by Tom Black
Selecting Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District and ambling over to his gramophone, Powell recalled a hand-delivered letter he’d received late on Wednesday from a gentleman whose elderly mother had spent sixteen hours on the M4 during the initial URTU blockade. His response had been to send a largely formal apology for his inability to take action, as neither the gentlemen or his mother resided in South Down. When, on Thursday, the Liberals had crossed the floor to form the ‘national government’, a proprietor of a major London newspaper (Enoch could honestly not remember which one) had telephoned him and urged him to lead a rally demanding a general election. Enoch had hung up and returned to watching incredulously, along with much of the nation, at Michael Bentine’s televised attempt to bolster the ranks of Civil Assistance with a comedy routine which seemed to derive its only humour from the fact that the ‘TUC cabal’ all had regional accents and were therefore impossible to understand. When the broadcast had cut out rather abruptly, Enoch had sat in silence through the repeat of Dad’s Army which replaced it, his mouth open in a state of near-catatonic shock. It was only later that he would realise the subtly subversive nature of that particular scheduling choice by the BBC.
That same day, while Enoch was on his way home from a late meeting with Harry West and the rest of the UUP parliamentary party – they had voted to continue to participate in the ‘national government’ – two young men had paused their practice of hurling a brick at Mr Banazsec’s house when he walked past them and shouted ‘Enoch for PM!’ with a cheery wave. He’d done his best not to look at them.
Finally, there was yesterday, when Lord Mountbatten had announced Mrs Thatcher’s planned ‘emergency Queen’s speech’. Enoch had come home to find Michael Bentine himself on his doorstep, surrounded by a crowd of adoring thugs (Enoch had resisted the urge to call them ‘a Goon and his goons’). They were all wearing that blasted fascist-looking symbol on their arms and imploring him to step in ‘during the proceedings’. What the hell were they suggesting? That he tackle Black Rod, use the Mace as some sort of club and hold Her Majesty hostage until he was handed the keys to Number 10? Enoch sighed as he remembered shooing the crowd away with his umbrella. He’d considered asking for some kind of police protection, but given that braver men than he were standing up against the thugs paralysing the country, he couldn’t bring himself to waste the constabulary’s time. With a sigh and a gentle push of the volume slider – he had no wish to wake Pamela – he walked over to his bay window and peered out into the night. Here in Westminster, battles on picket lines normally seemed very far away. As an ambulance screamed past and Enoch recalled this morning’s incident in which a fire engine had been requisitioned by the police so that its hoses could be turned on the impromptu barricades on Waterloo Bridge, he no longer felt quite so insulated.
“You know, sir, I think this is the first time this year I’ve missed church on a Sunday,” chirped an officer of the Norfolk Constabulary.
“I think it’s the first time in a long time there’s been nobody at the Cenotaph today, too,” said Paddy Ashdown. The one-week postponement of Remembrance Sunday had sat very poorly with many, though the present civil unrest made the decision unavoidable.
Paddy had been to this part of the country a few times in his life. Once on a rambling holiday, he recalled as he stopped to tie his bootlace on a stile. This felt much the same, only with more police officers in tow. Operation Woodrow had not got off to a flying start. Wright had been growing increasingly frustrated at the failure to get any leads on Wilson, and his repeated requests for more police officers had been denied as the public situation deteriorated. With a grunt, he straightened up, tried to forget the embarrassing ‘barn-sweeps’ earlier in the week, and surveyed his motley crew.
“Right, lads,” he said in his most clipped tones, “only a few houses along this stretch of the coast. We door-knocked them all on Tuesday, but the higher-ups want a full sweep now.”
One of the constables let out an audible sigh of exasperation.
“Problem, Fipps?” Paddy asked.
“No, sir, it’s just – well, to be honest, we’ve already done everything three miles in either direction on this stretch of coast.”
“Did you do a full search of the homes? As we only got the warrant this morning, I very much doubt it. Now, get on with it,” Paddy said, before taking in the visibly pissed off faces around him. He paused and changed tack.
“I know it feels like donkey work, lads, but we’re all but certain Wilson is still in this area. Odds are he’s hiding in a house somewhere, probably without the residents knowing it. I’ll see you back at HQ – the first round is on me.”
As Paddy hiked off into the distance and mentally patted himself on the back for setting up the operation HQ in the upstairs room of a pub, the four disgruntled plods looked at each other.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“I don’t know, but I know a cracking little place down the road that does a fantastic Sunday roast.”
They all grinned at each other. One frowned.
“We should do a couple, though. Just so we’ve got something to report.”
“Fine,” the Sunday roast connoisseur replied with a groan, “we’ll look in on a couple along the way. I did the door-knocking on all those along that way myself. There’s no way anyone could hide out in them without someone finding them by now.”
With that, they wandered back down the track, making sure Ashdown had crested the hill and therefore couldn’t look back and spot them going in the wrong direction.
As they walked away, Jacob Brimley calmly closed the edge of the curtain and returned John Stonehouse’s binoculars to their owner’s shaking hands.
“Looks like we’ll be alright tonight,” he said quietly, “now, Harold, a cigar and then off to bed, I think. John, do you have any of your Cubans left?”
Chapter ten
Monday 10th November 1975 – 10:30am
When Roy Jenkins had first been asked by the NEC to assume the Labour leadership, he had truthfully insisted it was a position he had long since ceased to covet. One week later, he had been reminded of why.
Almost all of the PLP was now back in the House – some members, so helpfully placed under what the government had insisted wasn’t house arrest, had found it difficult to get back from their constituencies. Those that had returned could be broadly divided into two camps – people who looked him in the eye, and people who didn’t. He had yet to determine which group was larger.
John Stonehouse had apparently disappeared again, which had resulted in little more than exasperated guffaws from most of the new shadow cabinet. Alf Broughton had managed to return from Batley by way of a two-day hitchhike, almost killing himself in the process – Roy nodded to him with a grim smile of support as he stepped up to the despatch box. Sir Alf nodded back, still visibly upset that his return had not been quite enough to overturn the ‘Liberal-Conservative’ bare majority. Roy wet his lips.
“Mr Speaker, it is with—”
“Fix!” came a shout from his left. Roy rolled his eyes and tried to ignore the member for Bolsover. Roy would have preferred a contested election. He really would. But a drawn-out campaign was in nobody’s interest, and a majority of the NEC had come to support that view. All the same, many of the apparent anti-Roy camp seemed convinced that the whole thing had been a stitch-up, and that ‘gentlemen from the Security Services’ had been sat silently at the table at the NEC meeting in question. Had Roy been a conspiracy theorist, he would have suspected that the petering-out of Benn’s objections had been the result of Benn himself realising that an illegitimate-looking Roy would serve his and the left’s interests better than a defeated Tony Benn or Michael Foot.
But the left were not the only problem. A mention of Healey’s student membership of the Communist Party in the press had been enough to scupper his chances, while Crosland had pledged to give Roy ‘the fight of his life’, then found he had little to no support wi
thin the PLP. Callaghan, however, had needed to be talked down over a number of drinks in the Strangers’ Bar. Eventually, a slurring Jim had conceded that the road to renewed credibility could not begin with the man who sank ‘In Place Of Strife’ taking charge of the party during a general strike.
Not that what was going on could truly be called a ‘general strike’. Widespread civil disobedience, yes, but transport infrastructure had stabilised (although the railways were operating at a fraction of their usual capacity) and blacklegging had begun in earnest in some parts of the country. The simplicity of the TUC’s demand, however – an immediate general election – made it hard to negotiate piecemeal with individual unions, particularly when the ballot had been so strongly in favour. The country was falling to pieces, and now Her Majesty was on her way to save the day, apparently.
“Mr Speaker,” Roy began again, “before we are called to the Other Place to hear what this government plans to do the rectify the collapsing state of the nation—”
“Elections now, for the party and for Britain! No pasarán!” shouted Dennis Skinner.
As the House descended into uproar, Jenkins closed his eyes and prayed that the Queen’s Speech would be enough to make Britain collectively take a deep breath.
The bells of UCL’s Catholic Church struggled to make themselves heard over the non-Ecclesiastical rabble that had congregated on three sides of the University of London Union. Peter Mandelson found himself crammed towards the back of the rally – with a handful of fellow NOLS latecomers – trying his best to make out whatever Charles Clarke was limply pontificating about. He cupped his ear, hoping that the President of the NUS had not decided to just repeat the speech from Saturday’s march. It had hardly been inspiring stuff – and after two days of camping out in Russell Square with nothing more wholesome to eat than a thermos flask of rapidly congealing soup, Mandelson was hoping that only one more push was going to be required to ensure the return of the democratically elected government. He sniffed at the oddly Sommeic nature of the turn of phrase, hoping that nothing more would have to be said on the matter.
He looked around as Clarke was nudged over the starting line with a half-hearted cheer from the throng. The NOLS lot had congregated around him, their vast “SOLIDARITY WITH THE STRIKE” banner blending anonymously into the mass of red and black flags. Peter noted there were considerably more hammers and sickles around than had been the case on Saturday – he gave a worried grimace as a cluster of Manchester Trotskyites marched past, one of whom was leading a chorus of “Che! Che! Che!” to the annoyance of some of the KCL Maoists and the bafflement of seemingly everyone else. Someone ran past, brandishing a flare, prompting the rally to march, like a bloated angry behemoth, vaguely in the direction of Parliament. Peter, after a moment’s hesitation, put one foot in front of the other.
“Mr President,” Margaret was saying, “this is a complex consideration that I cannot give my full attention to now – the Queen’s Speech begins in under an hour—”
“I appreciate your concerns, Mrs Thatcher,” the President replied, “but I am calling to offer my assistance.”
Thatcher felt like throwing the telephone at the wall. Instead, she began furiously twiddling her pearls.
“Of course, but I do not feel there is anything to discuss beyond an assurance that your proposal is completely unnecessary. Britain is well served by our own police and security services. Indeed, the armed forces have not been deployed outside our most high-profile areas.”
“Madam Prime Minister,” Ford mumbled, butchering Bagehot as his predecessors had done before him, “I have a duty to the members of the United States armed forces, and I will honour that duty.”
“Mr President,” the Prime Minister protested, “with respect, this is an overreaction. Our armies still stand side by side in Germany—”
“Indeed, ma’am, and there is nothing but respect in my heart for the British Army,” said Ford, entirely truthfully, “but the problem here is not one of military co-operation. I am offering you a blank cheque. The United States will send as many forces as you require to restore order. In the absence of a specific request, my commanders will make their own recommendations to me. I will send whatever is needed.”
“This sounds awfully similar to ‘just sending advisors’, Mr President.”
There was a long silence as Margaret realised she had touched a nerve. Probably one that was still too raw. Eventually, the President spoke.
“Mrs Thatcher, you have until noon tomorrow to show that your country can maintain the rule of law. Otherwise, I will take immediate steps to bolster our security presence in your country.”
Thatcher hung up in disgust, looking up at the clock just in time to see she had only a few minutes to make it to the Commons to await Black Rod’s arrival. With a grunt, she reached for her handbag.
Sir John Hunt was beginning to think he was out of his depth. To his surprise, this was the first time he had entertained such thoughts. Since Wilson’s flight, he had been running on a sort of auto-pilot, aided by lack of sleep, his colleagues, and the ever-helpful Sir Michael Hanley. But once Mrs Thatcher had taken charge, some semblance of normality had returned to Downing Street, and to Sir John’s duties.
But now that illusion – which, of course, it had been – was shattered. There was nothing normal about riots in four major cities. There was nothing normal about a stalled police manhunt for a former PM. And there was nothing remotely normal about a pencil-moustached Lieutenant Colonel visiting Sir John in full dress uniform and asking that he take into account a number of ‘concerns’. The subtext was obvious, if terrifying, and Sir John had been in stunned silence for the last five minutes.
“Whose command are you under?” Sir John said suddenly, interrupting the officer as he listed a series of ‘security failures’ which had allowed ‘the situation to deteriorate only further in the last week’.
“I’m afraid I can’t say. Now, if I could turn to public order—”
“I could find out.”
The Lieutenant Colonel paused.
“I am sure you could.”
“It’s not Sir Walter Walker, is it?”
“That isn’t funny.”
“I’m sorry,” Sir John lied.
“Regardless, you should know that I speak not just for my men and superiors. Our concerns are widely-held.”
“And you should know – indeed, must know – how irregular this is.”
“We live in irregular times.”
“I will keep your concerns in mind. I’m afraid I cannot, for obvious reasons, promise that they will be raised directly with the Prime Min—”
“We do not ask for promises. Simply an understanding that the country has been through enough, and if the government does not display clear leadership very soon, steps may be taken. I trust you remember Heathrow last year.”
The Cabinet Secretary did indeed remember the Army launching an unscheduled takeover of Britain’s most important transport hub and calling it a ‘training exercise’. And given that the Army had declined to mention the affair to Her Majesty’s Government in advance, he had a pretty good idea what the Lieutenant Colonel was getting at.
It was a terribly English coup. A daylight visit to a senior civil servant, a polite word in the right ear, nothing more. It wasn’t as if tanks were on the streets. But a coup it was nonetheless, and Sir John felt sick to his stomach as he tried to work out what to do next.
“I am sure the Emergency Queen’s Speech will rally both the government and the people,” he finally said.
“I very much hope so,” the man in green replied, before turning on his heel and marching – literally – out of the room. Sir John got halfway to the drinks cabinet before realising the sun was nowhere near the yardarm, then stood helpless in the middle of the floor. So Mrs Thatcher had apparently lost the confidence of at least one section of the Army. Furious that they had allowed Wilson to try their patience without ever doing anything about him, it a
ppeared they were now in the mood to overcompensate. Sir John slumped back into his chair and realised only one thing was now certain: today, all eyes would be on Her Majesty.
With a mighty cheer, the National Union of Students finished the triumphal occupation of Trafalgar Square. Peter stamped his feet and wondered how bourgeois it would be to pop into the National Gallery’s café. He’d lost Mike and Ian when the LSE lot had come bounding down the Aldwych, having apparently forgotten what the point of an occupation was. He gave a cry and he was simultaneously elbowed in the ribs and stamped on the foot – looking around, he realised that there was no way that everyone was going to be able to fit around Nelson’s Column without clogging up the Strand. Again, he wondered why the police had thought it had been a sensible idea to cram twenty thousand angry students in next to a statue of Henry Havelock.
“Oi!” one of the Committee said, “there’s a way to link up with the TUC rally after all.”
Mandelson looked around, trying to find the most uncontroversial way of suggesting that they instead decamp over to the Marquess of Salisbury. Having found none, he found himself instead following the vanguard, with some trepidation, back towards Charing Cross.
Whitehall never changed. It was, Elizabeth thought, a piece of England frozen in some simpler time. It looked the same now as it had when she had travelled on it with daddy, and indeed with grandfather before him. She much preferred going down it by horse than by carriage, but she understood the need for recognisable pomp at a time like this. Those poor people in Nottingham! And Birmingham before that, and Manchester, and even that skirmish in Hackney. She sincerely hoped what she was going to read out this afternoon would resolve the situation as soon as possible – indeed, her opening remarks were something along those lines, she remembered.
