by Tom Black
“So,” he said conclusively, “that’s where we are, Alec. Penny for your thoughts?”
Home mused theatrically for a moment, then replied.
“It will be a hard sell to the Commons. Some of the more sensible people in the Labour Party may decide to go for it, if they decide that doing the right thing is better than opposition for opposition’s sake – but there is more than enough opposition from,” he paused, trying to find a diplomatic synonym for ‘headbangers and fruitcakes’ and succeeding, “the... more assertive members of the 1922 to make it a damn near-run thing.”
“We shall have to see,” Mountbatten said, “to be perfectly honest – I rather relish the idea of a proper Parliamentary battle – I think we both got a little complacent in the Upper Chamber.”
“A fight to the death, perhaps,” Home said aloud, then regretted it.
“Metaphorically, yes,” Mountbatten answered simply, “I will be finished if it doesn’t pass. Getting the negotiations to move this quickly has expended all my goodwill, and any elected PM would have hit the rocks months ago.”
“Your authority will see you through tomorrow.”
“We shall see. If it does not…” Mountbatten allowed the unsaid to hang in the air.
“Dublin must have been a jape,” Home offered, trying to lighten matters somewhat.
“Oh, it was. Cosgrave’s face was an absolute picture when it became clear exactly what we were proposing.”
“I can imagine. The way some of the Unionists have been carrying on, you’d think you offered him the six counties on a silver platter.”
“Yes!” chuckled Mountbatten wearily, “Back in July my press people received ten calls an hour asking whether I had set in motion ‘the annexation of British soil’.”
“Did you ever consider it?” Home asked, before he could think better of it. Mountbatten did not react badly.
“No,” he said calmly, “although I will admit it’d be simpler than this bloody mess. Tell you what, pass me the telephone and I’ll order a comprehensive withdrawal before dinner.”
When they had regained their composure after that little joke, Mountbatten spoke in a low voice.
“Thank you for coming today. Your counsel is always welcome.”
Home simply nodded. Part of always knowing what to say was knowing when to say nothing at all.
“The reaction in the province has been... predictable,” Mountbatten continued, walking to his papers.
“So I gather. Much wailing and gnashing of teeth, but it has reminded everybody what’s at stake. Will you put the agreement to referendum over there?”
“No. My advisers, even those who aren’t dead against the whole idea, think it would be a bad move. Things seem to have normalised...”
“Insofar as anything is ever ‘normalised’ where Ulster is concerned?”
“Quite. The nationalists are now primarily shooting at unionists – with the added bonus that they seem to be leaving British troops alone for now.”
Home nodded.
“And the UVF?”
“...are choosing to shoot back, rather than blow up Catholic pubs on the mainland. I suppose I should see that as an improvement.”
“You should, First Lord,” said Home forcefully, “you must understand that in the grand scheme of things, it is a step.”
“The sentiment is appreciated, Alec.”
“You are a firm hand on the tiller, if you will forgive the nautical metaphor. The country is gradually getting back to normal – even the unions are back to having a strong distaste for the government, rather than a pathological desire to destroy it.”
Mountbatten groaned.
“I must admit I did prefer the three months where they seemed to like the government.”
“What happened with the Industrial Relations Act could not have been foreseen, First Lord—”
“Oh, yes it could, Alec. The Tories were never going to let it get through unscathed. Even the BLP is largely made up of people who would rather Jack Jones pole-vaulted over the Berlin Wall.”
The First Lord’s use of the recently-coined initialism for the British Labour Party was impressive, Home thought, and confirmed that Mountbatten was still very much in touch with the House, and with public opinion.
“All the same,” Home said smoothly, “the TUC must be satisfied with the arrangement regarding union representatives on company boards.”
“As I understand it,” said Mountbatten wearily, “it’s the only thing that kept them from organising another full-scale bloody strike. That and Lord Feather’s death.”
Both men paused for a moment. The departure of the former TUC General Secretary – himself instrumental in the brokering of ‘peace’ with the government during the Wilson Affair – had not been a surprise, but had worried many in the Westminster village. However, the resulting disarray within the TUC had meant Jones, Murray and Scanlon had missed their opportunity. Home was considering what to say next when Mountbatten’s intercom buzzed to life.
“The Home Secretary, sir,” said a clipped, female voice.
“Send him in,” Mountbatten replied, before looking up at Home.
“Ah, my new leader,” Home smiled thinly, unable to resist adding, “again.”
Mountbatten shot the former Earl of Home a reproaching smirk as the leader of the Conservative Party glided into the room.
“First Lord,” he began, apparently coming close to going down on one knee.
“Congratulations, Mr Heath,” Mountbatten said, holding out his hand. Heath shook it warmly, before accepting Home’s rather more perfunctory grasp.
“Thank you, sirs. The result convinced me that our party – and thus, the government – is finally able to move on.”
From what, Mountbatten pondered – the arrest of a Labour Prime Minister? The boiling over of the Troubles? The short-lived catastrophe of Mrs Thatcher? Or just their ‘obvious folly’ in deciding that you were no longer the man for the job? Mountbatten checked himself. He thought Heath competent, safe, centrist, and what the country needed. With the unions playing fair, he had the potential to make a good Prime Minister. But that didn’t mean Mountbatten had to like him personally.
“It was certainly a convincing victory,” Home was saying flatly, “though I take it Mr Joseph has not become despondent over the whole thing?”
“No, that’s quite correct,” breezed Heath, “I’m sure he’s disappointed, but he must have known he was a token candidate.”
“To business,” said Mountbatten briskly, “I understand you are here, Ted, to inform us of the lie of the land for this evening’s vote.”
Heath put on his best ‘it is time for serious matters’ face.
“Yes, First Lord. I’m afraid things might become more complicated than we first expected.”
Upstairs in St Stephen’s Tavern, plans were afoot that had the potential to make things very complicated indeed. Airey Neave drained his second pint of bitter and scowled at the sheets of paper in front of him. Peter Tapsell was furiously counting the names for the third time that evening. Numbers would be crucial.
Appearances, too, were important. Neave, of course, had been a minister in the abortive ‘Thatcher Ministry’, so he and Biffen would prevent the rebellion from looking like backbenchers throwing their weight around. But the ’22 themselves were very well-represented, too. Over the summer recess, private correspondence had circulated, informal chats had been had, and Mayfair dinner parties enjoyed. Du Cann had said it best when, after a long night, he’d declared that ‘the friends of Lord Mountbatten’ were getting ‘very thin on the ground’. ‘The chap has simply hung around for too long. We’re all very grateful for what he’s done, but this Ulster nonsense is not, frankly, within his remit.’
Unlike their colleagues in the Labour Party, or even the Liberals, the bulk of the Conservative Parliamentary Party had not been particularly concerned by the attempted UN resolution condemning ‘the British state’. The fact it had been pro
posed by India and had died before it reached the Security Council was enough to defuse a potentially sticky situation. Closer to home, Amnesty International’s highly public relocation of their European bureau to Amsterdam had been tougher to swallow, but the upstanding men and women of the Tory party had picked themselves up and got on with it – and many of their constituents believed Amnesty International was run by communists, anyway.
No, thought Neave, their concerns were entirely home-grown. It was undeniable that Mountbatten’s ‘democratic deficit’ had begun to bother Conservative members by the end of April. Initial reminders that ‘he is for all intents and purposes, the Prime Minister, you know’ were met with a swift ‘only by default’, and that was usually that. Any suggestion that this change in opinion was linked to the publication of the planned ‘Anglo-Irish Agreement’ was also dismissed as the product of an overactive imagination. Airey gave a dry chuckle as he remembered young Alan Clark’s face as the news came in.
All told, the backbench contingent of the Conservative Party was by now split roughly down the middle. The ‘Anti-Mountbatten Group’ (a highly unofficial name) could claim just under half of them. Thanks to Biffen and Neave, the group did not give the impression of being a bunch of surly backbenchers. Meanwhile, the younger end of the party was represented by the likes of easy-going Kenneth Clarke. The full-faced Member for Rushcliffe had provided a very potent recruiting tool when he had declared ‘the man seems to have forgotten he’s not a Viceroy any more’.
Tapsell appeared to have finished his count. Neave looked at him expectantly.
“I think we’ll do it,” Tapsell said nervously, “I think we really might do it.”
Neave grabbed the paper with the final tally on and passed it around the small group that had booked the upstairs of St Stephen’s. Yes – assuming the Opposition voted against, which was a certainty, the rebellion would succeed. Mountbatten’s landmark piece of diplomacy would have been shown to have no support in the Commons (and therefore among the people). The Government, and Mountbatten with it, would have to fall.
“I don’t like the numbers,” muttered Clarke, bringing Neave out of his thoughts.
“No,” admitted a placid Tapsell, “they leave too much to chance. But it’ll work, if what we have heard from the Opposition benches is true.”
“We ought to make sure,” said Neave, “is anybody friendly with anyone in the ISP?”
There was a pause. The thought of any of the men sat in this room being chummy with Eric Heffer, or any one of the Independent Socialist Party’s three Merseyside MPs, was enough to make Clarke snort into his glass.
“The Scottish Nationalists, then?” Neave proposed.
“I can put some feelers out,” said Tapsell, “I’m certain Stewart is no more happy with the current state of affairs than we are.”
Clarke looked up from lighting a cigar and smirked.
“Apparently,” he said conspiratorially, “he went to see the Admiralissimo to talk about Home Rule for the Scots. He was fuming for weeks after being rebuffed.”
“Meet with Stewart, then,” Neave said, “but it would be best to keep the paper-trail on that point to a minimum. I would prefer to not let the Grouse Moor types know that we have been talking with the Separatists.”
The former Northern Ireland Secretary looked at Tapsell’s crib sheet. It did seem that even with the Celtic Fringe, the far-left and the Monetarists on side (and what an unholy coalition that was going to be), all it would take to save the government from falling was a few waverers here and a couple of chats with the Whips there. Labour would vote against – this was as clear as day. Every piece of legislation introduced by the government since Wilson’s arrest had been opposed by the Labour Party.
They would all have to move quickly, Neave knew. Once the bill passed, Mountbatten’s regime would be all over bar the shouting. An autumn election would be soon upon them, and – regardless of who was going to lead the Conservatives in the campaign – the chances of a left-wing reaction against the National Government grew. Heath and his band of Mountbatten-worshippers would have to be removed in the first week of the campaign, though nobody expected that would be difficult. The man was not a sitting PM, for all that he danced around Westminster pretending to be one. The question of who would replace him was more open-ended. Without an obvious ‘consensus frontrunner’, there would doubtless be another battle for the very soul of the party. If that gauntlet fell to the ground with no other man willing to pick it up, then Neave took no great pleasure in admitting that he would probably have to do so himself.
No, he thought to himself, that was a discussion for another day. He clapped his hands together, bringing the meeting to a close. The group dispersed in stages, Biffen first, then Tapsell. As Clarke made to leave, a hand grasped him on the shoulder.
“Young Kenneth,” Airey said, “what about the Unionists?”
Ken Clarke gave pause – yes, what about the Unionists?
“What about the Conservatives, then?” James Molyneaux said as Enoch Powell came over with two pints of Greenalls.
The Member of Parliament for South Down said nothing as his companion sat in front of him. The Marquis of Granby was even busier than usual – the hushed rumours of the pending confidence motion had filtered into the constituencies, prompting most members to have returned to Westminster by Sunday afternoon. It was now rapidly approaching Monday morning, and – as the landlord looked at his watch and called for last orders, Powell wondered how many times he would have to relax in the evening in the foreseeable future.
“The Conservatives?” he said witheringly, as he sat the glasses down on the table. “Why should either of us be bothered by what the Conservatives have to say?”
Molyneaux looked blankly across the table, trying to detect any hint of sarcasm hidden in the Black Country accent. Having not discovered any, the Ulster Unionist Parliamentary leader replied.
“Well, they are the Government. I think that we should know what they are up to, it tends to be rather useful for conversations with the electorate.”
Powell twitched his moustache.
“That is not the point, Jim,” he said, taking the head off his pint, “the issue that I have is why we are continuing to support a government that has long-since ceased to represented the people of the United Kingdom. When we went into Confidence-and-Supply, it was with the guarantee that our Wise and Munificent Saviour, the Earl Mountbatten Lord of All the Beasts of the Earth and Fishes of the Seas, would steady things until Mr Wilson was arrested and the Americans felt that they could turn their missiles back towards the Soviet Union. It is now,” he paused, totting up the dates, “nearly ten months later, and the High Admiral seems just as unwilling to give up power as ever. Were it not for his absurdly deferential attitude towards Dublin, I would be calling him Oliver Cromwell at this point.”
“That may be the case, Enoch,” Molyneaux said, “but it ignores the fact that the First Lord is still the most popular politician in the country,” he saw Powell’s eyes glitter, “after you, at the very least.”
That much was true. A meeting of the UUP last week had once again endorsed the principle of supporting the National Government. The continuing, inexplicable, unity of the Labour Party was damaging both the hard-left and centre-right alike and, whilst the guilt by association vote continued to harm Jenkins’ chances, everyone from Ted Heath to Teddy Taylor was making it quite clear that they did not wish to run any risk of having Tony Benn ending up as Deputy Prime Minister.
In Molyneaux’s defence, the Joint-Committee of the UUP had considered the merits of endorsing the so-called “Anglo-Irish Agreement” for at least fifteen seconds. Still, the immediate reaction from the assembled Peers and MPs had not been especially keen on the idea. Willie Ross, the young hardliner from East Londonderry, had referred to it as “a declaration of war against Ulster and the Protestant cause,” whilst The 2nd Baron Glentoran had taken a turn for the worse and been sent off to recuperate
in the Bishop’s Bar with a large brandy.
As they thought back to Friday’s meeting, neither man spoke. Molyneaux did not fear Powell as a threat to the future of the Ulster Unionists. Indeed, when Powell had been looking for a party to join after he had left the Conservatives, Molyneaux had been one of the loudest voices within the UUP calling for Powell to be adopted as a candidate. It had only been the somewhat myopic tendency of the party faithful, coupled with Powell’s own unwillingness for the role, that had propelled the MP for South Antrim, rather than South Down, to the Parliamentary leadership in the first place.
That had been over a year ago though, and the two men had started to drift apart ever since Powell had made some unflattering comments about Molyneaux’s tendency to see the UUP as a Northern Ireland Branch of the Conservative Party. Molyneaux was probably right to think that unfair – in recent weeks he had been warming to Powell’s idea to eventually become ‘the Unionist Party’.
“Look,” Powell said suddenly, “we both know that this is going to turn into another lively and unhelpful discussion about the future of the Tory Party.”
“Then don’t start one.”
“One is going to happen though, regardless of your views on the matter.”
“Do not start with the bloody Martyr act again,” Molyneaux snapped, “you do not have to be a pious old git in private! If you want to leave, leave, don’t drag me along with you.”
“I was suggesting nothing of the sort, James.” Powell said calmly, his initial anger subsiding. “All you have to do is turn around and ask if Lord Mountbatten, Ted Heath and—” he gave a smile that lacked any warmth whatsoever, “- Jeremy Thorpe are representatives of the politics that you desire to be emulated in the Province.”
The mental image of the Lord President of the Council addressing Belfast City Hall did not sit well with either of the two men.
“We still have friends within the Conservative Party,” Molyneaux said, crestfallen.
