A Very British Coup

by Chris Mullin

  Alford had never lost touch with the secret world. Soon after obtaining his commission in the Guards he was seconded to Military Intelligence. He did a spell in Ireland, mainly desk work evaluating reports from agents in the field. The Ireland tour ended abruptly when two of his agents were assassinated by the IRA.

  There followed a year in Hereford teaching political theory to SAS recruits until one May morning in the early Eighties he was summoned to Curzon Street and asked how he felt about leaving the army for a career in Civvy Street. “As what?” he had asked. “Television,” they said. “Job coming up at the Beeb. Nothing very taxing. Just want you to keep the airwaves clean for us.” There followed a crash course in journalism at a polytechnic in Harlow and six months in the Ministry of Defence Information Department until the BBC advertised for a Defence Correspondent. Alford was told to apply and was boarded for an interview. “A formality,” said Curzon Street. Sure enough, Alford was appointed. Now, still only in his late thirties, he was Editor News and Current Affairs, and responsible for every syllable the BBC addressed to its subjects on the state of the nation and much else besides.

  “Gentlemen, if I could have your attention?” Fison was tapping a wine glass with the blunt side of his fish knife. They were seated around a polished oblong table which fitted together in three sections. Including Fison, there were a dozen of them. The maid had withdrawn, leaving them alone with the port and the cheeseboard. “You all know why I invited you here,” said Fison. “We’ve got to decide what we’re going to do about this damn government.”

  The cheeseboard reached Fison and he lopped off a generous portion of Stilton. “In the coming months,” he continued, “things are going to get pretty rough. Perkins has already made it clear that he intends to evict the American bases, and that will destroy the Atlantic alliance and play straight into the hands of the Russians.”

  There was a “Hear, hear,” from Lord Lipton swathed in cigar smoke halfway down the table. The Lipton Corporation’s holding included over one hundred provincial newspapers, a merchant bank, a chain of wine merchants and four oil tankers.

  “Withdrawal from the Common Market,” Fison went on, “will be the end of Britain as a trading nation.” He paused for a sip of port. “There is even talk of a plan to dispossess the owners of our national newspapers which would be the end of the free press we all cherish.” Fison was playing on home ground here. There was a sustained outbreak of “Hear, hears”.

  He cut himself a sliver of Stilton and munched as he spoke, “What we are engaged upon is a battle for survival. No holds barred. We have to recognise that in the task that lies ahead of us old-fashioned concepts like free speech and democracy might have to be suspended.” The editor of The Times shuffled his feet. What Fison was saying might be a necessary expedient, but did it have to be stated quite so boldly? Fison’s voice rose as he reached his climax. “This government has to be brought down. Those of us who control public opinion have a special part to play in bringing the nation back to its senses.”

  Amid the cheese, the cigars and the port there followed a discussion of what was to be done. Lord Lipton took the hardest line. He said the armed forces must resist withdrawal from NATO but did not specify what form the resistance should take. The editor of The Times advised caution. He was sure that once Perkins had taken stock of what he called “the hard realities”, he would do a U-turn. Everyone agreed that Newsome’s downfall had been an unexpected bonus and Fison was indiscreet enough to hint that DI5 might have had a hand in the affair. It was at this point that Alford came in. “What we have to do,” said Alford, “is to drive a wedge between the government and its support in the country. In that sense this dispute with the power workers is a god-send. We have to back the power workers and lay the blame for this dispute squarely on the government.”

  This was too much for Lord Lipton. “Since when have we ever backed strikers?” he interrupted.

  “Poland,” interjected someone at the end of the table.

  “Quite different,” snapped Lipton.

  “On the contrary,” said Alford. “The analogy with Poland is very helpful to us. We backed the Polish strikers because they were striking against a Communist government. It didn’t matter that some of their demands were ridiculous. The point was they were attacking Communism.” He stressed this point with a wave of his finger. “Since Perkins and his government are Communists for all practical purposes, it follows that we should be backing the power workers and anyone else who cares to strike against the government.”

  It was generally agreed that Alford had a point. Stories about old ladies dying of hypothermia and denunciations of the strikers for greed and heartlessness would have to be played down. Instead every effort would be made to present the power workers’ case as a good one. Emphasis would be placed on the importance of the service they provided and how undervalued their services were. If the power workers extracted a decent settlement, that might spark off a rash of extravagant wage claims which would bring the government into conflict with its trade union base. It was quite the opposite of the line newspapers normally took on wage claims but then, as Fison drily remarked, “A little inflation is a small price to pay for bringing down a government of extremists.”

  It was after midnight when the party broke up. This was only a beginning, Fison said as they departed. The removal of Perkins and his government was in the national interest. Since between them, they controlled access to just about all the information in the country, they would play a vital rôle. In view of what was at stake they could not afford to be too scrupulous. It was, he said, the end that mattered, not the means.

  As January turned into February the snow had turned to sleet. The demand for electricity remained constant, but the supply declined. One by one the great power station boilers clogged with clinker and generators went out of service. By now every major city was without electricity for at least two hours a day. Where possible the Electricity Board tried to give notice by publishing a roster of areas to be hit, but with the amount of electricity in the national grid declining hourly notice was not always possible.

  The House of Commons debated the crisis in a Chamber lit by paraffin lamps. The opposition wanted to know why Perkins hadn’t declared a state of emergency? Why weren’t troops being used to run the power stations? Did he have any figures for the number of old people who had died of cold? How much production was being lost? What steps was he taking to settle the dispute? Perkins was less than impressive. He fumbled his lines. He contradicted himself. On the possibility of a settlement he was evasive.

  In truth there was absolutely no sign of a settlement. Reg Smith wasn’t budging at all. He had refused arbitration and rejected the good offices of the TUC General Secretary. He had not even scheduled a meeting of his union’s executive to discuss terms for negotiation.

  The newspapers carried stories of residents in high-rise flats marooned by the failure of power to the lifts. In Coventry a thirteen-year-old girl was killed in an accident at traffic lights which were not working during a power-cut. In Glasgow a man on a kidney machine had to be rushed to hospital when the power failed without warning. The Volkswagen plant at Solihull was working mornings only.

  By the end of the second week public opinion was turning ugly. Bricks were being thrown through electricity board showroom windows. A farmer who had lost one thousand baby chickens when his incubators were cut off, drove into Whitehall and dumped the corpses at the end of Downing Street. Perkins had to abandon his daily practice of arriving at Downing Street by bus after a passenger tried to assault him and was only prevented by the speedy intervention of Inspector Page.

  The Civil Contingencies Committee, CYI as it was known in Whitehall jargon, met in the Cabinet office every morning at ten o’clock. The Secretaries of State for the Home Office, Energy and Defence were present, together with their permanent secretaries and the army Chief of Staff, General Sir Charles Payne. Even Perkins created a precedent by attending.
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br />   From day one the permanent secretaries and Sir Charles were pressing for a state of emergency. The permanent secretary at the Home Office, Sir Oliver Creighton, appeared one morning waving a draft Order in Council which he proceeded to try and sell to the committee like a salesman promoting some cure-all wonder drug. “Valid for seven days without the approval of Parliament,” enthused Sir Oliver. “His Majesty’s signature is all that’s necessary.”

  “Then what?” asked Perkins, his voice betraying a hint of sarcasm.

  “Then you simply order the power men to work normally,” said Sir Oliver cheerfully.

  “And if they refuse?”

  “Arrest them.” It was Sir Charles’ first contribution to the discussion. A small, dapper man with square shoulders and a trim moustache, he had been in the army thirty years and only ever seen action in Northern Ireland. In the absence of a Russian invasion this was his last chance before retirement.

  “All twenty-two thousand of them?” said Perkins, raising an eyebrow.

  “If necessary, sir,” said Sir Charles, who did not appear to realise he was not being taken seriously. “We have the capacity. A string of camps up and down the country for just such an emergency. All in working order. Even some vacancies in the Salisbury Plain camps since the Trots were released.”

  Sir Oliver Creighton’s face had assumed a pained expression, as though a secret had been let out of the bag. “I think Sir Charles is referring to our civil defence preparations which, if you’ll forgive my saying so, are not relevant here,” he said soothingly. Sir Charles was just about to protest that, on the contrary, he was referring to the plans for dealing with strikers drawn up by the previous government but never implemented, when he was silenced by an icy stare from Sir Oliver. The Prime Minister said nothing, but made a mental note to enquire further when the crisis was over.

  “I don’t understand,” said Perkins to Fred Thompson over a late-night whisky in the Prime Minister’s study. Spread out on the desk before them were the first editions of tomorrow’s newspapers. “ACTION NOW” demanded the Sun in a frontpage headline two inches high. The editorial below began, “How many more old-age pensioners have to die of cold before Prime Minister Perkins climbs down off his high horse and starts talking to the power men?”

  Perkins read the sentence aloud and then tossed the paper back on to the desk. “I don’t understand,” he repeated miserably. “Last time the power workers came out the Sun was practically demanding they be boiled in oil and Reg Smith was described as public enemy number one. This time they treat him like a bloody hero.” He turned to the centre pages of the Daily Mail which carried a sympathetic profile of Smith. It was headed “The Reluctant Militant” and showed a picture of the United Power Workers’ general secretary with his family. “No one regrets this more than I,” Smith was quoted as saying, “but the government just won’t listen to reason” Perkins read it aloud.

  “Hypocrite,” said Thompson who was leafing through The Times. “The power men have a case” was the heading over the main leading article. For a full minute there was silence, broken only by the rustling of newspapers. It was nearly midnight and the silence pervaded the whole building. The private office was in darkness. The lady on the switchboard was halfway through a crossword. The policeman on duty in the entrance lobby was lightly dozing.

  At length Perkins spoke again, “It can’t go on like this, Fred. Sooner or later something’s got to give.” He was leaning back in his chair his head resting on the high back, the whisky glass cradled in his right hand. Thompson was perched on the edge of the desk. “The civil service are pushing for the use of troops. I’m coming under pressure in Cabinet. Even Jim Evans seems to be weakening. A week ago, I’d never have believed it, but now …” his voice trailed off. A police car raced up the Mall, its sirens wailing.

  “For Christ’s sake, Harry,” said Thompson harshly, “if you send troops into the power stations, we’ll find ourselves at war with the whole movement. The miners will black the coal. The supervisors will come out in sympathy, and we’ll turn Reg Smith into a national hero.”

  Perkins did not reply. He knew that Thompson was right. He put the half empty glass on the desk and ran his hands over his aching eyes. He was dog tired. Since the dispute began he had averaged less than five hours’ sleep a night. He no longer went home to Kennington, but slept in the flat in Downing Street. Another victory for Tweed and the private office. Since the day Perkins arrived in Downing Street Tweed had been taking bets on how long it would be before Perkins stopped catching buses and living at home and started behaving like a Prime Minister. It had taken just nine months.

  Thompson took a last swig of whisky and said he must be off. He left behind a pile of letters to be signed. There was no need for the Prime Minister to sign any letters but Perkins had always insisted on the personal touch. As with riding buses and living in Kennington, he was finding it harder than ever to deal with letters personally. Tweed and the private office had been against the idea from the start. Prime Ministers have more important things to do, they argued. Perkins, however, was determined not to allow Tweed to chalk up another small victory. With a sigh he took the bundle of letters, each with an addressed envelope embossed with the Downing Street seal, and signed the top one in blue felt pen. It was to a Labour Party member in Glasgow who was advising him to stand firm against the power workers. The writer had said a number of uncomplimentary things about Reg Smith, even going so far as to suggest he was in the pay of the CIA. Thompson had drafted a tactful reply. Since the man had addressed Perkins as “Dear Harry” (so many Party members seemed to consider themselves on first name terms with the Prime Minister) Perkins signed himself “Harry” in clear blue letters. That would make someone’s day in Glasgow.

  In the distance Big Ben struck midnight. No other sound reached the Prime Minister in his study. Downstairs in the hall the policeman was still dozing, disturbed only by the occasional patter of an unattended telex machine somewhere on the ground floor. The telephonist had abandoned her crossword and was also dozing. Only one dim light lit the main staircase. The brighter light from inside the study showed clearly the crack between the door and the carpet.

  After twenty minutes Perkins put down his pen; pushed away the bundle of letters with both arms outstretched and sunk back in the deep, comfortable chair. On the desk, by a tea mug full of old pens was a small framed portrait of an elderly woman, her face lit by a wide smile not unlike that for which Perkins was famous. She had the same full cheeks, the same wrinkles around the eyes. It had been ten years now since Perkins’ mother had died. How chuffed she would have been to see her Harry in Downing Street. She wouldn’t have stood any nonsense from those stuffed shirts on the Civil Contingencies Committee. She would have told them what they could do with their state of emergency.

  He put the cap on his pen and returned it to an inside pocket. As he did so his eye caught the front of the Daily Mirror. It was dominated by a picture of Number Ten, taken at night with all lights blazing. The caption beneath explained that, unlike most houses, the Prime Minister’s residence had a generator of its own and he was not inconvenienced by the electricity cuts. The headline above read, “ALL RIGHT FOR SOME PEOPLE.”

  As the work-to-rule entered its third week the snow stopped, the slush melted into puddles reflecting a clear blue sky. By now the electricity in the grid was down to half the normal supply. At the Streatham Switching Centre Wally Bates was on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Most factories were working only twenty hours a week. A huge balance of payments deficit was forecast for the end of the month. Television was reduced to a single channel, but that had not stopped the BBC from carrying a sympathetic profile of Reg Smith and a documentary setting out the power workers’ case in terms which were broadly favourable. There were some isolated acts of public vengeance. Some power workers in Yorkshire had had the tyres of their cars slashed. A doctor in Manchester refused to treat power workers. By and large, however, the media wa
s remarkably successful in laying responsibility for the dispute at the door of the government. Perkins’ opinion poll rating dropped to an all-time low.

  But Reg Smith knew he had to settle. As the days passed it became clear that many power workers did not have their hearts in the dispute. Many were saying openly that the claim was too high. The head office on the Euston Road received an increasing number of letters from members urging a settlement. Surprisingly, or so it seemed to many people, the newspapers did not highlight the opinions of the men in the power stations. An opinion poll commissioned by Sir George Fison’s main daily newspaper had found that over eighty per cent of power station workers were prepared to settle. It was quietly suppressed on direct orders from the proprietor.

  Smith knew he couldn’t carry the normally docile members of the executive indefinitely. There had been rumblings at the last meeting. Even Tommy Walker, the ultra-loyalist from the North-East, had said he couldn’t keep his members under control much longer. So, the day before the regular executive meeting Smith picked up the phone in his sixteenth-floor office and ordered his secretary to dial Congress House. “Reg here,” he said gruffly when the TUC General Secretary came on the line. “We’re ready to talk.”

  The talks took place by candlelight at the Department of Employment in St James’s Square. The government had authorised the Electricity Council to go all out for a settlement. Smith took them to the limit, double the original offer. The newspapers hailed the result as a triumph for Smith and humiliation for the government. An opinion poll published on the morning of the settlement showed that an instant general election would result in a Tory victory. Reg Smith was not a Tory, but he could not suppress a secret smile.

  13

  Half a dozen senior ministers and their permanent secretaries attended the defence conference at Chequers. The Chiefs of Staff were also present together with sundry colonels, group captains and lieutenant commanders. All weekend military men in civilian clothes were to be seen bustling up and down the stairs between the Hawtrey Room and the Great Parlour, bearing huge rolled-up maps depicting the Soviet threat. Outside on the gravel forecourt gleaming black Mercedes were drawn up in a neat semi-circle. Government chauffeurs in green uniform and matching caps stood gossiping and smoking in clusters. Others reclined in the back seats of their cars with noses buried in the sports pages.