brief moments add up,” commented Chloe. “People get to know you... get to like you. Can’t do any harm.”
Ms. Pettigrew would turn out to be absolutely right.
24
MARCH 20th.
The Labour party had always consisted of two contrasting streams: the ‘coal face’ and the ‘classroom’. 1945 Prime Minister Clement Attlee had been a middle-class lawyer, a ‘classroom’ type; his Foreign Secretary Ernest Bevin a tough Trade Unionist from the ‘coal face’, who never knew his father. Later mismatches included university educated Tony Blair and former cabin steward John Prescott.
Of the Labour remnant now gathered in Central Hall Westminster, their new leader Gerry Farthing was from the ‘classroom’ branch. He had grown up in Winchester, where both his parents had been doctors, and had gone on to study medicine at Cambridge. An infection of socialism had brought out his humanitarian instincts, so after graduation he’d joined Médecins Sans Frontières, sparking a lifelong interest in matters beyond the confines of the British Isles. A politically minded wife had then brought him back to England and eventually a safe Labour seat in Birmingham.
While not as rebellious as the Tory member for Mid Oxon, Farthing was nevertheless something of a nonconformist. He had ideas, often strange and uncomfortable ones; fatal for advancement at Westminster. His thirty years in the Commons would not trouble historians when they came to write up the epics of our era.
Now into late middle age, a well-built and kindly soul, Gerry had taken refuge in his ‘interests’, which included, as we have seen, foreign affairs.
While Captain Osajefo was busy driving his Airbus into the Palace of Westminster, Farthing had been in Iran, a country that had attracted his special attention. No one could fathom why. After all, this was little more than a troublesome slab of colour on a map somewhere east of Suez.
But to Gerry Farthing it was ancient Persia, which had boasted a flourishing civilisation when Britons were still wandering around painted in woad. True, it had fallen on hard times, but the Shah was having some success bringing it into the 20th. century, when the roof fell in. And the country retreated to the Middle Ages.
Or so it appeared. But that wasn’t the full story, because the flourishing middle class didn’t disappear when the religious fanatics took over - well, some did, they emigrated - but most just kept their heads down. The tug-of-war between extremists and moderates had continued ever since, a complex drama, which Gerry did his best to keep abreast of. Hence his latest expedition. Iran’s population greatly exceeded that of its southern neighbours, so it had clout. Forget history, what happened in Iran today mattered.
Gerry Farthing shook his head. Had to clear it of Iran clutter. Could come back to that later. Now another of his interests held centre stage. Totally unexpectedly. He was just off for a conclave with a few of his closest allies for some detailed plotting. To try and take advantage of a situation that might not occur again.
25
The second meeting of what Speaker Harding had named the Interim Parliament promised to be more low key than the first. Not only had the novelty worn off, but the only item on the agenda was the simple matter of dissolving the current Parliament and calling a general election. Boring stuff. Probably over in ten minutes.
One TV camera was there for the record. Also a handful of the press, those with little better to do. Amongst them was Chloe Pettigrew, who had her editor’s blessing to continue working her contacts: Damian White, Adam Tichbold and Bessie Robotham. Even though excitement in that direction seemed to be over, Forrester was allowing her a few more days. Never could tell. Besides, there didn’t seem to be any headlines worth pursuing around Oxford.
Chloe herself was becoming more interested in one particular contact rather than any news he might generate. Much nicer than her previous lovers. Worth hanging on to.
Speaker Harding opened the proceedings and invited the Prime Minister to address the House. Adam Tichbold got up and turned round to face his audience. It felt very strange having the whole house - or rather its surviving remnant - sitting there in front of him. He was used to having the weight of support, with encouraging ‘hear hears’, behind him. And the opposition benches - hopefully cowering und
er his onslaught - in front of him. Never mind, this weird situation would not last long. He would see to that. In a few words, the Prime Minister moved that he be given the authority to go to the king and request a dissolution of Parliament, so that fresh elections could be held. He sat down, well satisfied.
Speaker Harding then called the leader of the opposition.
Gerry Farthing was somewhat older than his opposite number, also broader in the beam and not nearly so well endowed in the hair department. Whereas Tichbold was like a greyhound, keen to leap out of the trap and race off, Farthing was more contemplative and professorial.
He now contemplated his audience for a good ten seconds before any words emerged. When he finally spoke it was to agree with the Prime Minister that a general election should be held at the earliest opportunity. It was a useful ploy to agree with your opponent before launching an attack.
Gerry Farthing then launched that attack with a single word: “However.”
Another lengthy pause, then: “During the past two days I have been taking soundings. And it has become plain there is a mood for change. Elections in this country have altered little since the days of Gladstone and Disraeli. The same black tin boxes for votes, the same skewed results at the end. The MPs who troop into Westminster after an election never represent the true will of the people. One party may poll millions of votes and not get a single seat, another may win by a landslide on less than forty percent support. It’s an absurd situation which cannot be allowed to continue.”
“We have a crisis, man!” shouted Adam. “This is not the time for crazy experiments.”
The speaker called for ‘Order’ and Adam simmered down, smoothing down his mane.
Farthing allowed the hubbub to subside, waited until he had their full attention again, before continuing:
“If the Prime Minister had bothered to venture beyond the Straits of Dover he would know that what he calls ‘crazy experiments’ are now commonplace. We are the political dinosaurs - and everyone knows what happened to the dinosaurs.”
Before Farthing could say any more, Speaker Harding banged on the table and announced: “I think we have what might be called a spanner in the works. Most of us assumed this session would be speedily concluded with a simple motion to prorogue Parliament and call an election. That no longer seems to be the case. Both of you have expressed a desire for an election at the earliest opportunity and I shall hold you to that. On the other hand, we clearly need a short period for consultation. ‘Short’ being the operative word, I suggest we meet up again at ten tomorrow morning. Before we go, perhaps the Labour leader would give us some indication of what he has in mind to replace our present electoral system.”
“Of course, Madame Speaker. Without boring everyone with detail, there are three main options. First a Party list system, as practised in much of Europe. Secondly Mixed Member Proportional, a combination of Party List and First-past-the-Post, this used since the war in Germany and more recently in New Zealand. And thirdly the Single Transferable Vote, or STV, Ireland’s choice for the past hundred years. Far from being, in the Prime Minister’s words, ‘crazy experiments’, these have been around for donkeys years and all ensure that the number of seats won is roughly proportional to votes cast. Our choice would be for STV, but I’m open to argument. The only thing that is not negotiable is that we carry on as before.”
There was a brief hiatus, as everyone tried to absorb what they’d just heard. Then the Speaker said:
“Until tomorrow at ten, then. We need to do our homework. Class dismissed.”
Not very parliamentary, but Madame Speaker had a sense of humour.
26
The formal part of the meeting might be over, but hardly anyone left the room. Party leaders and whips had asked their members to stay on so they could assess the mood, something that was more easily done while everyone was gathered in one place. Electoral reform had been background noise at Westminster for decades, but there had been little action: just a half-hearted attempt back in Cameron-Clegg coalition days to see if the Alternative Vote might appeal. As AV had nothing to do with proportionality it was a red herring and had duly sunk without trace.
Chloe spent the next few minutes sending a report back to her editor Forrester in Oxford, with the suggestion that he might try and sell it on to the any of the absent dailies; under her by-line, of course.
Damian registered his opinion with Chief Whip Bessie Robotham, more as a courtesy than anything else, as this was one of the many subjects on which they had previously clashed. The Tory establishment was against any change in the voting system; Damian and a sizeable minority of his colleagues thought it couldn’t come soon enough.
Her piece to Forrester finished, Chloe was about to suggest that she and Damian went off for lunch, when she noticed Bessie plying her trade with a Tory MP. Poor old Bessie, a one-track existence with little visible home life. Could this be turned to the Pettigrew advantage?
Chloe touched Damian on the sleeve and said: “When Bessie has finished totting up the numbers, she’ll need some R and R. Why don’t you invite her round to your place again for dinner? I’ll fix the food.”
“Think she’ll sign up for another hangover?”
Chloe shook her head. “Bessie’s a big girl now. Will have learnt her lesson. But I think she needs to unwind. Not alone in some dingy West Ken cell, but with friends.”
Damian grinned. “Friends without any ulterior motive?”
“I’m as ulterior as they come. So are you. But what’s wrong with that? A good evening should be had by all.”
“You’re a conniving witch! And absolutely right.”
So Damian popped the question, Bessie was delighted to accept and they agreed an earlier time of 6 pm. There would be much to talk about.
27
Damian’s doorbell rang just as the BBC was getting into its stride with the latest political news. Again he ran down to help Bessie up the stairs, this time his task a little easier as he had forbidden any alcoholic baggage. Climbing the Pimlico mountain still left the Chief Whip out of breath, but she refused any spirited restorative; just an orange juice.
Bessie collapsed into a chair with a wheeze, like a balloon losing some air. Normally a sturdy woman, she seemed a tad diminished. The past few days had been draining for all of them, but especially so for those well on the wrong side of their half century.
“A rough day?” ventured Damian.
Bessie sipped her fruit juice, grimaced and replied: “I’ve had better. Adam’s been impossible.”
“Not as much support for the status quo as he’d hoped?”
“That’s putting it mildly. Whenever the subject’s come up in the past, we’ve never had any trouble keeping the troops in order. But now.....”
“It’s always been the establishment that was most scared of change,” said Damian. “Now that most of our officers have been wiped out, we’re seeing what the other ranks think.”
“Our other ranks seem to be in a state of mutiny,” said Bessie grimly. “I’ve spoken to all but two of them and if this was the army I’d have been ordering up firing squads. I suspect it’s the same in the Labour camp. Apart from Gerry and a few of his mates, they’ve always supported us.”
“So you think the motion to change to a proportional system will be passed?” asked Damian.
“Looks like it. Even if we and Labour manage fifty-fifty, which is doubtful, the other parties will likely decide the issue.”
“Over thirty of the Haggis brigade are still alive and they’ve been using PR in the Edinburgh assembly for years,” agreed Damian. “No fear of the unknown for them.”
“You said Adam has been impossible. In what way?” asked Chloe.
“The Prime Minister insists that this Interim Assembly has no competence in the matter. That the Parliament elected at the last election would never have passed a Bill like the one proposed by Farthing. Adam says that if we want to change our electoral system that’s fine, but
it can only be done by a new parliament. And that must be one elected under current legislation.”
“He has a point,” said Damian.
“Maybe,” replied Bessie. “But our former majority is now lined up in coffins. It’s the living that make the rules.”
“There must be lawyers who know those rules,” said Chloe.
Bessie gave a hollow laugh. “Of course there are. In Westminster every second person wears a wig. They’ve spent the past few hours drowning me in legal argument, all of it contradictory.”
“No precedent for losing three quarters of our lawmakers,” observed Damian.
Bessie nodded. “You know the saying: to the victor the spoils. We may not have been at war, but the principle’s the same: it’ll be the victors - the survivors - who decide what we do next.”
“So the last election no longer matters?” asked Chloe.
“The dead have lost the right to vote,” replied Damian. “Adam may not like the idea, but that’s the fact.”
“So you and Gerry can do what you like?”
Damian smiled. Chloe had put into words a notion that had been germinating in his mind for a while. He replied: “Until another parliament has been elected those of us who are left represent the will of the people. What we decide becomes the law. Or so it seems to me.”
They went around in circles with this argument a while longer until Chloe called a halt. Time for dinner. Salmon steak, peas, parsley, new potatoes. Bessie agreed to partake of some South African Sauvignon Blanc, asking them to make sure she didn’t overdo it.
Chloe then announced that politics and food didn’t mix and banned further discussion until they’d finished. Conversation turned instead to Damian’s old club West Ham, which had been enjoying its usual rocky ride. Although many years since the move from Upton park, they had never really settled into their new Olympic stadium. Their most recent disaster had been a three nil home defeat by Leeds, of all sides. After years in the lower leagues, Leeds had acquired a charismatic new manager from Argentina, who had managed to drag them back into the Premiership. This latest result had left West Ham just three points clear of the drop zone, a cause of much concern to Damian, who expounded at length on the reasons for their plight and his suggestions for rectifying the situation.
NIGHT WATCHMAN Page 9
