by Tom Black
“Say that we believe it,” Jones repeated, “there’s still, well, there’s still other factors to consider.”
Mountbatten put on his best ‘respectable face of authority’ face.
“Of course, and I am very keen to discuss them. Please, gentlemen, retake your seats, and we can begin.”
After a slight hesitation, the trade unionists sat down, Feather included. Murray lit another cigarette.
“I assume,” Mountbatten began, wordlessly acknowledging the fresh pot of coffee that had appeared before them, “that you wish to discuss the violence involving your members and Civil Assistance last week?”
“The attacks on working people by the paramilitary goons of ‘Civil Assistance’, yes, m’lord,” said Scanlon with more bitterness even than usual.
“As I outlined in my first speech in office, my government will be taking steps to ensure the rule of law is upheld through those institutions to whom Her Majesty grants the authority to do so.”
“We need more,” said Feather, in a commanding voice.
“We need redress,” Jones continued, “our members demand it – common decency demands it, Prime Mi- First Lord of the- Lord Mountbatten.” Jones tried to hide the fact he’d gone red in the face while tripping over quite what to call Louis. The First Lord of the Treasury ignored this and moved smoothly on.
“Legal redress will, of course, be possible,” he let the words hang in the air for a moment, “but we must not forget that there are legal charges levelled at some of your members, as well.”
“Self-defence,” muttered Murray despondently.
“That may be how you see it, Mr Murray, but the law does not agree in every case. Regardless, I’ve made the government’s position perfectly clear. Civil Assistance is no more. Its actions are not to continue. Discussion of trials, agreements and, well, amnesties—” the word hung in the air again, “will have to wait until the strike is formally over. Which, if you are all now convinced of the accuracy of the charges against Mr Wilson, ought to be tonight.”
He had subtly changed his tone, like a schoolmaster trapping children in a web of their own mistakes. What he had said was entirely logical. All the same, he doubted Jones would have gone along with any of it had he not truly believed the claims made against Wilson.
“Alright,” said Jones finally, “I and my colleagues will come to the table. But I can’t guarantee an end to the strike without a concession of some sort. I might – might – believe that Harold Wilson is really a turncoat Man from UNCLE. But not all of my members will.”
Mountbatten remained silent, maintaining eye contact.
“You understand, surely? I can do my best to restore order – I know Hugh and Len will too – and convince people once the pickets are gone. But we aren’t going to see a clean end to the strike unless I have something to take to my members.”
“Of course. Workers’ veto of non-portfolio share transactions, perhaps?”
There was a pause. Jones stared at Mountbatten. Scanlon laughed, Murray dragged on his cigarette and Feather rolled his eyes. Mountbatten remained perfectly still, his face not suggesting he had been joking in the least. Jones’ eyes widened.
“Hold on… what?”
Chapter fourteen
Thursday 13th November 1975 – 12:15pm
Harold Wilson had spent his whole career feeling pleased with himself. This week, however, that sensation had been absent for some time. Now, it was back. With his bag slung over his shoulder and his beard now progressing from the itchy to the unnoticeably soft stage, he was making his way down a single track railway line towards Great Yarmouth.
He was pleased with himself because he hadn’t felt this clever in quite some time. Ever since the initial panic of being caught and the sick feeling that it had somehow been his fault, he’d gone from each altercation to each humiliation feeling rather like he had when rejected from All Souls the second time. But last night, after spending thirty or so hours trekking overland – no chance of borrowing a tractor for ‘official business’ this time – he’d spied the railway line and done a quick mental calculation that was even now bearing dividends.
A general strike, caused in part by his exposure, had shut down the railways. The trains weren’t running and the stations were deserted. And what was the easiest, flattest and driest route between North Walsham and Great Yarmouth? All he had to do was avoid entering Norwich! He grinned to himself as he realised he’d inadvertently set in motion a chain of national disruptions that were now giving him a sorely-needed leg-up. Funny the way the world worked sometimes. What was that saying about a butterfly beating its wings somewhere?
He wondered if staying for that extra drink with Cole back in ‘37 was a moment where another metaphorical butterfly had beaten its figurative wings. If he’d headed home when he’d planned, Cole might’ve never told him about the ‘other matter’ he’d mentioned in passing. And then what would have become of him? Stumbling slightly on a battered sleeper, Harold grumbled and muttered to himself.
“Wouldn’t’ve ended up as PM, that’s for sure,” he concluded. Postmaster General, perhaps. Maybe Employment. But without the help here and there, someone of his background would never have become leader of Britain’s ‘socialist’ party. Its first Prime Minister may have been the bastard son of a crofter, but all that felt like a bad joke since prep-school educated Clem handed over to ‘I’m a son of the Empire and Civil Service’ Gaitskell. To think he beat Nye to the leadership! The son of a coal miner who fathered the NHS! All reformist nonsense, of course, Harold quickly reassured himself, but there, if nowhere else, was an example of Labour’s obsession with the establishment. He thought back to his time working with Nye, and of the conversation that he’d never managed to have with him about whether he, too, was one of the righteous. Harold, in his heart of hearts, suspected he wasn’t.
Entirely absent from his thoughts was the possibility that, had Harold never had that chat with Cole, poor Hugh wouldn’t have retired to bed with a funny stomach after a whisky with his Shadow Chancellor, but Harold had become rather good at picking and choosing his memories.
Had he done the cause any good? It certainly seemed that way. He’d done so much; letting the Yanks bleed themselves dry in Vietnam, destabilising the economy for a generation – not to mention running rings around the establishment. Of course, he’d had to let Roy get on with some token reformism so as not to arouse suspicion, but what of that? Labour were never going to be the party of gay rights, an end to the death penalty or ‘a woman’s right to choose’. They’d be the party of inefficient stumbles towards some kind of soggy, social democratic compromise, and the British people would learn, gradually, that they needed to take matters into their own hands.
There was also, he admitted to himself, the possibility that Labour would now be known as the party of traitors and communist spies. Yes, getting outed was unfortunate. But it was a credit to his many achievements that the Workers’ State was welcoming him back with open arms, going to such great lengths to extract him in the process.
What would he do when he got to Moscow? For the first time, his absent smile faded. Things would, no doubt, be different. Don and Kim had made a fair go of it. Guy… well, Guy had always had a dependency on drink. It could’ve ended his life here in Britain just as easily. But then again, Guy hadn’t had a family (for obvious reasons, Harold thought).
He blocked out any thoughts of Mary, Robin and Giles. They’d be fine, and that was all he told himself each night when he tried to sleep. Marcia, Joe and Bernard were another matter. He’d tried to keep an ear open for their names on the news, but since their release from custody there’d been nothing. That was probably a good sign, he reasoned, though he imagined they’d be hauled before a committee at some point.
His mind wandered back to his new life in the glorious Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. He smiled at the thought that it would probably be easier to get hold of Cuban cigars. But what would he actually do? H
e supposed his superiors would have one or two ideas. He grimaced when he pictured himself sat at a microphone, taunting the West about ‘the rouble in the worker’s pocket’ on Radio Moscow.
“Comrade Haw-Haw,” he murmured, pausing to catch his breath as he reached another bend in the track. He was relieved to see he was in a cutting, hidden from view of the kitchen windows of Hoveton. Fortunately the station had been deserted, but crossing the Broads bridge had been horrendously exposed. Yes, it was the early hours of the morning, but the police had been extremely persistent so far, combing every inch of the countryside around him. In a railway cutting with large banks of grass on either side, he’d be effectively invisible.
As he strode down the cutting with renewed vigour, Harold became aware of a queer rumbling under his feet. The sound of squealing wheels in the distance added to his confusion. The picture was completed, however, by the emergence of a clanking Diesel Multiple Unit from the road bridge ahead, going rather alarmingly fast.
As Harold threw himself into a ditch for the umpteenth time in ten days, he realised that the strike was probably over.
“I would like to thank the returning officer, and the staff who have overseen this contest. Its democratic legitimacy is more important now than it ever has been...”
Roy Jenkins was trying to pretend that he didn’t want to be literally anywhere else than the installation of his new Deputy Leader in Committee Room 14. Anthony Wedgwood Benn was speaking with his usual gusto, immediately launching into a need for party democracy and a re-engagement with the public after ‘recent events’. Crosland looked terribly put out, all things considered.
So did he.
Wedgie’s campaign (which had been launched under the banner of ‘No Right Turns’) had seemed like somewhat of a fool’s errand when it had first been announced. Tony was, to put it mildly, a divisive figure. However, after Michael had followed Callaghan down the ‘I’ll be collecting my pension by the time we have a realistic shot at government’ route, and during the short campaign (rather than ‘Ted Short’s Campaign’, the current Deputy Leader having decided to resign rather than face the terrifying possibility of having to do something) the wheels had fallen off the Jenkinsite campaign bus very quickly. In person or via telegram, CLPs had aggressively lobbied Members for their preferred candidate, and two-thirds of them had done so for the member for Bristol South-East. the right had struggled to find a suitable candidate amongst their own number. Healey and Shirley Williams had both passed up the ‘opportunity’, leaving Tony Crosland duking out for the right’s support with Bill Rodgers (across the room, Roy’s old protégé flashed an apologetic smile).
On the stage, Benn was concluding his remarks.
“...the objective of the Labour Party, is not to kowtow to foreign interests or the demands of the security services,” (Roy tried to avoid looking as if he wanted to disconnect the microphone) “it is to strive for the democratic transformation of society, to establish full employment, high investment, and peace amongst nations. We must not lose track of those lofty but necessary ideals, even during times of tremendous turmoil, because to do so would be to betray every man, woman, and child in this nation. I shall not waver in this fight, nor in my commitment to this socialist movement.”
It wasn’t the outcome that he had hoped for, Roy considered, but it had been the one that he had expected. The Labour Party had a new team and a Parliamentary Labour Party that had all its members back in the house – well, not quite all. One was still apparently running around East Anglia killing MI5 officers and hobnobbing with tankies.
All the same, things were looking up. Parliamentary arithmetic meant the Opposition would be able to force a vote of no confidence very soon indeed – after a respectful week or so in office for His Excellency, The National Saviour Of The United Kingdom And Also Admiral Of The Sceptred Seas, The Earl Mountbatten, First Lord Of All Our Hearts. As Benn finished speaking, Roy approached the stage and shook him firmly by the hand.
“Now, the work begins,” he said.
“My thoughts exactly, comrade,” replied Benn. Roy winced, and decided to make his excuses and leave as soon as possible.
Retreating to the Leader of the Opposition’s – his – office, Roy was reminded that it was still in need of a clear-out – hatpins and, more alarmingly, books on monetarism were still scattered all over the place. A large, simple poster bearing the ‘Labour’ name had taken pride of place on the back wall, however, replacing a gigantic blue torch. Roy went to sit down behind his desk, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Come in,” he called, but approached the entrance all the same. Reg Prentice poked his head inside.
“Good afternoon,” said the former Minister of State for Overseas Development.
“Reg, do come in.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’m here to deliver this.”
Roy’s eyes travelled down to the envelope held in Prentice’s slightly shaking hand. He suddenly had a sensation not dissimilar to being punched in the stomach.
“Reg, what are you—”
“It’s all detailed in there. Good day.”
Prentice thrust the envelope at Roy, who snatched it from him and stared at it for a good thirty seconds as Prentice wobbled away. In no mood to further postpone the inevitable, Roy gingerly opened the envelope and read the attached letter – bearing thirteen signatures – where he stood. The writing was poor – hastily thrown together, no doubt. There were even some spelling mistakes, and a total collapse in punctuation in the sentence describing ‘little more than the utterly discredited apparatus of the compromised Left’.
Roy sat down, slowly, and read through the list again with a groan. There were too many good men on it. Ogden, Thomas, Wrigglesworth… some were old colleagues from the CDS days. That they, of all people, would not give him a chance to reshape this wounded party into something respectable, hurt the most.
And the name – ‘British Labour’! ‘National Labour’ was a little tainted, Roy bitterly supposed. Well, these bastards should’ve thrown pretence to the winds and used it anyway. To join an undemocratic Conservative-led government headed by an Admiral from the Lords made Ramsay Mac look like Cincinnatus. Then again, why not just join the Tories outright? Did they think being a nominally separate party – with Labour in its name, but with the casual reminder that they were British, not Russian – would spare them the righteous anger of their electorates? Roy scowled.
But, he thought, things could be worse. In darker moments he could have conceived that Bill might jump ship, but his signature was nowhere to be found. Shirley’s name was also conspicuously absent, as was David Owen’s. He made a note to give the latter a just reward in the Shadow Cabinet reshuffle, assuming the depleted PLP elected him to it. A few leading lights from his side of the party were not jumping ship. That was good. It made a Bennite coup – although he had started to believe that Anthony really meant all this talk of ‘absolute unity and legitimacy’ – less practical.
As his mind turned to Benn, he reached for the telephone and called the office of the MP for Bristol South-East, which was in fact less than two hundred yards away from where he was sitting. He began speaking as soon as Benn picked up, but tried to avoid an air of panic.
“Anthony, hello. It’s me. I’m glad I could reach you, I thought you might still be in the bar.”
“One can only nurse an orange juice in the company of drinkers for so long, Roy. What can I do for you?”
Benn sounded all smiles. At least some kind of professional relationship would be possible, then.
“Could we meet? Now? I’m afraid the matter you suspected has some to a head rather more rapidly than we’d thought.”
Benn paused. Jenkins imagined he’d caught him mid-way through loading his pipe.
“I see. How many?”
“A dozen. Prentice at the head.”
“Right.”
Jenkins broke the silence.
“Would you mind com
ing here? I want to call the Shadow Cabinet soon.”
“I’ll be over in a jiffy. Let me assemble my notes.”
“Notes?”
“Come now, Roy. We both know what this means. Any hope of a swift return to government disappears with Mountbatten’s newfound majority. The return to credibility has to start now, with a comprehensive democratic socialist platform that places us firmly on the side of the people. Do you follow?”
“I think–”
“Good. I’ll see you in five minutes.”
Wordlessly, Roy replaced the receiver. He would need something stiffer than claret this evening.
Sir John Hunt had seen a great many changes in 10 Downing Street over the years. He’d become Cabinet Secretary in 1973 because of his commitment to carrying out Mr Heath’s reforms to the civil service in the early 1970s. Mr Wilson’s governing style was rather different, though Sir John felt he had adjusted admirably. Recent events, however, had led him to wonder whether he was, in fact, slightly too adjustable.
When Sir Michael had suggested Lord Mountbatten receive a telegram from Downing Street without strictly informing Mrs Thatcher first, he’d complied because he saw the head of MI5 as a friend, an ally and a patriot making off-the-cuff suggestions about how to aid a woman both men thought could use a helping hand. When Sir Michael asked him if he could do a chap a favour and give Lord Mountbatten a call, sending him to see Mrs Thatcher at the exact moment that she was contemplating how to leave the stage, Sir John had been so relieved at the perfect solution to his small ‘there might be a military coup now’ problem, he had only smelled a rat after the fact.
Now, Sir Michael Hanley, Director General of Military Intelligence, Section Five, was standing in the Prime Minister’s office with a smile on his face and another bundle of papers held against his rather considerable belly.
“Sir Michael,” began Sir John as he closed the door behind him.
