by Tom Black
Oh, and banging on about the war, Milligan remembered, that and a ‘comedy’ German accent. Always works.
“He always ‘ad his ‘ands full, I’ll tell you that for free, Dud,” Cook continued as Moore finished goose-stepping, “and I mean, always. ’e used to take his speeches into the lavatory.”
“Did you ’ave to give him an ’and, Pete?” Moore asked.
“Oh aye,” Cook replied, “and I mean for everything. ’e still likes curry, and when ’e had a bad lot at the Indian High Commissioner yesterday, I was at the receiving end. I don’t mind telling you, ’e had a very Red Box last night!”
“A Red Box?”
“A very Red Box!”
Milligan looked at the policemen who had been hovering at the back of the crowd. They returned the stare, but did nothing to intervene.
“Probably because of all those Burmese tigers up ’is arse!”
“Up ‘is arse?”
“Up ‘is arse.”
Milligan gave another furtive glance opposite. If they could just get past Cleese’s skit, it would hopefully be for the best.
The former Goon looked to his side as the Python in question walked past. He winced. The vetoing of the SS Uniform had not raised much opposition, but even so.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked Cleese in an authoritative (and not half bad) impression of the First Lord of Treasury.
There was an intake of breath from the majority of the audience, with peels of laughter from the rest. The Mao suit may have been a little bit too far. As the music began, Cleese stepped up to the microphone.
“East Anglia is Red!
From England comes Lord Mountbatten
I strive for the people’s happiness
Hurrah! I am the people’s saviour!”
There was some cheering. Milligan noticed that as one copper tried to storm onto the stage, his colleague grabbed his shoulder and pulled him backwards. Eric Idle had joined Milligan in the wings as Cleese reached the final stanza.
“I, Lord Mountbatten, love the people!
You, the people, love me too!
Without the people’s trust, I know,
That I would still have launched my coup!”
With a flourish, the vaguely Far-Eastern backing track ended and Cleese beckoned a young musician onto the stage.
“Now, for some music from someone who won’t make you wish you were deaf. Take us away, Declan!”
“Th-thank you,” the somewhat lanky youth murmured into the microphone, his guitar strap looking like it was going to pull him into the ground.
“Christ, Eric, is he up to this?” hissed Milligan into Idle’s ear.
“Just listen. We heard him in a bar the other night, he’s cracking.”
“...and this is called ‘The Admiral’s Army’.”
There was a moment of last-minute tuning up that went on a few seconds too long. But as the crowd were on the cusp of losing interest, a simple acoustic chord rang out, and from nowhere, the kid produced a soulful, fascinating voice.
“Don’t start me talking,
I could talk all night.
My mind goes sleepwalking,
While I’m putting the country right.”
Milligan had started tapping his foot.
“...call Careers Information,
Get yourself a proper Occupation…”
Spike heard Idle guffaw.
“...the Admiral’s army are here to stay,
The Admiral’s army are on their way.
And I would rather be anywhere else,
Than here today!”
Without any kind of signal, Terry Jones appeared at the piano and began playing perfect accompanying chords. Ginger Baker had apparently teleported back to the drums, too, for they were soon in action as well. As the kid with the glasses got up off the stool to join the crowd on their feet, Spike smiled. This had turned out to be something pretty special. Then, his face darkening, he hoped it would matter somehow.
The sound of cutlery on crockery was the persistent accompaniment to life at the Carlton Club. Even when he had been obliged to attend, Ted Heath had never had much time for dining there, but when the Leader of the Conservative and Unionist Party had invited the Home Secretary to have a drink with him, Heath had been left with little choice but to accept. If nothing else, it seemed to be the only place in London where one could avoid That Woman.
William Whitelaw had ended up as leader of the largest party in the House of Commons seemingly for no reason other than having been the runner-up last time. Heath had agonised for almost ten seconds before refusing to stand himself. It had been, he confessed to close associates, a matter of pride rather than pragmatism, but the decision had been made for the best. Even the Mail had called for him to return, but, as he looked at the portraits hanging over the mantelpiece, Ted Heath reminded himself that he was neither a Churchill, nor a Peel.
“You could be, though!” Whitelaw said as the sherry arrived.
Ted had reminded himself out loud.
“My apologies, Willie,” Heath said, shaking himself back to reality, “I was miles away.”
“There is no need to, dear fellow,” the Leader of the House said, “it has been a difficult few months for both of us.”
That was an understatement. The departure of Mrs Thatcher in November had solved a number of problems, whilst also giving rise to many more. While all but the most reactionary of Conservative Associations had been content to endorse the arrival of Whitelaw to the Leadership, the polling had not been, especially as the First Lord’s “couple of weeks” in charge had morphed into “indefinitely”. Typically for the schizophrenic British public, the blame for this had not fallen upon Lord Mountbatten – who remained the most popular premier since the one who had sold the country down the river to Moscow – but rather those keeping him in power. The Conservatives were still on course to win a heavy victory at the next election, but while before Christmas an absolute landslide had seemed inevitable, it was now already looking like a merely ‘healthy’ majority was the punters’ choice. How long before the best bet became a ‘small but workable majority’?
“I suppose the problem is that Lord Mountbatten, for all his many wonderful qualities,” Whitelaw was saying, “is a little pink around the edges.”
“You’re not alone in that view,” murmured Ted into his glass.
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? A government of national unity in the wake of communist – not socialist, communist – infiltration of the corridors of power, and what are our priorities? Mucking about in Ireland and trying to convince the unions they’re living in West Germany!”
Ted tittered. The preliminary legislation for the Industrial Democracy Bill had passed the House last week, to much wailing and gnashing of teeth from just about everybody – including plenty in Labour.
“Yes, you’re quite right. But the Lords will water it down, or at the very least kill the workers’ veto when that comes up. I can’t see the good First Lord using the Parliament Act on something like this.”
Whitelaw grunted.
“Nor I. But the fact he places so much importance on it in the first place… I know he’s a man of his word, and he made a deal with Feather, Jones and the lot of them, but… it just doesn’t sit right.”
“You haven’t been talking to Powell behind my back, have you?” Ted snorted, only half-joking, “you’ll be calling for the annexation of Leningrad at this rate.”
Whitelaw’s eyes glazed over. Such an idea was an unlikely one, even from the most troublesome of the backbenchers. The Kremlin was ‘jittery’ at the moment – at least that had been the term that Home had used in his last briefing at Cabinet. It never did to have a ‘jittery’ finger over the red button, especially when the finger belonged to Mikhail Suslov. Heath had met the Éminence Rouge one once before, a summit meeting in the Swiss Alps, and he had not cared for him at all. In reality, of course, Suslov’s position as “Premier” meant little, rather l
ike the time when a visiting Secretary of State had seemed confused at the concept of a non-partisan Speaker. Heath sighed. Ever since Kosygin’s ‘unfortunate coronary’ had caught everyone off-guard, it had become abundantly clear that no one in the British government actually understood how the Soviet system worked.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Ted,” Whitelaw said, “although Alec seems to be under the impression that we are back to a troika, like when Khrushchev was deposed.”
“That is plausible,” Heath replied, “and may actually prove rather useful. It certainly seems as though Wilson’s operations were unknown even to the entire Politburo. I feel that whoever was in charge of the operation will probably win out. He will know where all the bodies are buried.”
“Or, I suppose,” Whitelaw leaned in, conspiratorially, “if there are – you know - others. I always thought that Brandt went surprisingly quickly the other year.”
“What?” Heath said incongruously, “You think he went over his bodyguard, rather than be exposed himself?”
Whitelaw leaned back, putting his hands up. “Just a thought.”
The sherry had been drunk. Another one was called for.
“So,” Whitelaw suddenly exclaimed, “I think we had better talk about what happens when I go.”
Heath coughed, spraying his party leader with fortified wine.
“Go?” the Home Secretary said after he had recovered, “for heaven’s sake Willie, you have only just bloody got here!”
Whitelaw smiled serenely, which only irritated Heath further.
“Come on, Ted,” he said, “it’s an open secret that I don’t actually want to be leader. And it’s true. On the other hand, we both know that you still want to be Leader of the Tory Party, and here I am, offering it to you once the public realise that you are actually rather good, when they get to know you a little better.”
Ted Heath did not especially like ‘actually rather good,’ nor ‘little better’, but the words still seemed to work rather well together. He had to admit that the newspaper headlines, if rather poor for the Conservatives as a whole, did seem to be rather pleasant towards him personally. Only Mountbatten had received a better response after Wilson’s capture and with the gradual decline in violence on the mainland (and, to be honest, the violence in Northern Ireland had been much more ‘intra-republican’ as of late) it seemed that many people were starting to have second thoughts about how they had last answered the question ‘Who Governs Britain?’. Internally, it was known that Mountbatten favoured Heath to take over if Something Were To Happen to Whitelaw, but it was a surprise for Heath to learn that he was preferred even while Whitelaw were a candidate for the job.
“You know,” Whitelaw yawned as he stretched his arms, “I think you made a mistake in standing for Leader when you did, Ted. You should never have felt forced to do it back in ’65. We are not a very forgiving party, but I think that you will have another chance.”
Whitelaw took a small pocket diary from his pocket.
“You know,” he continued, “I got young Kenneth to do a bit of number crunching with the latest polling. I think that he may have spotted something very interesting about our and the Liberals’ by-election performances.”
Ted Heath grinned and flagged down a passing flunkie.
Lord Mountbatten sighed as he flicked through the report on Leyland that was for some reason in his hands.
“Something wrong, First Lord?” inquired the Secretary of State for Industry.
“No, Jim,” Louis replied quickly, “no, nothing at all.”
Prior clearly didn’t believe him, but that was not his concern. The ‘tanks on the street’ myth had gained an almost plague-like quality, and within weeks had become a useful shorthand for critics of Mountbatten’s government. Anyone who actually worked in Whitehall knew that in the day-to-day running of things, this was essentially a Conservative-Liberal-Ulster Unionist-British Labour Coalition, but with a popular peer leading it in the absence of any unifying figure from the parties themselves. Louis was not a man prone to self-regard, but he really did hope the history books would remember him fairly.
He pretended to finish the last page of the Leyland report, and made ‘right, yes, good’ noises as he handed it back to Prior. Before Jim could reply, Sir John arrived, without his usual perfunctory knock. Mountbatten turned with raised eyebrows.
“I am sorry, First Lord, but I bring urgent, and upsetting, news.”
“John Cleese has announced his intention to stand for parliament?”
“...no, sir, although the ‘revue’ on the South Bank has ended and peacefully dispersed without incident.”
“That’s good news, surely?”
Sir John shook his head.
“Yes, First Lord. But I’m afraid there have been another two explosions.”
Mountbatten cursed.
“Where?”
“Londonderry, and…”
“Londonderry? The infighting continues, presumably.”
“We think believe this may be a unionist action, sir.”
“What makes you say that? Where was the second bomb?”
“Glasgow, sir. They were timed to go off at the same time – in the event, there were two minutes between them. There were… no warnings.”
Mountbatten sat down.
“How many?”
“At present, nine in Londonderry and twenty-four in Glasgow. They were both in pubs.”
Mountbatten clasped his hands together and rested his elbows on his desk. Jim Prior realised the long silence was meant as an indication that he should leave. He did so.
“We are going to have to do something about this, Sir John,” Mountbatten said after a minute of silence.
“I agree, First Lord. Shall I send for Mr Pym?”
“No.”
Sir John looked flabbergasted.
“...Sir Cecil King, then?”
“Absolutely not!” snapped Mountbatten.
“Then what should I do, sir?” said Sir John, trying to hide his desperation.
“You should listen to me,” Mountbatten said irritably, “just listen.”
Sir John dutifully nodded and said nothing.
“For some time,” the First Lord of the Treasury began, “I have had something else in mind for Northern Ireland. I think it’s become clear we need to change tack.”
“I would have thought the age-old ‘carrot and stick’ would be appropriate, sir.”
“We have had almost a decade of the stick, Sir John.”
Sir John gave a polite frown. There had been rumours – for years – of Lord Mountbatten’s sympathy with the Irish nationalist cause.
“I am considering… something more of a carrot.”
“Orange and hard to swallow, sir?”
Mountbatten smiled.
“No,” he said, quietly impressed by the witticism, “what I have in mind is radical. I am the first to admit that.”
“I think the country has had enough radicalism for one lifetime, sir. As have our allies and trade partners,” said Sir John, feeling a boldness within himself he had never encountered in the presence of Wilson.
“It is funny that you mention that,” said Mountbatten, turning on his heel to look at Sir John, “because it is precisely because of our international standing that I am considering this course of action.”
At the reference to ‘this course of action’, Mountbatten unlocked a drawer and withdrew from it a bundle of notes, which he proceeded to hand to Sir John. The cabinet secretary’s eyes widened as he read through the proposal. Mountbatten waited patiently for Sir John to look at him again. The civil servant duly did so.
“First Lord—”
“What do you think?”
“It is part of my duties to advise you of certain... realities.”
“Then do so.”
Sir John swallowed, hard, then looked the First Lord of the Treasury straight in the eye.
“This would be highly controversial. Not only is ci
vil unrest guaranteed, it would also be – if you will permit me to make a political point – electoral suicide for the Government.”
Mountbatten did not hesitate.
“So, you are saying that this is a feat which can only be accomplished by someone with experience of tackling civil unrest, and for whom electoral politics are entirely irrelevant?”
Sir John could not keep himself from scoffing slightly.
“Well, yes, First Lord, but—”
The First Lord of the Treasury’s raised eyebrows cut Sir John off mid-sentence, and the mandarin finally realised exactly what was going on.
Chapter twenty-four
Tuesday 26th July 1976 – 5:15pm (Eastern Standard Time)
“I remain convinced that the United Kingdom’s best days remain ahead of us,” Ted Heath said in his closing remarks, “the trades unions have a simple choice. They may continue down the path of impossibilism, tilting at windmills and chasing yesterday’s dreams. Should they, however, choose to moderate their stance, they can finally have the power to reaffirm the social contract that has eluded them for so long.”
The Chancellor of the Exchequer was getting used to applause. Since he’d been shuffled to Number 11 – part of Mountbatten’s grooming programme, he assumed – a spate of high-profile speaking occasions had come his way. Presumably these were part of the same process, aimed at easing the British public back into the idea of him being at the helm of the state.
Those on their feet for him now, however, were not members of the British public. Less tactful Conservatives than Heath might have called them ‘upstart colonials’ in the darkest hours of 1956, but the men and women of the Georgetown Conference had been giving him a warm, if not exactly rapturous, American welcome since his arrival the day before.
When lunching with the senior members – which included a former Secretary of State, a few Senators and the French Ambassador – Heath had taken the opportunity to gauge what the likely result of the election would be. It would do well for him to know whether the FCO would be dealing with Ford or Jackson come the New Year. Irritatingly, opinion was split directly down the middle. Democrats were sure their man (who had seen off Ed Muskie at something called ‘Super Tuesday’) would turf out ‘Nixon’s lapdog’, Republicans seemed certain that Ford’s ‘moral leadership’ would continue to unite and heal America, and independents were themselves uncomfortable predicting who had the edge.
