by Tom Black
“We must be seen to be acting in the National Interest,” Roy replied, his own voice rising to meet that of his Deputy, “otherwise what is the point?”
“The point? Besides bringing down a police state?”
“If Mountbatten falls, there’ll be an election, and we will be bloody eviscerated, Tony,” Roy furiously whispered, “even a stubborn prig like you can see that, surely? Look – six months, a year, then we might, might be ready – but at the moment, we’ll be lucky to hold a hundred seats.”
Any doubt over this fact had been quashed by the morning’s sensationalist headlines. With the Wilson Affair firmly back in people’s minds, any October election would, unlike 1974, have a clear outcome. Many on the front-bench could perhaps have been convinced by that, but Tony Benn was not one of them. The Deputy Leader of the Labour Party replied coolly.
“You’re a coward, Roy.”
“And you’re a fool.”
Benn turned on his heel and stormed towards the ‘No’ Lobby, his fan club in tow. Jenkins gave another worried look at Walter Harrison, who was looking like he was going to be sick into the petition bag.
Although he was not an especially committed man of faith, it took some energy for Roy not to throw the Despatch Box open and clasp the King James Bible to his heart. The situation was still salvageable, but it would be hard to spin the decision as anything other than a volte-face. He looked to his left, where Bob Mellish was still standing, tapping his watch.
Four minutes.
To hell with it.
The Leader of the Opposition left the Chamber, walking past the tellers towards the Speaker’s Office. He saw a few members of the Tribune Group walk past on their way to vote against the government. Wasn’t that – you know – sort of the point of being the Loyal Opposition? But again, it certainly wasn’t in the best interests of the Labour Party to go into an election at this point. He hadn’t been exaggerating with Tony, the polling genuinely was that bad, but was he simply delaying the inevitable? The division bell continued to ring as he closed his eyes.
It hadn’t happened for quite some time, but Roy Jenkins suddenly felt rather isolated.
Five minutes (and four informal speeches from Benn) later, the Speaker announced the result of the Division.
“The Ayes to the Right, 257.”
There was an intake of breath.
“The Noes to the Left, 246 – so the Ayes have it, the Ayes have it!”
Roy steeled himself. The government had lived to fight another day, the Labour Party had finally begun racing to tear itself apart, and he’d just fired the starting gun. He looked around for Tony, but his Deputy was – of course – already racing back to his office.
Airey Neave waited until the Chamber was largely empty before heading off down the Ways and Means Corridor to vent his frustration. Rather than face the braying loyalists in the Tea Room, he walked past the Library before scurrying down the staircase towards the Medals Corridor. To his irritation, Alan Clark – one of the younger rebels – was loitering near the Strangers’ Cafeteria.
“What the bloody hell happened, Airey?”
For a moment, Neave considered saying nothing at all and simply walking past him. However, considerations of the need to reward loyalty won out.
“I made the fundamental mistake of placing an iota of trust in Woy Jenkins,” he replied, resisting the urge to punch the Member for Plymouth Sutton in his over-privileged face.
“Jenkins cannot decide what side of the bed to get out of on a morning without commissioning an opinion poll by MORl.”
“It isn’t just that,” Neave said, “it was naked opportunism that won’t even affect him because all the attention is now on us! In an ideal world, he would have resigned and hopefully got the Labour Party to split – properly this time. But instead, I am going to have to fend off a deselection vote at this rate.”
The two men walked onto the Terrace together, the autumn sun already beginning to set.
“I suspect this is my future in the Tory Party buggered, then,” Clark said, suddenly, “at least you got the chance to sit at Cabinet – I didn’t, and it isn’t as if I can just move up to the Vegetables either.”
“Their Lordships wouldn’t want you either, Alan,” Neave countered, “you’re far too energetic.”
“That’s Battenberg’s problem though, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” Neave said, “which is very much the problem that the Conservative Party has – we cannot very well go into the next election opposing trade unionism, because we have been sold the wonderful pup of Industrial Democracy; we cannot call ourselves ‘the party of liberty’ without being laughed out of the room; we are never going to get the UUP on side after this afternoon’s debacle; and – if that was not enough to be getting on with – I was hearing on the grapevine that we may even be considering cancelling the successor to Polaris.”
“Well, Enoch will like that,” Clark snorted.
Looking across the river to Saint Thomas’ Hospital, Airey wondered whether there was any way the country could be rid of Lord Mountbatten.
Chris Mullin thought that he had climbed his last fence when he was twelve; but then, it had been a curious couple of months. Panting slightly, he tensed his arms and swung a leg over the fence, wincing slightly as the trouser leg ripped on an errant spike. Groaning to himself, he tensed his arms and threw the rest of his body over. Having misjudged his own strength, the next couple of seconds amount to a confused lack of spatial awareness, a tangle of thrashing limbs and the rapidly approaching ground.
Winded, the journalist spent the next two minutes steadying himself on a nearby chestnut tree, fending off a wave of nausea. The sickness, it transpired, was not entirely down to his graceless arrival in Saint James’s Park, but partly because of the clandestine meeting place. The Royal Parks, along with every open space in Central London, were locked fast under the “Public Order (Amendment) Act” of the previous December, which had done little to improve the security of the capital aside from forcing the homeless to diversify their sleeping arrangements.
Patting his mud-encrusted jacket down, Mullin groaned inwardly as he came across his – by now shattered – torch. Eyes adjusting to the early-morning light, he felt his way through the trees, ducking behind a sycamore as the Park Warden gave a last-minute walkabout. Mullin sighed as he saw the other man walk to the gates and lock them – why he had not bothered to check for that was beyond him. Crouching, lest he awaken one of the dozen sleeping geese, Mullin quietly hastened through the park, counting oak trees as he went.
Was it tenth on the left-hand bank or tenth on the right-hand bank, he pondered to himself, ribs cracking in protest as he made his way towards the hoped-for rendezvous point. It was not as though he had leapt at the chance for a meeting with a ‘Senior Government Source’ – the voice at the other end of the line had been friendly enough, and a quick chat with a friendly source at the Cabinet Office had been enough to convince him that the person he had been told to meet at the ungodly hour was a real one – a middle-ranking Private Secretary – but the time and location still filled Chris Mullin with a sense of unease. Given all the talk of ‘Shadowy Figures’ and ‘Cabals’ that had been circulating, it would be easy enough for a silenced pistol to be aimed, a bullet fired and a hurried burial in the bird sanctuary to be carried out.
He paused as he reached the tenth oak. There was indeed a figure silhouetted against the midnight gloom, and a carefully positioned homburg prevented Mullin from seeing anything from the nose upwards. Suddenly feeling self-conscious, and half expecting to end up on the newly re-commissioned ‘Candid Camera’ that some philistine at Thames Television had decided to bring back, he raised a hand and called out his source’s code name.
“Number Six?”
The Cabinet Secretary stepped forward with a smile.
“Thank goodness,” Sir John said, beaming in a way that he had not done in months, “I was starting to fear that you wouldn’t turn u
p.”
Chapter twenty-eight
Monday 4th October 1976 – 7:45am
Roy Jenkins looked like a man who had not slept. This was misleading – he had kept a fairly regular sleep pattern in recent days. His tired demeanour was the result of an intensive week of late nights, having spent his political career adhering to a strict ‘no work after seven o’clock’ rule. He was not a man used to being up late making calls, lists, lists of people to call, and calls to people to ask for more lists of people to call. As a result, the man looking back at him in the mirror as he redid his tie for the third time was looking pretty worse for wear.
The process had begun the day after the Anglo-Irish vote. Benn, ever the self-declared man of honour, had visited him privately and explained that Roy’s position among the PLP (and ‘The Movement’ generally) had become untenable. The necessary support to remove him now existed, and it would be best for all concerned if he quietly resigned in a few days’ time. “Think of it as jumping before you are pushed,” Benn had suggested, chewing on his pipe. It had taken all of Roy’s restraint not to reply there and then with “oh, I’ll jump alright!”
Whether this became Roy’s historic triumph or his last hurrah, he was going to do his damnedest to make it work.
Fighting off the putsch directly was quickly ruled out. Tony Crosland, the first friend to arrive at Roy’s home after the calls went round, had said point-blank that if Benn was talking so boldly, he was doing so because he knew he had the numbers. It was undeniable that the mood of the PLP had changed for the worse after the Anglo-Irish Agreement passed and Mountbatten was spared a de facto no confidence vote. Roy himself had felt more daggers than usual being looked in his direction. The party had never fully forgiven him for taking over unopposed, and at the suggestion of mandarins too. He supposed he could not honestly blame them for that.
Roy and Crosland had set to work calling round the various rock-solid allies Jenkins had been quietly sounding out since Prentice buggered off to form the ‘British Labour Party’. Certain people had proved hard to get hold of, Dick Taverne in particular. But if the men (and occasional women) Roy had been phoning last night were the type to object to him waking them at two o’clock in the morning, they would not have been unwavering allies in the first place.
Very quickly, the plan had been formulated. Various old documents were dusted off, some dating back to when Hugh was alive. There were new ideas, too – expansions of Mountbatten’s own industrial proposals, whispers about electoral reform, and, predictably, seventy pages of bullet notes about Europe.
Absolute secrecy had somehow been maintained, at least Roy thought so. If Benn had got wind of what was about to happen, Jenkins would have found himself deposed and probably the subject of a lawsuit before one could say ‘National Executive Committee’.
But he had not. And now the day was here – the day that Roy Jenkins would quietly resign the leadership of the Labour Party. Benn, no doubt, was filling an extra thermos with tea in anticipation. Roy hoped he had the radio on.
“Time to go,” Tony Crosland said, appearing at Roy’s elbow, “the press were called half an hour ago, there’s a gaggle in the street now.”
“Right,” said Roy simply.
The front door seemed to open slowly, and the shouting and flashbulbs (and goodness, television cameras!) outside took a moment to sink in. In his own time, Roy produced a practised smile and silenced the press pack with a wave.
“Thank you. I wish to make a short statement this morning regarding the future of British politics,” he began, wondering if that was a flourish too far, “and I am grateful to you all for coming.”
A few doors down, he heard his neighbour slam their window shut. Not everybody would want to hear this, and not just because it was first thing in the morning.
“When I became Leader of the Labour Party eleven months ago, I felt intensely privileged and honoured. I was also aware of the scale of the task before me. With our credibility as a party under scrutiny more than any time in our history, a programme of radical change was clearly necessary. Our victory in the Huyton by-election, with an excellent candidate, might I add, was a vindication of the work I have tried to undertake as leader. Unfortunately, some within the Party, and in the trade union movement, have taken a different view. On matters ranging from Europe and Ireland to industrial democracy and the present constitutional situation, a gulf that appears impossible to bridge has opened within the Labour Party.”
A few journalists, efficiently scribbling in shorthand, realised where this was going and looked up, their pens still and eyes wide.
“I had hoped that from a position of leadership, I would be able to reach these reactionary elements and unite the Party behind a constructive programme. However, it is clear to me now that these elements do not want to be ‘reached’. In fact, in spite of their rhetoric, they do not want to ‘debate’ or ‘discuss’. It is with regret that I must now publicly concede that they are also the majority view within the Labour Party.”
Out of view of the cameras, Crosland placed a supportive hand on his back.
“It is for this reason that I am today announcing a new political party, one that I invite all on Britain’s centre-left to join.”
He refused to answer any of the questions that erupted, continuing only once the assembled journalists realised they would need to shut up.
“The great centre-left economist Douglas Jay, who I am pleased to announce is one of many MPs who has joined our new venture, proposed renaming the Labour Party ‘Reform’ after the defeat of 1959. Today, after another catastrophe far greater than any defeat, that name is proudly revisited. It is my privilege to formally declare the creation of the Reform Party.”
There was a small murmur of naughty amusement as some of the press pack realised Roy Jenkins had just founded a party that started with ‘r’.
“I am pleased to announce the immediate formation of the Reform Party parliamentary group. To explain further, I introduce our Deputy Leader, Mr Anthony Crosland, who will also be shadowing the exchequer.”
Crosland stepped forward and began aggressively touting the credentials of the ‘more than sixty’ MPs who had already agreed to rally around the Reform banner. More were expected once the Party was up and running. They would see it was the only option. If the British centre-left was to survive, it was going to do so outside the crumbling, discredited relic of the Labour Party. Yes, it was an organisation that had achieved a great deal. But Roy knew he must look to the future, and the rot that began under Wilson – he wondered for a moment whether it was deliberate – and exploded over the EEC had finally rendered the Party asunder. This wasn’t really about Ireland, or Mountbatten, or even Harold Wilson. The broad church had been long due an almighty schism. By discrediting the whole damn thing, Wilson had simply provided an opportunity for Roy to become Martin Luther.
“...and, like Roy, I call on all colleagues in the Labour Party, and indeed in all parties, to take a look at Reform and consider whether their future and their moral compass lies with us. Roy and I will now take questions.”
The cacophony was inevitable, but a bright young thing from the Mirror got in ahead of everyone else with a firm thrust of a dictaphone.
“Mr Jenkins, this is an extraordinary move for a sitting party leader. Can you confirm your status within or without Labour? Have you left the Party?”
Well, that was inevitable. Roy fielded the question as best he could, but found himself waffling somewhat about the irretrievable toxicity of Labour in the aftermath of Wilson’s exposure, then formal letters of resignation, NECs, and the EEC referendum the year before. But the real answer was much simpler, and indeed harder to stomach. Roy Jenkins had not left Labour. Labour had left him.
It was, without a doubt, the most atypical shadow cabinet meeting Barbara Castle had ever attended. Not only were a third of the shadow cabinet absent for reasons relating to ‘having just defected to a brand new party started by yesterday
’s leader of this one’, but the man sat in the Leader of the Opposition’s chair was none other than Anthony Wedgwood Benn. Because, she supposed, Tony was indeed Leader of the Opposition now.
“...if this could have been anticipated in any way – in any way – I would have taken steps to prevent it,” stressed Benn, his speech impediment accentuated.
“We all would,” said Michael Foot, looking a queer combination of angry and relieved. Roy Jenkins had that effect on people. Barbara herself had realised something like this would happen eventually, but the turnaround had astonished her.
“Regardless,” Benn pressed on, apparently oblivious to the testiness in Foot’s voice, “it is vital that we respond to the formation of the,” he winced, as if saying the words was causing him physical discomfort, “Reform Party in a way that ensures that the Labour Party and the wider trade union movement is not supplanted by the muggy centrist platform that the Jenkinsites will obviously put forward.”
Denis Healey, the Shadow Chancellor, nodded his approval.
“Tony is quite right, we have to use this opportunity to press upon the trades unions that our commitment is to protecting the rights and responsibilities of working families, not focusing on the constitution and reforming the electoral system.”
“On that,” Benn interjected, “I have to agree with Roy. This crisis does present itself with an opportunity to enter the election with a clear choice for Britain. This is an opportunity for us to build a truly democratic society, one that begins with a blank slate under which we can break the power of the Lords, Crown and other forces of reaction and inertia.”
Barbara did her best to avoid making eye-contact with Benn.
“A fine point, Tony,” David Ennals said as politely as possible, “but we would be foolish to stress that above bread-and-butter issues.”
