“What sort of numbers are we talking about?”
“Haven’t foggiest. But to give you a rough idea, let me throw some figures around. Ever heard of Eyam?”
“Rings a vague bell,” said Chloe. “Village up north somewhere…?
“In Derbyshire: pretty little place, but known as the ‘Plague village’, because out of a population of three hundred and fifty, two hundred and fifty perished. Way over fifty percent mortality. In those days diseases were often pretty choosy, missing some places entirely while destroying others, like Eyam. Overall, the Black Death of the mid thirteen hundreds killed between thirty and sixty percent of Europe’s population.”
“I hope you’re not forecasting anything like that?”
“No, no. Although some antibiotics may be losing their punch, modern medicine should protect us from the worst. Even so, things could get pretty scary. Best guide is probably the one I just mentioned, the Spanish Flu. A little over a century ago, so almost modern, it was a mere nothing compared with the ancient stuff, top estimate being about five percent of the world perishing. But just think about that for a moment. In Britain it would mean about three million deaths. Crammed into just a few months.”
“Should I be buying shares in crematoria?” asked Damian.
Chloe grinned. “They’d impeach you for insider trading.”
“We may be needing some gallows humour,” said Sir Marcus. “But it’s a good point. Disposing of bodies becomes a big problem. And the hard pressed NHS will pretty much collapse. You might like to make a few discreet plans.”
“You said that flu epidemics are usually worst in winter,” said Chloe. “We’re almost into April, so surely things should now start improving?”
“I said ‘usually’. Unfortunately, the canny little flu bug doesn’t always do ‘usual’. The nineteen eighteen epidemic peaked in summer. And was worst amongst those in the prime of life, rather than the young and elderly, which is the norm. You never can tell.”
Sir Marcus finished his coffee and got up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time I returned to my tiny friends…”
Damian shook his hand. “Thanks for dropping in.” “You’ve been a great comfort,” added Chloe.
“A speech extolling the virtue of stoicism might not be a bad idea,” said the scientist as he left. “And buy some crematoria shares. Can’t go wrong.”
39
MARCH 31st.
Damian left it for a couple of days to see if the Flu story would go away. It did not. On Saturday evening he was warned that next day’s Sunday papers would be headlining the story. The new mutation was proving disconcertingly deadly, with doctors’ practices already in danger of being overwhelmed and pharmacies running out of antibiotics.
The prime minister knew he should be doing something: ‘giving us a lead’, as the Sunday Telegraph put it. But what could he do? He wasn’t a magician. It was time to spread the blame should things to seriously pear-shaped, so he phoned his inner circle: Adam Tichbold, Gerry Farthing and Bessie Robotham.
Damian suggested another meeting at Number Ten, but Adam had other ideas.
“It’s a weekend, so why not come down to the Tichbold ranch again,” he suggested. “Guaranteed pest-free air. Hermione’s excellent cooking. And Chloe can fatten up Fidget with more sugar lumps.”
Which was how Prime Minister White and Number Ten’s new Chief of Staff, Chloe Pettigrew, came to be heading Berkshire-wards, again attended by Bill and Ben, who had shifted the security focus from Adam to their new master.
The prime ministerial limo made its now familiar crunching arrival around the Tichbold drive, to be greeted by the master of the house. There the similarities ended, because there had been a role reversal, Adam no longer prime minister merely an acolyte of his young leader. He was dressed in brown trousers and an open necked chequered shirt, it being unusually warm for late March.
“Bessie and Gerry are already here,” he explained as Damian and Chloe got out of the car. “In the lounge devouring the Sunday papers. Not, I suspect, fitness fanatics. However, I could do with some exercise before the cerebral stuff, so how about a quick stroll?”
“Good idea,” replied Chloe. “But we’d better not hang about. Looks like rain before long.” A depression with humid Caribbean air was hovering over southern England, promising a mix of sunshine and heavy showers; they could already hear distant rumblings.
Chloe was looking suitably rural in a pair of tight jodhpur-like trousers and her hair let down. She was attracting admiring glances from Adam who, unlike the Cabinet Secretary, considered Number Ten’s new Chief of Staff to be an excellent appointment.
“This time I’ve come prepared,” said Chloe who had persuaded Bill – or it may have been Ben – to open up the car’s boot. From it she extracted a pair of green wellies and a packet of sugar lumps.
“Let’s go, before we get drowned,” she announced, leading the way at a brisk trot towards the stables.
Horses can’t be rushed, so they felt obliged to watch Fidget enjoy her treat. Perhaps ‘enjoy’ was the wrong word, because the animal just chomped away with a deadpan expression. ‘Like watching paint dry’, as Adam put it.
Their equine duty done, they set off up the slope towards the woodland at the far end of the estate. Adam with his absurdly long legs set a cracking pace, but they were all naturally fast walkers. Just as well Bessie and Gerry had opted out. Bill and Ben, this time equipped with proper footwear, had no difficulty keeping up; ‘security’ usually means ex-army or police and a decent degree of fitness.
They were well into the forest when a loud clap of thunder brought them to their senses. It was suddenly very gloomy. As one, they turned tail and stampeded down the slope. It’s remarkably difficult to run in gumboots, so their pace was not exactly Olympian. Adam wondered whether government slaughter by AfroAir was to be followed by a further cull from lightning. But they made it. Just. Hailstones the size of marbles were beginning to attack as they exploded breathless through the back door.
Hermione, cool as ever, tut-tutted them a greeting for going out in such inclement conditions. Announced that Sunday lunch was in preparation and would be ready whenever they had finished saving the country.
Still panting, Damian Adam and Chloe joined the other two, who had been briefing themselves with the newspapers in the Tichbold drawing room. Gerry was surrounded by a chaos of discarded pages from the Observer, while Bessie was making a neater job of it with the Sunday Times.
Slumping into a vacant chair, Damian commented: “Not good news, I take it?”
“Armageddon,” replied Gerry. “The Observer is calling for your resignation”
“If a Tory’s in the hot-seat the Observer will be demanding his head on the block every weekend,” said Bessie.
“Even so, we must do something,” said Damian. “Which is why I suggested we meet.”
“We must be seen to be doing something, even if we actually do nothing”, said Gerry cryptically. “A fireside chat would fit the bill nicely.”
There was a moments silence. Then Damian said: “It’s nearly twenty degrees outside. Hardly fireside weather.”
“I didn’t mean literally. Neither did FDR. Like you, President Roosevelt found himself in the top job at a time of crisis, in his case the economic depression of the nineteen thirties. So he took to the ‘wireless’ as they called it, with a series of talks to the American people, known as fireside chats. Faced with a banking collapse, a world war, anything nasty, FDR’s answer was usually a fireside chat. Now of course we have the telly, which is one of your strengths, so why not tell the BBC to book you a slot.”
“No time like the present,” said Bessie. “The press is acting over-excited, so the sooner we calm things down the better. I fancy it’s time for Chloe to earn her keep, so come on Chief of Staff: see if you can fix something with the BBC. Or ITV. If that’s okay with you, Prime Minister?”
Damian nodded, bemused at the pace of events. He would ba
rely have time to gather his thoughts, never mind get anything down on paper. But they were right. He had to say something.
Chloe fumbled in her handbag for a mobile and was about to leave the room when Gerry said:
“Make sure they don’t hype it up. The media loves to over dramatise. ‘Chat’ is a nice soothing word. Impress on the BBC -or whoever - that the purpose of the talk is to pour oil on troubled waters, not fan the flames.”
Chloe nodded and left to make some calls.
“A fireside chat on the telly won’t be enough,” said Damian. “We also need some action.”
“Bring on the army,” suggested Adam. “That’s the usual answer in a crisis.”
“I promised Cabinet Secretary Hopgood not to start a war,” said Damian. “Don’t tell me there’s a conflict somewhere out there that everyone’s forgotten about.”
“None that I’ve heard of,” said Adam. “No doubt there’ll be the usual SAS undercover stuff in the Middle East, but apart from that zilch. Most of the boys in brown will be marching up and down parade grounds in Aldershot or playing with their tanks on Salisbury plain. Ready for action.”
“What sort of action did you have in mind?” asked Bessie.
“That’ll depend,” replied Adam. “If an infection starts to take a serious toll, there’ll be fewer people around to do the usual jobs. The survivors will then tend to hunker down in their homes, rather than risk going out to face a deadly virus. Gradually planes will cease to fly, trains will stop, food remain undelivered. The army is an additional source of manpower if normal life starts to break down. To say nothing of facing down angry mobs demanding we work miracles.”
“Squaddies can’t fly planes or drive trains,” said Gerry.
“They can drive lorries and keep essential services going.”
“The army is not going to like it,” said Bessie. “Not what it was trained to do.”
“The army is trained to do most things,” said Damian. “And will do as it is told. They call it discipline.”
“Any of you Sharpe fans?” asked Adam.
No one answered.
“A fictional character I’m rather fond of,” he continued. “Peninsular war hero, lot of blood and gore. I mention Sharpe because when asked what his job was he had a simple answer: to kill the king’s enemies. Forget the fancy uniforms and high faluting flummery, if you take the king’s shilling it’s for one purpose only: to kill his enemies. The downside is that the king’s enemies will also be out to kill you. Join any of the armed forces and you accept a higher than average risk of dying.”
“From bullets maybe, but not bugs,” said Bessie.
“Bugs are also the king’s enemies,” said Damian. “Not a glamorous form of warfare perhaps, no VCs or other gongs on offer, but a soldier’s job is still to fight and if necessary die for his country. When we’re done here I shall phone Admiral Horrocks, and tell him to put the armed services on standby.
Bessie was about to say more but never had the chance because Chloe now returned, a smile on her face. Announced:
“You’re on BBC One tomorrow at six thirty, after the news. They could have done tonight, but advised twenty four hours of publicity to make sure you had a good audience. They’ve only given you five minutes – like a party political broadcast - but that should be enough.”
“Thirty seconds should do if it’s just to tell them I’m putting the army on alert, but not to panic.”
“Try to relax,” said Chloe. “Imagine you’re on Strictly – but without the dancing.”
“In fact, I might take the opportunity to announce a few more changes,” said the Prime Minister. “If forecasts are only half right, the NHS will be under serious stress…”
Adam: “…Totally unable to cope, more like.”
Damian: “…So charging, say, two pounds to visit the doctor might be a small disincentive.”
Gerry: “Here we go again! The Tories trying to put the clock back.”
Damian: “I was only thinking of an honesty box as patients come in. Therefore voluntary and no admin costs.”
Gerry: “In that case no one will pay.”
Damian: “Some people will certainly pay. How many I’ve no idea. They say there’s no such thing as a free lunch: equally, there’s no such thing as free medicine. That little honesty box might remind people that everything has to be paid for one way or another. Could also help fill the black hole of NHS funding.”
No one said a word, so Damian added: “Almost everyone can afford two quid, but if you really can’t manage you don’t have to. Worth a try.”
Adam slapped his thigh: “Three golden words! ‘Worth a try’. It’s the reason homo sapiens is no longer living in a cave hitting his woman with a club. Of course we must try charging for doctor’s visits. Even if it doesn’t work. Every small step forwards is built on failures.”
“We’re far too scared of the dreaded ‘U-turn’,” agreed Damian. “It’s the worst abuse the media can throw at us. But I’d like to see ‘U-turns’ built into our manifesto, to be used when necessary. When that canny old operator Harold McMillan was asked why he had changed his mind, his reply was ‘Events, dear boy, events’. So let’s wear our U-turns with pride. Use them when we have to.”
“I think a small charge for seeing the quack would work,” said Bessie. “Should have done it years ago.”
The Labour leader sniffed sceptically and asked: “Does the Prime Minister have any other quaint ideas up his sleeve?”
Damian grinned. “How about making prisoners work for their keep?”
Gerry: “Back to sewing mailbags?”
“I was thinking of something more useful. Like clearing litter.”
“One way of easing the pressure on prisons, I suppose,” said Gerry sarcastically. “No longer any need for dodgy escapes over the prison wall, the bad boys can just wander off when the warder is busy having a pee.”
“It would not of course apply to anyone dangerous,” replied Damian. “But most inmates are pretty harmless. Look upon clearing litter as a sort of semi parole, with the bonus of being able to repay society for any wrongs that put you in inside in the first place.”
“Very laudable, I’m sure,” said Bessie. “But I doubt the prison officers would wear it. Too many extra duties.”
“With a bit of persuasion they might welcome the change,” said Damian. “Can’t imagine many worse jobs than being a prison warder. Give them a choice of getting out in God’s fresh air… add a few pence to their pay. I reckon they’ll jump at it.”
“In the current catch-phrase, ‘worth a try’”, said Adam, with a smile.
“Okay, I’ll get the legislation underway,” said Damian. “But we’ll have to be quick about it. After all, we’re an interim parliament and the public won’t tolerate too much delay before they have something more permanent.”
“If we get a really good plague the public might have so much on its mind that it does forget about it,” said Adam, ever the cynic.
“We can hardly bank on mass deaths helping us out,” said Damian. “Must plan on circumstances being normal. The second reading of our Electoral Reform Bill is up for debate next week, so that only leaves its implementation. What’s the latest on that, Gerry?”
The Labour leader made an effort to sit up straighter in Tichbold’s all-too-comfy chair and replied: “The Single Transferable Vote is based on large multi-member constituencies, so we have to merge our current six hundred into…. I’m not sure of the precise number, but it will be somewhere between eighty and ninety bigger ones. Your constituency of Mid Oxon, Damian, will fit nicely into Oxford county, returning three members.”
“Must complicate matters that we are also reducing the number of MPs,” said Bessie.
“Not really,” said Gerry. “Whether we use the old figure of six hundred or our new target of around four hundred and seventy MPs, these still have to be juggled into the new scheme. I’m told the job is pretty near done. Computers think nothing o
f merging electoral rolls, so that’s near completion. It’s the human element that takes time. Voters have to be weaned off the old habit of putting a cross and instead educated into inserting numbers. Not exactly rocket science, but no one likes change, so every household will be sent an instruction leaflet. The most difficult part is ensuring that the people running the show know exactly what to do. An STV count takes time and is quite different to what anyone has been used to, so all returning officers will need to do a training course and pass an exam.”
“I’d like to get back to normal as soon as possible, so can we nail down to an election date?” asked the Prime Minister.
Gerry Farthing gave it a moment’s thought. “Should be able to manage early June.”
“So can we pencil in the first Thursday in June?” Damian looked around for agreement.
“Why Thursday?” asked Adam.
“Because we always go to the polls on a Thursday,” replied Bessie.
“The French do it on Sundays,” Adam pointed out. “So what’s so special about Thursdays? Aren’t we supposed to be breaking the mould?”
“Let’s just say early June,” said the Prime Minister. “Precise date to be decided. And decided soon.”
“Can we now decide to have lunch?” asked Adam. “Hermione has prepared a Sunday roast, Yorkshire pud, all the trimmings. I’m starving.”
The motion was carried unanimously.
40
APRIL 1st.
All Fools day. The papers usually had a suitable jest hidden within the genuine news, but Damian couldn’t find anything. Maybe they thought it wasn’t the time for jokes. Flu cases were mounting rapidly, with mortality rates much higher than in a normal epidemic. There was as yet no clear pattern, but, as in 1918, those in their prime seemed to be suffering at least as badly as the very young and elderly.
The business of the day was the Interim Parliament’s second reading of The Electoral Reform Bill. Unlike the old Commons Chamber, where TV cameras could focus on both speakers and audience, the Central Hall Westminster was a normal conference venue, with Speaker Harding on the raised platform at one end, looking down on the ranks of MPs below. Members wishing to make a brief point usually did so from their seated position, while longer speeches were done from the front, facing the audience. There was much neck twisting to retain the tradition of addressing the Speaker, but no one had yet tried the more obvious method of mounting the platform. Speaker Harding had made no ruling on the matter, the Interim Parliament still playing things by ear.
NIGHT WATCHMAN Page 14
