On one point Speaker Harding had made her wishes clear. The press and TV cameras were to remain at the back of the hall. This was fine for filming the speeches, but meant viewers could no longer see audience reaction. Prime Minister White in the front row was therefore a long way from the cameras, with only the back of his head visible.
This advantageous geography was enabling Damian to sit out the debate while actually doing some homework for his coming talk. The Electoral Reform Bill would be remembered as the Labour leader’s finest hour, so no need to spoil his party. Guaranteed a comfortable passage, it was more a triumphal procession than a debate, the few who spoke against some minor point being mere puppets. Damian’s conscience was clear as he surreptitiously scribbled notes on the back of an old envelope. And remained silent.
The Bill was finally approved just after 4.30 pm by 98 votes to 54, the larger than expected number of absentees being due to members confined to bed with the dreaded bug. Now only the spidery signature of the king was needed for elections by The Single Transferable Vote to become law.
Damian offered Gerry Farthing his hasty congratulations, then left by the back door for the short walk to Downing Street. Chloe was ‘at home’, as he now had to call Number Ten, hopefully with the kettle on for tea, but also supervising the BBC team, who wanted enough time to record his talk before transmission at 6.30.
He had pondered a good deal about how to present the talk. Standing or sitting? If sitting, formal or casual? He had eventually settled on the study as the venue, seated behind a simple wooden desk, his face lit by the window at his two o’clock position. Over his right shoulder, above the fireplace, was a painting of Maggie Thatcher, to his left a large bookcase. A message from the seat of power, yet not too formal. A fireside chat British version.
After a quick cup of tea, Chloe and the TV team assembled in the study. The prime minister was behind the desk, a few salient points to remember scrawled on a single sheet of A4 in front of him. He envied politicians across the pond who always seemed to start off with the phrase ‘My fellow Americans’. Anything like ‘My fellow Britains’, worse still ‘fellow Brits’, would probably reduce his audience to helpless laughter, so he set off rather lamely:
“Ladies and gentlemen. If you’re surprised to find yourselves watching what appears to be an episode of Strictly Come Dancing from Downing Street, let me assure you no one is more surprised than me. It’s been quite a ride from West Ham football club, via the dance floor to Number Ten.
But I’m not here today in my usual role as an entertainer. No muddy claret shirt after a bruising game at Upton Park: no glitter and sequins from Strictly. Today it’s business. And not very pleasant business at that.
I am of course referring to the flu virus that’s decided to pay us a visit. It’s around most years, but this time it’s more than usually active. Tonight I want to put this nasty little fellow into perspective.”
The Prime Minister took a sip of water from a tumbler on the desk, glanced at his notes and continued:
“First let me say that most of you will remain perfectly healthy. It may seem like everyone is getting it, but going down with flu is actually a minority occupation. Every autumn we spend a hundred million pounds of your money giving the elderly flu jabs, so we’re already doing our best. And pharmacies will sell you all sorts of tablets if you think they will do any good.
But jabs and pills are only partially effective - some say even a waste of money, which leaves us with the uncomfortable fact that there’s not much modern medicine can do. We’re back to the age-old remedy of a day or two in bed.
However, large numbers of people off work for even a few days does cause problems. Trains and buses may have to be cancelled, essential services come under pressure. I have therefore told the service chiefs to make manpower…” the Prime Minister smiled “…and womanpower available to fill any gaps that may appear. I ask for your understanding and cooperation if this happens where you work.
If you come down with this flu of course take a few days off, but the rest of us should be prepared to make allowances. Work longer hours, perhaps. Be flexible. We must keep the country ticking over. Remember the British stiff upper lip. Good luck. And thank you.”
The TV crew shut down, relaxed.
The cameraman, smiled to himself and said: “No mention of what really scares people: which is dying. No one minds a bit of flu if they recover.”
Damian got up, stretched his legs. Said: “It’s like that episode of Fawlty Towers where they have German guests and Basil keeps saying ‘don’t mention the war’. Now the unmentionable is death. So I don’t. Just skate diplomatically round it. The show we’ve just put on was designed to talk down the grim reaper.”
You did a pretty good job,” conceded the cameraman. “Whether it’ll work, I’m not too sure.”
41
APRIL 5th.
The phone woke him. He scrabbled for the bedside clock, which showed 6.50. Fumbled for the receiver. Put it to his ear and managed some sort of noise to show he was awake.
“Hopgood here,” came the words from the other end. “Sorry to ring so early, prime minister, but I thought you should know. Give you a chance to formulate some words. I’m afraid the Labour leader Gerry Farthing has just died.”
“Good God! How? When?”
“Not sure of the details. Only just been woken with the news myself.”
Damian was finding the Cabinet Secretary’s eunuch-like voice disconcerting. Probably sang counter tenor in the local choir. Had he been emasculated at school? Did he have a wife?
With an effort he forced himself to attend to the matter in hand. Which was poor old Gerry.
“Farthing seemed fit and well on Monday. Big day with his Electoral Reform Bill. Most cheerful.”
“He was in his early seventies, so perhaps a heart attack,” suggested Hopgood. “Or a flu victim. No doubt we shall find out in due course. It occurred too late for the morning papers, but Breakfast TV and the radio will be full of it. So expect a call soon from the media.”
“I will, Sir Justin. And thank you for warning me.”
“Gerry gone?” Chloe was sitting up in bed rubbing her eyes, hair all over the place.
It was a scene Damian would normally have found exciting, but death dampens the ardour, so he just nodded, got himself vertical and headed for the bathroom, saying: “I’d better shave before the world wakes up. Could you see what TV has to say. And field any phone calls.”
Ten minutes later he joined a dressing-gowned Chloe in front of the screen. On the table a mug of tea and bowl of fruit.
The news presenters were in full flow, so Chloe pressed the mute while she brought Damian up to date:
“Sounds like flu. He took to his bed on Tuesday. By Thursday the infection had gone to his chest. And he died this morning just after five. Frighteningly fast.”
“They say this flu strain can do that.” Damian started peeling a banana and continued: “But what a way to go! Gunned down in his moment of glory, finally victorious with Electoral Reform. Almost Nelsonian.”
Chloe: “One way of looking at it, I suppose.”
“After Trafalgar, Horatio Nelson was pickled in a cask of brandy, sent back to Blighty, buried in St.Pauls’s cathedral and then put on London’s highest pedestal,” continued Damian. “Don’t suppose they’ll go that far with Gerry, but he’s certainly timed his exit to perfection. After last Monday anything else he might have done would have been an anti climax.”
Chloe gave a shiver. “Listening to Marcus rattling off his statistics was…well, just lots of figures. But Gerry is personal. Makes you realise anyone may be the next. You… me…..”
“Gerry was getting on a bit,” said Damian, trying to find words of comfort he didn’t really feel.
“Marcus said this flu bug can hit anyone. At any age.”
Before they could talk themselves into a deeper pit of depression the phone rang. Damian was expecting someone from the media, but
it was Home Secretary Bessie Robotham. After some perfunctory words of regret for Gerry Farthing and an apology for disturbing him so early, she came straight to the point:
“We’re starting to have serious problems with bodies.”
“What sort of bodies?”
“Dead ones. They’re piling up. Waiting times at most crematoria are now over two weeks. Facilities inadequate.”
“What do funeral directors say?”
“That’s why I’m ringing. I’ve had their Association’s Director on my back. A Mr. Douglas Withy. Says his members have a reputation for excellence, which is being put sat risk by bottlenecks in the system. Says no one is listening to him, so he must talk to you.”
“You mean the crematoria can’t burn people fast enough?”
“Something like that. No doubt he’ll have the full story when you see him. As I hope you will.”
“Of course. Fix a time this afternoon and ring me back.”
Damian and Chloe returned to their breakfast in the hope that the day might improve. If anything it got worse.
The morning was dominated by Gerry Farthing, all the usual eulogies when someone well known departs. But the subplot was the growing realisation that if the Labour leader had been struck down, it could happen to anyone. It could happen to you.
Most people have a defence mechanism against danger. Troops going into battle tell themselves it can’t happen to them; it’ll always be the other guy, even though logic says everyone will be equally exposed. If danger becomes especially acute, some may go to the other extreme of resigned acceptance: nothing they can do, so what the hell, a short life but a merry one.
In the absence of any defence mechanism, things could turn ugly. With panic. By afternoon Britain’s mood was looking increasingly jittery. Damian’s ‘fireside chat’ had been designed to calm things and had seemed to work. For a while. Now he was less sure.
At 3.45 Chloe told him Douglas Withy had arrived. An offer of a cup of tea had already been accepted, so Damian suggested the informal anteroom, which had a small table and some easy chairs.
In his mind’s eye he had Withy down as large, solid and imposing, dressed in funereal black – maybe arriving in a carriage drawn by four black horses crowned with plumed feathers, Pompes Funèbres, French fashion. His guest turned out to be disappointingly normal, mid fifties in age, about the same height as Damian, with a plentiful head of dark hair parted down the middle. He was dressed in a smart grey suit, striped shirt, and a mottled brownish tie, that could have been a stage prop for the snake in the Sherlock Holmes story of the Speckled Band.
“I believe you have a problem,” began Damian, as they sat down.
“No, Prime Minister. You are the one with the problem.” The voice had a touch of north country. Geordie perhaps.
“A blockage in the works?”
Withy nodded. “I represent our Association, the NAFD, the nation’s funeral directors. As you may imagine, the current situation is rather hectic. And distressing. When grandma or grandad goes, it’s a time for grateful contemplation. A celebration of life. Often gets quite jolly. But we’re now seeing all too many people cut off in their prime. A lot of children. That means real grief. We are professionals and can normally handle our emotions, but we’re being stretched to the limit. Overtime has become the rule rather than the exception and our members are becoming exhausted. The quality of our product is having to be reduced and corners cut. Which lowers morale even further.”
“What do you expect me to do?”
“I expect you to get things moving, prime minister. We can’t go on like this. We are coping – with difficulty, I’ll admit, but coping. But the end users – the buriel grounds and crematoria are not. They are still trying to keep gentlemen’s hours; kick off at ten thirty, forty five minutes per service, then knock off in late afternoon. While this emergency lasts we need a conveyor belt operation, twenty four seven, religious services limited to ten minutes.”
“Is that possible?”
“Of course. A full religious ceremony could be held anywhere, so reducing the crematorium part to the bare minimum would be no hardship. Fortunately, we have one of the world’s highest rates of cremation, around seventy five percent of all deaths, so making use of this to its full capacity should solve the problem. Although there’s little we can do about the burn time of about ninety minutes, at present there’s little or no night work, and many crematoria have excess capacity they rarely use.”
“But like you, they would have manpower problems,” Damian pointed out. “They may be able to run the machinery day and night, but the operators will need some rest.”
“Use the army,” said Withy. “Your own solution, as I recall. The crematoria professionals would be around to train and supervise, but the extra hands could come from the armed forces.”
“Wonder if burying the dead is included in the Sandhurst curriculum,” mused Damian.
Withy cracked a half smile. “Bound to be. If you’re in the business of killing, they must surely include a few lessons on how to clear up the results.”
Hit by a sudden brainwave, Damian exclaimed: “This is just the job for Adam!”
“Adam….?”
“Tichbold.”
“The ten minute premier? Fellow you took over from?”
Damian nodded. “My Minister without Portfolio. Well, now he has one. A portfolio. Minister for burning people more rapidly. I wanted to call him my Minister for Speed.”
“So a fast worker?”
“Impatient, certainly. By his wife’s admission. Fast? We’ll see. I’ll put him to the test.”
“When can he get going?”
“Yesterday, I hope. Haven’t been in touch for a couple of days, but I’ll do so soon as you’re gone. You should hear from Adam shortly.”
The Director of the National Association of Funeral Directors rose to his feet: “So I’ll liaise with the Minister for…..?”
“Crematoria and cemeteries…..?” Damian thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Better be boring and stick to Minister without Portfolio.”
Mr. Douglas Withy nodded: “A wise decision Prime Minister.”
42
Inexplicably, Damian felt more cheerful after his joust with Britain’s head dealer in death. Perhaps it was that a decision had been taken. Hopefully progress had been made. Or it might have been that death had again been reduced to talking about numbers. Gerry Farthing was personal, therefore unsettling. Best try and shove him somewhere down in the subconscious. Concentrate instead on the numbers.
Who better to play the numbers game with than their bug man, Sir Marcus Merton. They had only met in person once, Sir Marcus being too busy with his microscopes and Petri dishes up in Cambridge, but Damian had kept in touch by phone to check on the plague’s progress.
Their conversations had always been stimulating. Even uplifting. Sir Marcus, in that lilting Welsh voice of his, was like a kid with a new toy. A froth of enthusiasm. And no wonder. How many scientists are granted a real live example of their speciality on their own doorstep? This was Britain’s worst epidemic in over a century and Sir Marcus was in his seventh heaven.
Damian had to wait five minutes before the scientist came to the phone, Britain’s prime minister having to play second fiddle to a bunch of test tubes. A sensible order of precedence.
“Can you tell me the latest?” Damian asked, when there was finally signs of life from the other end.
“Trend still upwards,” came the reply. “Can hardly expect anything else if nineteen eighteen is anything to go by. But there are also fascinating differences. People this time seem to be dying rather faster.”
Sir Marcus sounded so enthusiastic that Damian was tempted to exclaim ‘Jolly good show’. Instead, he asked: “Any reason for this?”
“Too early to say. But it’s a virulent little beast.”
“Any chance of getting more antibiotics? Or other medication?”
“Not really my field.
You’ll have to ask the NHS. But with the numbers I’m seeing, I suspect it’ll be a Mother Hubbard situation.”
“Cupboard bare?”
“If not bare, certainly looking sorry for itself. Anyway, many antibiotics are now of doubtful efficacy. Weakened by excessive use. Some hardly worth spending money on.”
“So we’re back to our primitive defences, the human immune system?”
“Yes and no. Sometimes our immune system over-reacts and is itself the problem. They reckon that’s why so many young and healthy people died in nineteen eighteen. They suffered from a surfeit of health.”
“So whether we live or die is a lottery?”
“That’s how it may appear. But every epidemic has a pattern, a reason, if only we can unlock it. That’s what makes this puzzle so absorbing. Solving the conundrum.”
“Any nearer to solving where it came from?”
“Let’s say that the Daily Mail was not wrong when it headlined Africa. That continent is in such a dire state you hardly notice the odd epidemic. We wake up if it starts spewing ebola, but other diseases like malaria, dysentery, sleeping sickness, general malnourishment are so pervasive that the odd flu epidemic makes little impact.”
“A few million of them then head for Europe in makeshift boats, bringing these presents with them,” said Damian.
“Exactly. They say the severity of the Spanish flu was due to population movements at the end of the Great War. Today everyone seems to be on the move. Take the Haj, for instance. Every year two million people from around the Islamic world meeting up in Mecca to exchange diseases. They then return home to hand them on to friends and family. ISIL terrorists may make the headlines, but I bet they kill fewer people than the virus-bearers of the Haj.”
NIGHT WATCHMAN Page 15
