Gerry Farthing had long wanted to get rid of the second chamber and now saw his opportunity. He replied that the Lords appeared to be defunct. He saw no reason why his Bill need trouble an organisation that had died.
“You mean to ignore the Lords’ scrutiny stage?” asked the Speaker.
“I do,” he replied. “If the next parliament wants to resuscitate the victim, that will be up to them. For now we have work to do and can’t afford to wait.”
As Farthing sat down, Tichbold rose to congratulate the leader of the opposition on his keenness to get things done. But surely, said Adam, the transformation of the electoral system could not be done that fast? It was a complex process that would take a while to complete. As he posed the question Adam was aware that he was in a quandary. He was looking forward to freeing up Britain’s sclerotic bureaucratic arteries, but - ironically - this could not be done overnight. UK plc was not a Ferrari that could be accelerated from nought to sixty in four seconds: it was more like a twenty-year-old Ford that would need some coaxing to get it up to speed. So he was relieved to hear Gerry reply that they would seek to implement STV ‘as fast as was humanly possible’. That was probably code for several months. Plenty of time, Adam reflected, to have some fun sorting out the sloths.
Speaker Harding wound up the meeting with the observation that the Report stage and Second Reading of the Bill they had just passed would now be completed without any reference to the Lords. Finally, was there Any Other Business?
Damian White, rising for first time as prime minister, replied:
“There is, Madame Speaker. Although STV is simple to use, its implementation will, as we have heard, take time. Constituencies will have to be merged, boundaries may have to be redrawn. As has been said, ‘we need to get it right’. This will primarily be a job for the Whitehall Mandarins, leaving us, as representatives of the people, with time on our hands. I see no reason why we should remain idle. My cabinet will therefore seek to use this time profitably; see if there are further ways to haul this country into the twenty first century.”
“So this STV Bill will not be our Interim Parliament’s only piece of legislation?” asked the Speaker.
“No. I intend to find further work to keep us occupied,” replied Prime Minister White. “My colleague Mr. Tichbold tells me he is an impatient man, so Secretary of State for Speed should be a title to suit him nicely. You will appreciate, Madame Speaker, that I wasn’t prepared for the situation I now find myself in, so you will have to wait a day or two for details. I will only say this: don’t go home and put your feet up. We shall meet again.”
34
Speaker Harding finished their business in time for lunch, which for newly elected Prime Minister White consisted of a hastily eaten chicken and salad sandwich. There was much to do before bedtime.
His first task was to make the short journey to Buckingham Palace for the ritual of ‘Kissing hand’. No such unsanitary encounter actually takes place. Nowadays it merely signifies the sovereign’s acceptance of a new prime minister; a chance to have a chat and for both sides to size each other up. Damian thought the king was not ageing well, his facial colour too high, his demeanour harassed. The meeting was civil enough and ended with the monarch offering his usual opinions on how to run the country, an unconstitutional foible which everyone accepted and then ignored.
After that, it was back into the prime ministerial limousine to see his new London home, No.10 Downing Street. Over lunch, in fact as soon as his election became known, Damian had received a call from Jacob Wells, Director General of MI5, who had insisted he take up residence with immediate effect.
Recent events had taken their toll of the security boss. Never a large man, he seemed to have lost even more weight. The immediate aftermath of the crash had been bad enough. Jacob’s complaint during those first hours of chaos that ‘he’d had no one to report to’ had been well founded. If Andorra or San Marino had suffered a similar cull of its upper echelons, the world would have continued to spin on its axis, but a state as complex and wealthy as the United Kingdom couldn’t afford to be rudderless for even a few minutes, never mind hours.
When, by late evening of that terrible day, Tichbold had finally been confirmed as the country’s next supremo, the Director General had breathed a little easier. But his problems were not over. His suggestion that Tichbold should make haste to take up residence in Number Ten had been casually received. Not only was the dead PM’s widow in a state of collapse, thus in the short term immovable, but Tichbold had other things on his mind. A house move was not a priority. He had paid a brief visit to No.10 to be shown the ropes, but continued to live in his country estate.
Jacob Wells could not have cared less about a prime minister’s domestic life. That No.10 was supposed to be his London home was beside the point. The crucial fact was that this was the place from where Britain was governed. It was a communications hub. It was fortress. It was secure. Or at any rate as secure as anyone could make it in this age of terrorism. Every prime minister should therefore consider it his castle.
At one time Joe Yokel, up in London for the day, could wander into Downing Street to be photographed standing outside Number Ten. Those days were long gone. The whole of Downing Street was now an armed camp, safe from any invasion below the strength of an army corps.
Jacob Wells had already suffered enough sleepless nights and was determined that this new prime minister should toe the security line. Do as he was told. The size and shape of his entourage didn’t matter. He’d heard that White had split from his wife and had a new girlfriend. No problem. He could have every loose woman in London for all he cared, as long as Numero Uno was safely tucked up in Number Ten with her.
Prime Minister White wasn’t interested in loose women, but he was interested in his woman. Whom, he realised with something of a start, was Chloe Pettigrew. Mandy had been gone too long from his life for there to be any hope of reconciliation; according to rumour she now had a live-in boyfriend. Damian still saw his children pretty regularly, but that was it. Under normal circumstances a new love would have been a big event, but so much had been happening that Chloe had crept up on him unawares.
Now he had to give her serious thought. He remembered her comment about having had two husbands and losing her men rather easily. Clearly not a clingy type. So although he was becoming more than a little fond of Chloe, if things should not work out long term, a parting of the ways would not appear to present a problem.
With the philosophy of enjoying their partnership while they could, he rang her mobile. She was still in Central Hall and he asked if she fancied being mistress of Number Ten. From an Oxford backwater to the seat of power in one go was enough to give any girl vertigo, but Chloe must have had a head for heights because she didn’t hesitate to accept. Damian told his driver to divert and pick her up.
The front door of Number Ten is unlike any other in that it can’t be opened from the outside; no keyhole, nothing. Just that iconic Number Ten in white. Damian and Chloe had to first negotiate the security barrier at the entrance to Downing Street, then knock on the door of their new home. Ask to be admitted. Pimlico this was not.
The duty housekeeper was there to welcome them and show them round. The deceased PM’s widow and her belongings had finally been removed the night before. Tichbold’s presence had never been more than a pair of pyjamas and a toothbrush, Hermione having insisted on staying in the country with her pet mare, Fidget. Number Ten was now empty and Damian’s to do as he liked with.
He immediately delegated the domestic and social side of it to Number Ten’s new mistress. A leader’s success depends in large measure on how good he is at picking people. Whether Chloe would be any good at running Britain’s version of the White House he had no idea. He had known her for only days, a time of turmoil when he had been preoccupied with other matters. But they got on, she was young and attractive and seemed competent.
Whether she could cope with Number Ten probably wouldn’t matter too muc
h, because Damian saw himself as a very temporary tenant. He was head of only an interim government and unlikely to survive when the real thing was elected in a few weeks. Chloe would be spared having to choose new wallpaper.
While Number Ten’s mistress visited the kitchen and bedrooms and arranged for essential personal effects to be fetched from Pimlico, Damian was shown round the business end of the establishment. He wanted to get a feel for the house’s geography; and make some essential phone calls. It was too late for anything more today, but he was scheduling his first cabinet for tomorrow at 2pm.
By 7.30 they had finished. Both declared themselves bushed.
“What now?” asked Chloe.
“How about a Chinese take-away?” replied Damian. “With a bottle of wine.”
The new mistress of Number Ten grinned; “Think they can manage that?”
“Let’s see,” replied the new Prime Minister. “Their first big test.”
35
MARCH 26th.
Damian decided that his cabinet should not meet in the Cabinet Room, which was too big and impersonal. The long table, with space for a couple of dozen chairs and more seating at the sides, was fine for a normal parliament with an extensive legislative programme, but not necessary for this temporary one with a limited remit.
He would not be having a string of ministers with impressive titles and large departments. Even Number Eleven next door was without a tenant, the previous Chancellor having been amongst the victims. There was no reason to replace him because the Treasury could easily keep things going for a few months; indeed it was whispered that matters would be vastly improved without a Chancellor around to meddle.
Damian had chosen instead a small anteroom, nice and cosy, with an oval table large enough to seat six - maybe eight at a pinch; more seating could be arranged at the sides, if that became necessary.
Shortly before 2 pm the TV cameras outside No.10 recorded the cabinet arrivals:
First was Adam Tichbold, tall and haughty, striding along briskly, as though in some parliamentary race. Damian had considered naming him Secretary of State for Speed, but had been persuaded this was too naff so had settled instead on ‘Minister without Portfolio’. Adam was being given a roving commission to apply an oilcan to the rusty ship of state. A kick up the backside, as he put it.
Next came Gerry Farthing, not built for speed and wearing the sort of scruffy coat favoured by TV detective Colombo. Gerry was to be Secretary of State for Electoral Reform.
Then there was Bessie Robotham, also trying to give an impression of meaning business, but spoiling the effect by only achieving a breathless waddle. Bessie was to be Home Secretary, focussing on security.
The TV crews waited for the next arrival....and waited.
At 2.05 the door of No.10 opened and Prime Minister White appeared with his three colleagues. He approached the microphone and fiddled with the switch. In hushed tones the BBC commentator reminded viewers that Damian was Britain’s first black prime minister - although in fact he was more a coffee colour. Black and White, The Whisky Premier. West Ham had instilled in him the need to keep fit, something he had not forgotten, having put on only a few pounds since those glory days on the pitch. He looked young for his age; absurdly young to be Prime Minster.
Having finally found how to turn the mike on, Damian began with the usual mantra of being ‘honoured and humbled’ by his new responsibilities. That bit out of the way, he continued:
“Yes there are only four of us. We’re the slim-line team, with little more to do than deliver another parliament with a full quota of members. We’ve just passed the first part of that legislation. The next stage will examine the detail, crossing the ‘Ts’ and dotting the ‘Is’, making sure everything is as perfect as possible. This shouldn’t take long, because we’re already pretty much agreed. We’re a team of all the talents, some of us Conservative, but it’s Labour leader, Gerry Farthing, who’s the brains behind our election strategy.”
Damian paused, aware that he was being economical with the truth. Those weasel words ‘little more to do than’ were camouflage, hiding his ambition to do as much as this short parliament would allow.
The break in his little speech permitted the man from ITV to put a question:
“Prime Minister, no one seems to understand how your new electoral system will work. It seems far too complicated...”
“Well, Mr. Donovan...” Damian had recognised the ITV reporter, a tall, thin man in his late thirties, with prematurely grey hair. “....Can you count?”
Donovan didn’t know what to say. Everyone was flummoxed.
“Very well, let me show you: One... Two... Three... Four... Five.....” As laughter took over, Damian stopped.
When it had subsided, he continued: “There, that wasn’t too difficult, was it? That’s all we’re asking: that you count. Our present system was designed for illiterates - only have to make your mark: they say this should be a cross, which is pretty daft considering we normally put a cross when we don’t want something; however, any mark is acceptable as long as your intention is clear. From now on, though, you’ll be asked to write a number: one against your first choice, two against the second; and so on until you get bored or run out of ideas. Entirely up to you. Think you can manage?”
“Still don’t see the point in changing something we’re used to,” persisted Donovan.
“It’s so you get a fair deal,” said Damian. “Remember Brexit? A close call but that was a referendum where all the votes went into one pot. No one could argue about the result. At present we put general election votes into six hundred different pots, where anything can happen. A party like UKIP can amass millions of votes but not a single MP, whereas the big parties, Gerry’s and mine, tend to do rather better than we deserve.”
“This new thing must be pretty difficult to count,” grumbled Donovan.
“Longwinded, maybe, but not difficult. Ask Dublin. They’ve been doing it for a hundred years and seem well able to cope. But no more election night dramas with the swingometer, I’m afraid. You’ll now have to wait a day or two for a full result.”
More questions were brewing, but this could go on all day if he let them. He therefore introduced his team to the world and made a graceful exit. There was work to do.
36
The oval table in the anteroom was plenty big enough for Damian’s little cabinet. He positioned himself at the head of the oval, letting the others pick their pitch. Adam Tichbold sat on his right, Gerry Farthing to his left. Bessie Robotham elected to sit beside Gerry, as far from Adam as possible: old enmities died hard.
“Well, who’d have thought it,” began Damian.
Who indeed. Gerry smiled. Adam stretched his long legs. Bessie sat hunched, keen to get going.
“Let me start by stating the obvious,” continued Damian. “The time factor. We’re bypassing the Lords, so it should be fast track to the Royal Assent for our Electoral Reform Bill. But the practical problems will take longer. That’s your baby, Gerry, so talk us through it.
Gerry Farthing glanced at a memo sheet in front of him, paused for thought, began:
“I already have a team in place from the Electoral Reform Society, which was founded in eighteen eighty four, so they’ve been waiting a while...”
“Plenty of white beards…,” said Adam.
“...Yea, and they know all the wrinkles,” continued Gerry, smiling at his little joke. “But they’ll need one vital piece of guidance from us: how many MPs do went want to end up with?”
“America has a population of over three hundred million, but only four hundred and thirty five Congressmen,” said Adam. “I know we’ve cut back a bit, but even six hundred is far too much for our population of....what, seventy mill? I say go for a big cull.”
“Will voters stand for that?” asked Bessie.
“Voters will be kissing us when they learn how much it’ll save them,” replied Adam.
“Let’s pluck some figures out of the
air,” said Damian. “Who’s for five hundred MPs?”
“Four hundred,” said Adam.
“Pig in the middle, four fifty,” said Bessie.
“Don’t go for a round figure,” said Gerry. “How about four hundred and sixty nine? Might fool people into thinking we know what we’re doing.”
“Good idea,” said the Prime Minister. “Let the white beards and wrinkles know we’re aiming for four hundred and sixty nine MPs. Ballpark figure.”
They digested this for a moment, then the Prime Minster continued: “There are a couple of other election matters we should think about: like where will the new Parliament meet? The Palace of Westminster is clearly out for years….”
“Maybe forever,” interjected Adam. “Never was much good, even for the likes of Gladstone and Disraeli. Now it’s just a nostalgia symbol. Let’s build something modern and fit for purpose. Ken and Boris got a fantastic new city hall in a prime location. We deserve the same. Convert the old wreck into a hotel: just imagine what we could charge for a room with that view.”
“It’ll take time,” said Damian.
“All the more reason to start at once. Give me the green light and I’ll scour London for a suitable site. I’ve got architect friends who’ll make some preliminary drawings: not the bear-pit design we’ve been used to, instead I’ll ask for the semi-circular model everyone else uses. Built-in electronic voting, the lot. Get the whole thing signed and sealed by the time the next parliament takes over. How about it?”
“It’s all yours,” said the Prime Minister. “Anything else?”
“The House of Lords,” replied Gerry Farthing. “We’ve done away with it during the period of this emergency, but the new parliament might haven other ideas; we should give them some pointers. I personally think we do need a second chamber, but exactly what? An elected Senate, like the Yanks and Aussies? Or a small appointed body of real experts?”
NIGHT WATCHMAN Page 12
