by Tom Black
Thatcher turned to Reece, about to thank him once again for his counsel. The door opened, however, and her twentysomething aide entered, bearing that sycophantic grin of his.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but Mr Reece’s car is here,” he said smoothly.
“Thank you, Anthony,” Margaret said with a firm, dismissive wave, “but what a pity, Gordon. The time really does fly.”
“You will see me tomorrow,” said Reece, picking up his briefcase from the floor, “Secretary of State.”
Margaret permitted herself a smile. It had been a dreary, miserable day shortly after the New Year that had marked the first bilateral talk between Margaret and Ted since she had formed her first Shadow Cabinet. It had been held in the neutral ground of Lord Carrington’s office, just up from Black Rod’s. Heath had – absurdly – offered her the chance to replace him at the Treasury. As Reece let himself out of the front door, she recalled the meeting.
“It’s entirely up to you, Margaret,” Ted had remarked, in that tone of his that almost – almost – managed to disguise the fact that he loathed every inch of her being, “we obviously represent two very different schools of thought within the party, but the offer is there, if you consent to a more measured approach to reforming taxation.”
Thatcher had given it serious consideration for about ten seconds before politely refusing. Heath had looked relieved at that, before offering her Jim Prior’s role at International Trade and Industry. That had certainly appealed to her. Deregulation, cutting red tape, promoting new management techniques, and so on. Heath had even informed her that Mountbatten had established it in deliberate homage to the Japanese MITI. Finally, he had casually mentioned how the equivalent post was widely seen in Tokyo as a stepping stone to the Premiership.
“Why bother going to all the effort of tax and spend,” the Chancellor had said, “when you could be the one actually making the economy effective for manufacturers?” Thatcher had very carefully considered the proposal, making sure she found out exactly what authority she would have over stock market regulation. She had winced, but eventually accepted – what tipped her over the edge was the strong position the party would be in to win the election.
The small matter of the former leader of the opposition party being tried for treason would normally see any sitting government sail home. But more than a year of propping up a leader regarded by a plurality of the population as ‘literally Horthy’ had thrown away a lot of the goodwill gained from the knowledge that the Labour Party had been led by a Leninist. Thankfully, Jeremy Thorpe – whom she understood was a fairly filthy individual – had relented on the ‘moderate coupon’ issue, leading to the mass-resignation of a swathe of Liberal candidates who had been expected to stand down in favour of Conservative incumbents or more likely challengers. The handful of Tories in the West Country ordered to reciprocate had been much more civil, although two had still joined the Unionists. The press had been trying to make a story out of Margaret’s alleged desire to follow them. It was all untrue, though Margaret herself had wrestled with her conscience over the matter across the Christmas period.
In the end, however, she just didn’t have in her to cut and run. She had entered Parliament as a Conservative, she had served in a Conservative Cabinet, and she had been the Conservative Party’s Leader – no, leaving would just be seen as throwing one’s toys out of the pram. More importantly, it would have looked positively Heath-like - and if there was one person Margaret was not, it was Edward Heath.
Nor was she a traitor, which still rankled her about Enoch’s flounce out of the party back in 1974. The Conservative Party was the centre of British political life, and it had survived far worse damage than anything she could possibly hope to inflict upon it.
But could it survive what seemed to be coming next? With the coupon a done deal, and Heath and his acolytes saying ‘Moderate’ in favour of ‘Conservative’ every chance they got, it seemed inevitable that at either this party conference or the next, the remnants of the non-Penhooligan Liberals would vote to merge with the non-Unionist Conservatives and create one big ‘Moderate Party’. Not forgetting the British Labour Party, of course, though most people had in fact forgotten them anyway. How easily Reg Prentice would sit with Roy Jenkins again remained to be seen, as Reform had confirmed a ‘pact’ with the ‘moderate parties’ in thirty seats. It had been made necessary by the unexpected number of Tory monetarists who had joined Enoch’s mob when he made Keith Joseph his candidate for chancellor, but Thatcher was in no doubt that Jenkins, Thorpe and Heath were planning on making their EEC referendum love-in a permanent arrangement.
It would all end in tears. Margaret gave a disapproving murmur as she walked to the mirror, clipped open her handbag and began to re-apply her makeup. Any trip out of the house now required it – a key Reece teaching had been ‘always be ready for a camera and a microphone’. Rummaging for blusher, Margaret pondered her party leader once more. Heath might have his wits about him now, backed by the implicit support of a titan like Mountbatten, but he would not be able to go on and on. He was already showing his age. A change in leadership would be necessary before the next election, and if Ted didn’t want to go gently into retirement, the party would need someone to wield the knife. With Joseph a ‘Unionist’ now, Airey kicked upstairs and the young bucks all – well – too young, there was a gap waiting to be filled.
“I did it once,” Margaret said, baring her teeth to check for lipstick stains, “I can do it again.”
Sir Michael Hanley was enjoying a good, long soak. With an LP of English hymns in the gramophone (decadently hauled into the bathroom), and the wife out of the house, he was relishing an unusual period of peace.
The last few weeks had been hell. After his release had been secured from police custody after that outrageous display of theatrics by Mountbatten and Powell, he had been driven home, whereafter the officer escorting him there had followed him into the hall and asked him to take a seat in his living room.
What followed would have greatly impressed Sir Michael had he not been on the verge of soiling himself. The polite gentleman in a dark suit had explained that ‘the difficulties’ of a criminal charge and trial were not considered a worthwhile ‘distraction’ during the administration’s closing weeks in office. The national embarrassment of so many public figures standing trial for undermining, in Sir Michael’s case, the very democratic ideals they were bound to defend, was not a desirable outcome.
So instead, something less delicate but more directly effective was to be pursued. All the members of the League had been returned to their homes, and a gentleman much like the man addressing Sir Michael had informed them of the situation as it stood. They were to go about their lives, as usual. They would, of course, resign from any positions of public significance or authority. They would profess a desire to leave the public eye, and the press would, thanks to a conveniently existing relationship with the Mountbatten ministry, be only too happy to oblige. They would never, under any circumstances, discuss politics or affairs of state again. In return? The charges against them, great as they were, would not be pursued. That was the carrot.
Sir Michael had immediately known there would be a stick.
The shape of the stick was the part that earned the grudging respect of the former Director-General of MI5, even now. “If you break this agreement, in any way,” the anonymous gentleman in the suit had said, “your address will be forwarded to the Irish Republican Army.”
Sir Michael had not really believed it until Cecil King’s study blew up. He pondered the matter as ‘I Vow To Thee, My Country’ emerged from his gramophone. The whole thing seemed much too ruthless for the toothless Admiral in Number 10, and much more in line with the kind of thing the League themselves had been coming up with during their ‘regency’. No doubt it was inspired by the League’s own actions. In a funny sort of way, they had been hoisted by their own petard.
The bloody cheek of it, Hanley fumed as he got to work on
his legs with a sponge. A group of fine men, patriots who knew what needed to be done, had come together and saved their country from crisis in its darkest hour since 1940. Were it not for the League, Britain could have become a nuclear wasteland, or worse - a Soviet vassal. Or even – Hanley winced – an emasculated husk of a nation, even more in thrall to the Americans, and never again welcome at the grown-ups’ table. Lord Home probably had something to do with that, in fairness.
Had they been uncompromising? Of course. Had some of their measures been imprecise, and perhaps impacted on innocents? Regrettably, yes. Had they sacrificed liberty – temporarily – in the name of stability? Undoubtedly. But unlike that effete 18th century intellectual Franklin, Hanley was firmly of the opinion that such action did not disqualify Britain from enjoying both. And what had been the League’s reward? Handcuffs, a spit in the face, and a thoroughly undignified Sword of Damocles in the shape of balaclava’d thugs from across the Irish Sea. It still burned at Hanley’s insides, even now. Everything they had done had been in the interests of the country. And in return, the country was now prepared to murder them.
But, at least, the agreement did seem to be honourable. The McWhirters had resigned from their involvement with The Record Breakers and withdrawn from their contract with Guinness. In return, they had been permitted a quiet existence running a bookshop in East London. Furthermore, a certain fait accompli had been accepted by Whitehall when Bentine made his (allegedly moustachioed) escape to Peru, though the unfortunate shades of Bormann and Mengele had not been ignored by the left-leaning press. The leash around the necks of the Guardian and the Mirror had been substantially loosened recently, though it had not been completely removed. The Morning Star, however, still found that any self-respecting newsagent had difficulty finding space for it on its shelves.
I Vow To Thee, My Country came to an end. The crackle of the vinyl bouncing around the bathroom walls was the only sound as Sir Michael wiggled his toes. He used the relative silence as a chance to consider, for the hundredth time that day, what on earth he would do next.
With the children grown up and gone, and his wife uninterested in anything that wasn’t a Le Carré novel, he supposed he would have plenty of time to do some reading of his own. Rekindle his childhood hobby of trainspotting. Maybe take up gardening.
But no, he thought as the first bars of ‘Jerusalem’ finally soared from the gramophone. A life of tedium was, for Hanley, no life at all. There came a time when it was right for the curtain to fall.
Sir Michael took a deep breath, and reached for his razor.
As he repacked his pipe, Tony Benn let out an involuntary shudder. Today was perhaps the most important day in the Labour Party’s history since its foundation, and he was certain that he was coming down with something. To sneeze and sniffle all over the new manifesto simply wouldn’t do. The Deputy Leader of the Labour Party was supposed to be a pillar of strength.
For Deputy Leader he remained. Barbara’s entry into the race to succeed Roy had completely blindsided him. His biggest worry had been Foot, when all along Castle had been nurturing her own support among the PLP. Benn’s own moral compass had played an important role in proceedings when certain elements among his supporters suggested he begin more aggressively criticising Barbara’s ‘closeness’ to Wilson, in a manner so insidious as to be almost lewd. Tony had sacked them from his informal campaign team on the spot and never looked back. Morality aside, they may have had the ‘right’ idea. The result could not have been narrower – Castle won by one vote in the final round – and she had wasted no time stamping out her authority. She knew that meant Tony must be brought on-side, which had been easy enough to achieve. As Deputy, he would be empowered to prepare proposals on Party democracy, and Shadow Secretary of State for Industry had been his request when she offered him ‘anything but the Exchequer’.
Yes, the defeat had knocked his ego. He had thought the Movement was turning to him in its hour of need, and was certain nobody could have stood up to Roy in the same way. But fate had chosen a different path for him, and he had spent the last couple of months coming to terms with that. Barbara was also fifteen years his senior – if she retired at the election after this one, he would still be only fifty-seven. And she might not last even that long...
“Are you ready?” Denis Healey said, as if materialising from thin air.
“Almost. How are you on your notes?”
“I was up until four in the morning getting to grips with the ‘regional dividend’. Christ, I miss Joel.”
The sentiment seemed light, but Benn knew better. Healey had taken Joel Barnett’s departure to Reform very badly. However unthinkable it would be for Denis to join a party started as a vanity project for his greatest rival, his own protégé claiming to ‘see which way history is headed’ had been a blow.
Denis had accepted Castle’s offer of Shadow Chancellor gladly. Benn being Healey’s party superior but policy junior had proved an ‘interesting’ working relationship. It was getting better, but sharp words and paperweights still occasionally flew. Today, they had agreed to put that aside for the cameras. For all the cries from the far-left regarding the ‘stage management of conference’, the official release of the election platform was the one place where regimented co-ordination was positively expected.
Except, this was still the Labour Party. Both in spirit and in law – Roy’s angry murmurs about a legal battle for the name and the Party’s resources had lasted about five minutes. And as ever, Labour was not an organisation that really did regimented co-ordination. While the leadership was doing the very best they could to smile inanely every time a reporter pressed a camera lens in their faces, behind the scenes, even senior members of the Shadow Cabinet were sniping at one another. ‘Bugger off to Weform’ had been an all-too-common refrain at meetings over the last month. It was in particularly bad taste when one considered the number of MPs who had done just that – Jenkins’ original sixty-five had become ninety before the new year.
Tony mused to himself as he, Healey and the rest of the shadow cabinet filed out onto the stage behind a podium that awaited their leader. All things considered, the manifesto wasn’t half bad. Of course the preamble was all ‘Industrial Democracy’ this and ‘White Heat’ that – but then, that hadn’t really worked in 1964 (Tony wondered again whether Moscow-sponsored shenanigans were the real reason Wilson eked out a win that year). Benn doubted whether even Barbara thought it would reach out to Middle England in 1977. But the ‘meat’ of the policy proposals was solid. The Party had managed to avoid designing a horse by committee and ending up with social credit. That likely wouldn’t matter to the gaggle of skinheads and National Front supporters that had established a settlement in front of the main entrance, not until Peter Shore announced ‘Compulsory Repatriation For Every Schoolchild’ or something.
Shore, the shadow foreign secretary, gave Benn a nod and a pat on the shoulder as he sat down. His appointment had all but confirmed that Jenkins’ brief (and unconstitutional) change to the Party’s European policy would be reversed. Conference’s wish to advocate withdrawal from the EEC would once more be respected. Reform, unsurprisingly, had the opposite position, for all the good it would do them. It seemed their campaign would be more focused on Labour than on the Tories (or their ‘moderate coupon’ colleagues in the Liberals).
“It isn’t going to be quite as bad as it was for us in 1931,” Healey had said in the final PLP meeting of the Parliament, “but I can see the result being close to how things were in the mid-1920s.”
Benn had scoffed at such nonsense, but Foot had laughed long and hard. There was something absurd about the Labour Party doing better when they had been led by an actual traitor than when the Daily Mail had just pretended that they had been.
If there was only one positive to take from the past month or so (and it was – to be fair – a pretty big positive) it was that democracy was, well, back. An unelected National Government headed by the Queen’s Admira
l Cousin was about to be replaced, not by tanks on the streets, but by millions of decent, ordinary people putting a cross in a box.
Of course, precisely where those crosses would go was a matter of some debate. Tony was a confident person – it seemed pointless to be anything else – but it was obvious even to him that more of them would be going next to candidates of Ted Heath’s merry band of moderates than by those of the Labour Party. Even with the impending annihilation of the BLP and Enoch’s Unionist splitters (irony upon ironies...), it would going to be a tough campaign in the marginals. The polls, unreliable at the best of times and close to useless in the new era of post-Mountbatten ‘five party politics’, suggested anything from a Conservative two-thirds majority to a hung parliament with Enoch Powell as kingmaker. A few even suggested the Unionists might get a few seats over the line and form a government themselves – and more than a few had hinted that Barbara and Roy might come awkwardly close on seats and begin arguing over who was really Leader of the Opposition.
Even so – it was still democracy, and democratic will would be done. After all that had taken place over the past year and a half – the exposure of Wilson, the General Strike, Mountbatten’s assumption of power, the Ted Scare, the alleged Powellite Putsch – after all that, the United Kingdom’s democratic institutions still functioned. Across the nation, from Cornwall to Caithness, people would go to their sports centres, school halls and registry offices and appoint a new government by the terrifying use of pieces of paper. That was something to celebrate.
