A Very British Coup

by Chris Mullin

  Fison said he would see what could be done.

  18

  Indeed Perkins had not been feeling well for months. The colour had drained from his cheeks. The optimism had gone from his eyes. He smiled less often now and when he did his smile looked artificial. Thompson had been advising him for months to take it easy, but the advice went unheeded. Everyone in Downing Street was talking about how worn he looked. The garden girls, the policemen on the door, the housekeeper, even Tweed and the civil servants in the private office.

  There was a time when he had ignored what the newspapers said about him, but nowadays he seemed obsessed by them. Every night when the first editions arrived he would spend an hour poring over them, sometimes by himself, sometimes with Thompson. “Lying bastards,” he would shout as he read the editorials, particularly those in the Express or the Mail.

  “Take it easy, Harry,” Thompson would say.

  But Perkins did not take it easy. As the attacks in the media mounted, he became bitter and short tempered. It showed in his performance on the floor of the House. The Tories could see when he was riled and jibed him mercilessly.

  For some weeks now, ever since the Chequers conference, there had been reports of a plot against him in the Parliamentary Party. There was talk in the tea rooms of a substantial revolt over the proposed cuts in the defence budget. Up to one hundred MPs were, it was said, prepared to abstain or vote with the Tories. There was even talk of the Parliamentary Party choosing a leader of its own. A small group of MPs around Wainwright were said to be behind the rebellion. Relations between the Prime Minister and the Chancellor had sunk to an all-time low.

  The accident at Windermere had shaken Perkins. Though he maintained a studied silence in public, in private he held himself responsible. “If only I had listened,” he said to Thompson. There was nothing anyone could do to convince him it was not his fault. At one stage he was talking about resigning and it was all that Thompson, Jock Steeples and Mrs Cook could do to talk him out of it. From the wall of his room in the House of Commons he took down the framed letter from Sir Richard Fry: You were right. We were wrong, it said. Perkins wondered what Fry was saying now.

  On top of everything else, there was the growing crisis in relations with the United States. The US ambassador had been to Downing Street with a list of impossible demands for compensation and assurances before his government would even consider withdrawing the bases. Indeed American leaders were now saying openly that they had no intention of going, but would sit it out until the next election. And the way things were going Perkins was unlikely to survive the next election. The opinion polls were showing a substantial Tory lead and the last two by-elections had seen Labour seats fall to the Tories.

  By the time the newspapers began carrying a spate of reports about his health, it no longer seemed like a media conspiracy, just a reflection of what people around the Prime Minister had been saying for weeks.

  Whatever the state of Perkins’ health, it was not improved by a memorandum from Sir Philip Norton, the Coordinator of Intelligence in the Cabinet Office, requesting an appointment for himself and Sir Peregrine Craddock to discuss a security matter of the utmost urgency.

  They came one Wednesday evening in July, entering through the secret door that divided Downing Street from the Cabinet Office. Tweed unlocked the door to admit them and locked it again after they had passed.

  As usual they formed a solemn little procession as they made their way along the ground floor corridor and up the main staircase to Perkins’ study. They walked in silence, one behind the other. Their footsteps fell in unison. They wore long, doleful faces which seemed to say that they had a regrettable but necessary public duty to perform. Pinky and Perky, Perkins had taken to calling them behind their backs.

  “Come in gentlemen,” said the Prime Minister as the two intelligence chiefs hesitated at the doorway of his study. And then Perkins could not resist adding, “Which of my ministers have you come to stick the knife into this time?”

  Craddock and Norton looked at each other blankly and sat down in the comfortable chairs. Perkins joined them.

  Craddock and Norton looked again at each other as though they had not decided who should speak first. Craddock clutched tightly at the thin green folder on his lap. Norton broke the ice.

  “Prime Minister,” he said quietly, “it concerns the reactor at Windermere.”

  “Oh,” said Perkins sitting bolt upright. He had not been intending to take the intelligence chiefs very seriously, but now they had his full attention.

  “I believe,” continued Norton, “that you were the minister responsible for commissioning the reactor.”

  “I was the Secretary of State, but it was a Cabinet decision,” corrected Perkins.

  “Quite so.” Norton avoided catching Perkins’ eyes.

  “Prime Minister,” Craddock was speaking now, “did you know a girl called Molly Spence?”

  Perkins gulped. Where the hell had they dug her up from? “So what if I did?” he said quickly.

  Craddock ignored his question. “And were you having an affair …” his tongue lingered over the word, “with her at the same time as you were negotiating with British Insulated over the purchase of their reactor?”

  “Now look here,” said Perkins struggling to suppress anger, “if you think there was any connection between …”

  He did not finish. Craddock cut in with another question. “And were you aware that during the whole time of her relationship with you, she was living with Michael Jarvis, the managing director of British Insulated, the man with whom you were negotiating?”

  “Impossible,” Perkins almost shouted. And then he stopped because he realised it was perfectly possible.

  “And were you further aware,” Craddock was heading for the winning post now, “that she subsequently married Jarvis and that the wedding took place only three days after she finished with you and only three weeks after British Insulated won the contracts for the reactor?”

  Craddock could not have delivered a more devastating blow if he had hit the Prime Minister square on the head with a cricket bat. Perkins fell back into the chair, his hands rested limply on the arms. The silence was broken only by the distant hum of traffic in the Mall and by the laughter of children in the park. Perkins could even hear the ticking of his watch.

  When he spoke again, he did so quietly, “Has she been trying to sell her story to the newspapers?”

  “No,” said Craddock, “but there’s always the possibility.”

  “It was just an affair,” said Perkins weakly, “just a small love affair.”

  “We know that Prime Minister,” said Craddock, “but it doesn’t look very good, does it?” As he spoke he handed Perkins the green folder that until now had rested on his lap.

  Perkins opened it. The contents were photocopies of notes he had written her. Craddock had omitted to include the copies of notes that she had written to him. There was no point in letting Perkins know his flat had been raided.

  There were no more than ten sheets of photocopy. Perkins examined each in turn. There was the inscription from The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists. He remembered how he teased her about her ignorance of working class history. There was the note that had started it all. On Department notepaper. Perkins shook his head. He must have been mad. There was the cheque. He could not even remember writing it.

  “She said it was to pay for some shopping she did for you,” explained Craddock seeing his bewilderment.

  The rest of the notes would have meant nothing to anybody but himself and Molly. Just meeting times and who was going to do the shopping. As he leafed through them it all came back to him. The Sunday lunches. The Côte du Rhône. The Handel organ concertos. The afternoons in bed. For a whole year she had been the bright spot of his life. He shook his head sadly. How could she do this to him?

  For a moment he tried to put a brave face on it. He closed the folder and returned it to Craddock. “Nothing very incriminat
ing there,” he said, trying to sound cool.

  “Except the dates, Prime Minister.”

  He shook his head. Of course, it was the dates that landed him in it. For a moment he glimpsed the headlines when the newspapers found out: P.M. IN REACTOR LOVE TANGLE or PERKINS IN WINDERMERE SCANDAL – TORIES DEMAND ENQUIRY. He shook his head again. It was going to come down very hard.

  Sir Philip Norton had apparently sensed what the Prime Minister was thinking. “There is another way,” he said.

  “Oh?” said Perkins numbly.

  “Ill health, Prime Minister. You have been looking poorly recently. Everyone’s been saying so.”

  “Go into hospital and then resign, you mean?” It was the first time anyone had used the word resign. “Who the hell is going to believe I resigned through ill health?”

  “Don’t see why not,” said Norton, “Eden got away with it after Suez.”

  “Of course there will be a fuss,” said Craddock, “but it will soon die down. People have very short memories.” And then he added almost hopefully, “We could make the necessary arrangements very quickly.”

  Perkins took a deep breath. “I’ll let you know in half an hour,” he said.

  After they had gone Perkins remained seated for five minutes exactly as they had left him. Then he got up and walked to the window. His head came just above the bullet-proof shields. He looked out over the empty garden of Number Eleven, over the wall to the park beyond. He saw children playing. He saw lovers walking hand in hand. Why had she done this to him? He shook his head again.

  Then he walked slowly to his desk and tried to raise Fred Thompson on the internal phone. There was no answer. He rang Thompson’s home number. Again no answer. Then he rang Jock Steeples’ room in the House. Then Mrs Cook’s direct line at the Home Office. Then her House of Commons number. No answer. No answer. No answer. What else did he expect at dinner time on a fine summer’s evening?

  He sat down at the desk and ran his hands over his eyes. All his instincts told him that he should never make a decision like this without seeking advice. But he was tired, very tired. Besides which, who was there to advise him? For the time being Molly Spence was a secret he shared only with DI5. If he delayed another twelve hours, he might find himself sharing Molly with the whole world.

  He was still seated at the desk, rubbing his eyes when Norton and Craddock returned. They knocked gently and entered. He looked at them, blinking.

  “Shall we go?” said Norton as though the answer was a foregone conclusion.

  “I’ll go upstairs and pack,” he said.

  “No need,” said Norton, “we’ll take care of that.”

  From the desk Perkins picked up the framed picture of his mother and slid it into the pocket of his jacket. It was only a small picture and so fitted easily. He walked to the double doors where Craddock and Norton awaited him. He turned and looked around the room in the last fading light of the summer’s evening. Then the three men stepped on to the landing. A footman outside silently drew the doors closed behind them.

  They went down the main staircase in silence. Norton in front, Craddock behind. They walked across the hall into the lobby. The policeman on duty stood up when they passed but Perkins did not acknowledge his greeting. There was no sign of Inspector Page or Sergeant Block or of any of the other Special Branch officers responsible for his security.

  Outside there were only a couple of passing tourists. They waved when they recognised him, but he did not respond. They were the only witnesses to the fall of Harry Perkins.

  A black Rover was waiting, one of the last off the production line before British Leyland had collapsed. A policeman held the door while he climbed into the back seat followed by Sir Philip. Sir Peregrine walked round the back of the car and climbed in through the rear door on the other side. That was how they sat, one on either side of him, as if they were afraid he might try and jump out at the traffic lights.

  The Rover moved out of Downing Street and turned left into Whitehall. It was not the Prime Minister’s official car and Perkins did not recognise the driver. They drove around three sides of Trafalgar Square, cutting through the lane reserved for buses and taxis. They turned left after the National Gallery and sped away towards Hampstead.

  One hour later the following statement was issued from Downing Street:

  At 2130 hours the Prime Minister was admitted to the Royal Free Hospital for medical tests. On the advice of his doctors, he will be receiving no visitors.

  The first the Prime Minister’s doctors knew of his illness was when they read about it in the newspapers next day.

  19

  Perkins remained immured on the ninth floor of the Royal Free Hospital for seven days. An entire ward had been evacuated and sealed off, the corridors patrolled by unsmiling young men who talked to each other through walkie-talkie radios and whose jackets featured a prominent bulge under the left shoulder.

  Shortly after the Prime Minister was admitted the hospital switchboard became jammed and for some hours callers heard only the engaged tone. When it was possible to get through again the operators had been instructed that no calls were being put through to the ninth floor. After failing to get through by telephone Jock Steeples drove to the hospital. He arrived a little after midnight and found Fred Thompson in the main hall. Thompson had apparently tried to get out of the lift at the ninth floor and been bundled back again by the unsmiling young men who were patrolling the corridors. The production of a Downing Street pass had made no impression.

  Steeples and Thompson made one more attempt. This time getting out of the lift at the eighth floor and making their way up the fire escape to the floor above. On arrival they found the doors locked and curtains drawn.

  The battery of pressmen who had descended on the hospital had no better luck. Some had put on white coats and posed as hospital orderlies. Others tried bribing genuine orderlies to go up and take a look. But everyone who tried to get out on the ninth floor had the same reception.

  Steeples was fuming. He demanded to speak to the hospital’s chief administrator. The man was eventually woken up at home and brought to a telephone. All he could say was that the matter was out of his hands. The ninth floor had been taken over by DI5. Next, Steeples rang the Cabinet Office and demanded Sir Philip Norton’s home number. The duty officer declined to believe that the caller was Steeples and refused to part with the number. Steeples then drove to the Cabinet Office and virtually beat the number out of the wretched man. All to no avail. Sir Philip’s telephone did not answer.

  At ten o’clock next morning Downing Street issued a further statement. It read as follows:

  The Prime Minister has been advised by his doctors that he is suffering from exhaustion and requires a long period of complete rest. He has, therefore, tendered his resignation to His Majesty the King, effective from noon today.

  Copies of a signed statement to this effect were circulated to the press. The signature was quite clearly Perkins’.

  When Steeples eventually ran Sir Philip Norton to ground and demanded to see Perkins, all he got was “Terribly sorry old boy. PM was adamant. No visitors.”

  As deputy leader of the Labour Party it naturally followed that Jock Steeples would now take over as acting Prime Minister until the autumn when the Party would elect a new leader at its annual conference. It only remained for an emergency meeting of the Labour MPs to be convened to confirm Steeples in his rôle.

  It soon became apparent, however, that events might not follow the anticipated course. A meeting of Labour MPs was called for the following Monday, but the statement convening the meeting spoke of ‘electing’ a new leader. This did not go down well with Labour Party members since it was nearly ten years since a party conference had relieved MPs of sole responsibility for choosing the Party leader.

  All weekend delegations of Labour MPs were seen going out of the Chancellor’s residence at Number Eleven Downing Street. The Sunday papers were full of speculation that Lawrence Wa
inwright would shortly announce that he was a candidate for the leadership. When the General Secretary of the Labour Party rang to ask Wainwright to confirm or deny the speculation, she found Wainwright evasive.

  Sure enough, when the MPs assembled on Monday evening Wainwright was a candidate. In the election which followed he beat Steeples by a comfortable majority. About fifty left-wingers abstained on the ground that the election was unconstitutional. The following morning an emergency meeting of the Labour Party National Executive unanimously endorsed Jock Steeples as acting leader.

  The result was an unprecedented constitutional crisis. The King found himself with a choice of two Prime Ministers, both claiming to represent the Party with a majority of seats in the House of Commons.

  The King was at Windsor when the crisis occurred. Three hours before the Parliamentary Labour Party was due to meet, a black Rover containing Sir Peregrine Craddock was admitted to the castle. He was received in a drawing room overlooking the long straight sweep of the Great Park.

  There is no record of what was said. It is known only that Sir Peregrine was closeted with the King for about twenty minutes, after which he was driven back to London. Later the same day several prominent members of the judiciary were received and still later four senior members of the Privy Council.

  The next day it was announced from Windsor Castle that His Majesty had asked Lawrence Wainwright to form a government.

  The news was received with dismay by Labour Party members throughout the country. There were a number of arrests for the daubing of anti-Royalist slogans. In Glasgow serious rioting occurred on successive nights. In London all police leave was cancelled and security was intensified in public buildings.

  The Labour National Executive applied to the High Court for an injunction, arguing that Wainwright was not the properly elected leader of the party. This was refused on the ground that it was established practice for the sovereign to choose as Prime Minister the person who commanded the confidence of a majority of members of the House of Commons. The fact that he did not command the confidence of the Labour Party was neither here nor there. The case was thrown out by the Appeal Court and the House of Lords for the same reason.