by Tom Black
Jeremy Thorpe gave a crude approximation of a smile. He had certainly had enjoyed a closer ideological relationship with Heath than he had with Wilson, but even taking into account all that had happened over the past week, he would still have preferred to have had a pint with the latter.
“Now my dear Ted,” he said, feigning jocularity, “we need not argue like this when we have a country to rebuild.”
Heath said nothing as they walked back into Member’s Lobby, waiting as the crowd of MPs in front of them jostled for position back into the Chamber. Standing next to Jeremy Thorpe did not make one a Liberal, just as returning to government did not turn Robert Maclennan into Lloyd George.
The clutch of backbenchers in front of him dissipated, allowing Heath entry into the House of Commons. Despite all his ill-tempered refusals to return to the Shadow Cabinet, it took effort not to smile as he sat on the front bench, although it still rankled to look at the gap at the despatch box.
Not as much effort as it took to look happy when Jeremy bloody Thorpe sat there, however. A Liberal leader, propping up a Conservative minority government, leading the House as it voted to let a relative of the Queen and retired Admiral run the country because nobody else seemed to have quite enough ‘gravitas’. The last thought hurt Ted more than he had expected, however much he had jumped at Mountbatten’s invitation to take over the Home Office. As more MPs filed in, Heath tried to ignore the sinking feeling that he would never again be Prime Minister.
It was one of those silences that seemed to last for several days. Jacob Brimley had little else to do in the interim other than maintain eye contact and think about the contribution that river systems had played in the economic development of Early Modern Muscovy.
“I will ask you again,” Peter Wright said to him, “is there anything about this house that would mark it out as being from the Reformation?”
Spin him a yarn, said the mischievous voice at the back of his head, he cannot have come alone.
“Well,” he said, “if you look at the timber used in the construction of the beams over here…”
Wright’s slap almost knocked him to the floor. No, said the more sensible voice at the back of his head, this probably is not going to work any longer.
Clutching his cheek, Brimley stared into the MI5 operative’s eyes. There was a certain mania within them, he noticed, a clear sense that deception would have no effect on the rest of the evening. He had done his best for Harold and for the Revolution, but there was only so much that could be done, especially as the rest of the country moved towards Fascism. Even so, the glance over towards the staircase was an involuntary one, but still had the same effect.
With deliberate slowness, Peter Wright marched towards the stone steps, grabbing an iron poker from beside the fireplace. He turned back towards Brimley, making sure that the academic re-registered the pistol that the man from MI5 held in his other hand. He shook the gun, although it was hard to tell if this was deliberate, or from a nervous combination of excitement and trepidation. Either way, it was enough for Brimley to place his hands above his head and face the wall.
Tap tap.
Working as methodically as he had always done, Peter Wright took each flagstone in turn.
Tap tap.
He had him now, that much was obvious, Wright thought to himself. He knew that he would be reprimanded for driving here himself, but it was hardly as if following him would be difficult, even for the numbskulls that ignored him for the past decade.
Tap tap.
The priest hole would make a hollow sound when it was tapped. The inevitability was excruciating.
Tap tap.
Wright looked to his side – finally registering the two pairs of shoes that had been stood by the front door – and flung the hinged seat upwards.
Four things seemed to happen very quickly to Peter Wright. First, he blinded Harold Wilson with a sudden flash of light.
Second, Peter Wright’s Cheshire Cat smile faltered slightly as he realised that Harold Wilson, experienced superspy, would have hidden his boots from sight.
Third, he was therefore able to conclude that there must in fact be three people in the house, when only two had been accounted for.
Fourth, the Member of Parliament for Walsall North swung a cricket bat at him.
John Stonehouse was not a strong man, which showed as he failed to knock Peter Wright to the ground. He had surprised himself with his speed, however, realising he’d been able to re-enter by the kitchen door and reach Wright in under ten seconds.
Harold Wilson had begun getting used to the sound of gunfire. Even so, he still found himself burying his head into the wooden box that he had substituted for a pillow, awaiting the inevitable, final blast that would signal oblivion.
After twenty seconds, finding that he was still alive, he dared to poke his head above the parapet.
Roy Jenkins exhaled, only then realising that he had been holding his breath. The vote had passed. The rebellion had been there, but it had been far smaller than he had expected, no thanks to Benn. With a gesture from the Speaker, the doors were opened – allowing for several centuries of constitutional precedent to be rent asunder in a matter of seconds.
If the Earl Mountbatten was nervous, he did not show it. With a brusque nod to the bewigged man at the other end of the room, the First Lord of the Treasury walked towards the despatch box, aware of the silence (reverential) from one side of the Chamber and the silence (disquieted) from the other.
Although it did not carry the same weight of his previous statement, even Eric Heffer and Dennis Skinner remained quiet for Mountbatten’s second address of the evening. The emergency legislation that the House had just passed had been easy enough to introduce – being as it was a brushed off copy of the Bill that had been drafted when it looked as though Lord Halifax was going to succeed Chamberlain – but even the most deferential of Conservatives would have admitted that it was unlikely that the Queen had already given the legislation Royal Assent.
“Mr Speaker,” Mountbatten said, doing all he could to retain an element of tradition, “I will be brief, knowing as I do that all Members present have been more than patient during this extraordinary day.”
He looked around, relaxing as he realised that nothing had been thrown at him.
“I shall not repeat the details of this government’s legislative programme,” he continued, “although I shall do all that I can to ensure that Her Majesty is able to return to the Hous…” he paused before correcting himself, “…return to the Other Place within the next few days in order to address all Members again.”
He looked at Selwyn Lloyd, who wearily beckoned for him to get on with it.
“As many of the Members opposite have already made clear,” he said, breaking Tony Benn’s line of sight, “I am well aware of the constitutional ambiguity of my position. As I have made clear from discussions with a number of eminent members of the legal profession, I have made it clear to Her Majesty that I will not accept the position of Prime Minister – being as it is a role that is synonymous with that of a directly elected member of this House.”
A few eyes glanced, rather unkindly, at the Foreign Secretary sat in the Peers’ Gallery. Lord Home shifted slightly uncomfortably, well aware of why.
“However, Britain must be governed,” Mountbatten said, repeating his mantra of the past week, “and I am aware that by the confidence of both Houses, as well as that of the Crown, that it is a power that is invested in me”
He cleared his throat before moving onto the crux of the speech, aware from the lolling heads of some of the veteran members of the lateness of the hour.
“I have a sense – if I may borrow a phrase – of irrevocable determination to see this country through this crisis and that to do so, I must have an air of legitimacy regarding my conduct during future statements. As a result, I have accepted the title of First Lord of the Treasury and desire to be known by no other role or office. In doing so, I wish to s
tress the transitional nature of this administration.”
He paused again, deciding that, sometimes, it was best to raise one’s voice.
“Be under no illusion, Honourable Members,” he continued at a slightly higher register, “I shall not remain in power for a moment longer than required to ensure that our nation returns to full respectability amongst our allies and rivals. We must note that our armed forces – to whom I retain the utmost respect – continue to serve us with great dignity at home and abroad. Having spoken to President Ford, Premier Brezhnev and Secretary Waldheim, I am able to assure you that the United Kingdom’s place on the Security Council remains resolute.”
From the Ulster Unionist Benches, Enoch Powell fixed him with an icy stare.
“Since I last spoke to you,” he said, ignoring the Member for South Down, “I have made it clear to members of the so-called ‘Civil Assistance’ groups that paramilitary actions shall no more be permitted on this island as they are in Northern Ireland. There shall be positions for all those who wish to help keep our nation secure, but they must only be done within the boundaries of law and order that are permitted within our existing institutions.”
Against himself, Mountbatten imagined Michael Bentine’s face falling as he continued.
“And this government shall have no more time for the self-declared guardians of conservative reaction as it does for the harbingers of communist insurrection. Any civilians who have taken up arms in the name of preserving order are to be understood to have been acting out of naïve exuberance – but this government’s patience runs increasingly thin. The end of Civil Assistance comes with the end of the present industrial unrest,” he said to an intake of breath behind him, “as both of them are equally responsible for the erosion of our present condition.”
Probably time to sum up, he thought, as the Lord President of the Council’s head bumped against his chest.
“Together,” he concluded, coining a term that would soon be repeated on posters across the country, “Britain can endure this crisis, from which we shall emerge greatly strengthened.”
There were no cheers, but there was a grumble of approval as the First Lord of the Treasury sat down. As Roy Jenkins rose to give a brief and forgettable response, Louis Mountbatten thought that a grumble was more than enough.
It all ended very quickly in Winstanley Cottage. Although bleeding from a cut above his left eye, Peter Wright was still more than able to see John Stonehouse make a desperate feint with the bat, and had kicked him appropriately in the lower leg.
However, he was not able to notice that Harold Wilson had retrieved the discarded fire poker from the floor. Rolling to one side as he heard it whistle through the air, he gained a moment’s advantage as Wilson buried it in the floorboards and spent precious seconds heaving it out. Spotting his revolver on the other side of the room, he hurled himself towards it, tripping over on a rug but crawling hand over hand towards the weapon as he felt Wilson succeed in retrieving the poker.
Grasping the butt of the gun in his fingers, Peter rolled over onto his back and pointed it straight up at Wilson, who by now was mid-way through a leap into the air. Unable to fire before the sixty-year-old Yorkshireman landed on him with all his considerable bulk, Peter shouted as Wilson pushed his arm up above his head, keeping him from pointing the gun anywhere useful. His eyes, however, were boring into Wilson’s, hoping they conveyed one iota of the loathing which was now overflowing from him.
“You’re a bastard traitor, and everyone will know that it was me who got you. I was right!” he spat, before finding new strength and slowly pushing back against Wilson’s arms, turning the gun around.
“I was right!” he repeated, shouting now, “I was right!”
He failed to look up in time to see the staggering, limping figure of John Stonehouse drop a bust of Karl Marx directly onto his skull.
“No,” Harold muttered, “you were Wright.”
After a very long moment, during which he tried very hard and unsuccessfully to avoid vomiting, Harold Wilson got up and steadied himself on the drinks cabinet.
“Jacob, I think that you can turn around now.”
Brimley, wincing at the scene that he knew he would have to contend with, turn around. There was less blood than he had feared, although there was still enough to have seeped into the carpet runner.
“Someone else is coming,” the academic groaned as he looked out of the window, “a few of them, by the looks of it.”
Jacob turned to see Harold – impossibly – straightening his tie.
“Get your shoes on, John, it’s time we weren’t here. Jacob, you too.”
Jacob’s affection for those Yorkshire tones returned as he heard them deliver such confidence once more. With a weary smile, however, he raised a hand.
“Not me, Harold. I’m no use to you out there and, given some essays I’ve published in, ah, less enlightened moments, I doubt your superiors would want much to do with me.”
Stonehouse, now wincing as he frantically did up his shoelaces, looked up at Jacob.
“They’ll bring you in, Jake,” he said darkly, “who knows what they’ll do to you?”
Jacob turned to Stonehouse, then back to Harold, keeping eye contact with the former Prime Minister as he spoke.
“There’s no need to worry about me. I can make the necessary arrangements.”
Harold glanced out of the window one last time. The lights were getting closer.
“Damn you, Jacob,” he said with a hint of desperation.
Jacob shrugged resignedly. Harold continued.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
“An apology from you has never been worth a fig, Harold,” Jacob replied with a twinkle in his eye, despite himself, “now, I think you two had best be off.”
“He’s right,” said Stonehouse, steadying himself on the windowsill, “they’re nearly here.”
Wilson picked up his bag from the priest hole. Walking up to Jacob, he took his hand from his pocket and held it out. With a deep breath, Jacob shook it. It was not at all surprising to him that held in Harold’s palm was a small, hard capsule.
“Good luck, comrades,” he said quietly.
After one final nod from Harold and a slam of the back door that was too loud for his liking, Jacob was alone. With a sigh, he walked towards his writing desk.
Regretting that last half of bitter, Paddy Ashdown pulled his coat tighter around himself as he barked orders to the uniformed officers around him. Fipps, looking more bewildered than ever, was wrestling with a map in the high wind. Shouting over the sound of flapping paper, he vaulted the gate and dashed towards the cottage.
With a roar of frustration, Paddy kicked open the door. What he saw before him came as a surprise. A pair of legs, presumably belonging to an unseen body, were visible behind the sofa.
But, perhaps most incredibly, a bespectacled man of about sixty was sat by the fire, a glass of whisky by his side and a book in his lap. He looked up as Paddy took in the scene, and as officers stacked up behind him in the doorway, Paddy raised a hand and pointed at the man.
“Jacob Brimley?” he said, breathing heavily.
“The very same. Might I ask who you are?” said the man, in a very low voice.
“My name is Ashdown. Paddy Ashdown. Mr Brimley, you are under—”
“Well, Mr Ashdown,” interrupted Brimley as he lifted an envelope from the book in front of him, “would you be so kind as to see that this is delivered to my wife, please?”
Ashdown froze as Brimley raised the envelope and held it out. But there was no explosion, no concealed weapon. The two men stared at each other for a few moments, before Brimley spoke again.
“Mr Ashdown, it really would mean a lot to me.”
Paddy searched the man’s eyes. They were not pleading, but they seemed resigned all the same. Painfully aware of the slumped body of the man he assumed was his former superior in the next room, Paddy ordered Fipps forward with a gesture
of his head. Gingerly, the PC stepped across the room, took the envelope and handed it to Paddy. Brimley broke into a smile of relief.
“Thank you, officers.”
With a polite nod, Jacob Brimley drained his glass of whisky. It was fizzier on the tongue than usual, he noted, but that was to be expected. As his eyes began to close, he could make out the figure of Mr Ashdown leaping towards him with a cry of desperation. Well, that’s it, then, he thought. The sounds around him became muffled, as if they were the final calls of a distant world.
Harold Wilson realised that it was a cold night as soon as he had run outside the kitchen door. Even so, he felt that it was entirely necessary to forgo the overcoat on such an occasion, given how heavy it was and prone to slowing him down.
“Keep up, John,” he yelled behind him, “you are a younger man than I am.”
Something about the silence behind him informed him that something was amiss. He stopped behind a tree, ensuring that he was sheltered from the cottage windows, and spun on his heel.
John Stonehouse was half-running, although it was with a lolling and unhealthy gait. Switching on the torch he had grabbed from Brimley’s house, Wilson shone it at his colleague, trying to keep the beam from diffusing too much light.
“John,” he began, trying unsuccessfully to avoid a tone of apprehension, “that does not look especially comfortable.”
“You always did have a tendency for understatement, Harold,” Stonehouse replied, panting slightly. He thought he tasted copper, but that may have been because he had bitten his tongue during the fight with the MI5 operative, rather than his very definitely broken leg. Who knew a well-placed kick to the side of the knee could end a man’s hopes of escape in one swift motion?
“I would head south if I were you,” Stonehouse said as he propped himself against the tree trunk. “I doubt you’ll be able to find another Marxist historian in this part of East Anglia.”
Harold nodded.
