by Douglas Hurd
‘What am I to do?’
Julia extricated herself. The two women walked back towards the house. Julia told the story of Joan’s death and the display at Newbury. Louise knew most of this from television.
‘You’ve discovered that the man you live with is a shit,’ she said, without recrimination, like a doctor declaring a medical fact. ‘It happens to a lot of people.’
‘Do I leave him?’ Julia was still in tears.
‘Do you love him?’ There was no answer. ‘I don’t mean, do you enjoy David making love to you because obviously you do, though God knows how and why. He used to have a certain cubbish charm, but now he’s putting on weight. I mean, can you imagine life without him? Living by yourself in London? You can write and speak well enough. Being who you are you could easily get a media job. Julia Russell, it sounds well. And enough drama in your past to make you interesting. Think about it.’
‘I think about it all the time.’
Louise’s words had been harsh, as usual, but Julia was now inside the fence with which her mother protected herself from the outside world.
Once back inside the Hawtry Room, with the curtains drawn against the dusk, the fire lit and a teapot as companion, she began the whole story again from the beginning. The memorial service for Simon in the Abbey, her sense of belonging nowhere and to no one, David on the sofa at Highgate. His clumsiness, at the moment of lovemaking, her sense of power over a powerful man, the sense of loss when they quarrelled or he went away. She described his awfulness too, the combination of brutal political ideas with subtle tactical skill, the cynicism, the contempt for truth and gentleness. He was pressing now to marry her. She could not hold him off much longer.
‘Does he believe in anything? Anything except himself.’
‘Deep down, I think, yes. And it’s not just himself. Indeed he’s unsure about himself. Deep down I think he has a belief in England that drives him on. I may be wrong. It’s well hidden in all the rubbish. Often he’s so bogus and rhetorical that I think that’s all there is. But it can’t really be so. There’s something more.’
Julia sipped her tea and took a second biscuit. A beech log lost its position in the fire and fell smouldering out of the grate. She rose and replaced it with the tongs. After all the rows with David it was strange and comforting to be discussing him calmly, almost clinically, with her mother. She had not explained herself well, but could do no more. She waited for the diagnosis and prescribed treatment.
It was not what she expected. ‘You’d better stay with him.’
‘Stay?’
‘I’ve been trying to imagine how you’d manage without him. Having listened to you, I don’t think you could.’ She paused. ‘Sorry.’
‘Sorry, indeed. That’s not a cure you’ve given me, it’s a sentence of death.’ But Julia spoke calmly.
‘Of imprisonment. Lock yourself up with him. Throw away the key. You’ll get the worst of all worlds if you stay with David but are just passive and resentful. Go over to the attack. Marry him. Breed by him. Get into his life, politics and all. Find whatever there is, hidden in that rubbish. Bring it out, polish it, put it to use.’
‘It’s the strangest advice I’ve ever heard.’
But she took it. Or, rather, tried to take it.
Chapter 7
Sometimes a political crisis exploded out of the damp dreariness of some technical matter. By the time the Conservative Shadow Cabinet met on that Thursday afternoon fifteen months into Turnbull’s Labour Government Peter Makewell could smell the trouble smouldering in the English Universities (Prohibition of Fees) Bill, which had received its third reading in the Commons the night before.
‘The facts are clear. The Bill is illegitimate.’ David Alcester, as Shadow Chancellor, had taken no part in the parliamentary debates on the Bill, but now he spoke with total confidence, a man on top of his brief. ‘Universities are a devolved subject. English MPs have no say over Scottish universities; so Scots MPs can have no legitimate say over ours. Yet the third reading was carried only by Scottish Labour votes. Our senior universities propose to continue to charge the top-up fees prohibited in the Bill even after Royal Assent. They have senior counsel’s opinion that any enforcement of the Bill against them would be struck down, if not in our courts then certainly in the European Court of Human Rights. We’ve opposed the Bill all the way. We can’t let the universities down now. We have to support them in disobeying it.’
The Shadow Minister for Education spoke next. ‘I’ve led the fight in the Commons. David wasn’t there. I think I have the feel of it. We argued well. The Lords were on our side. But in the end we lost. The argument is over for the moment. David wants us to play outside the rules and support disobedience of the law. The Tory Party has never done that.’ Sarah Tunstall, having backed Roger Courtauld in that distant leadership election, had been given the Education portfolio first in the Makewell Cabinet, and now in the Shadow Cabinet to represent the liberal wing of the Party. With her flowing hair, West Country voice and incoherent clothes she looked like the caricature of a progressive schoolmistress. In fact her policies had been steady and successful. But she retained from her loyalty to Roger Courtauld an abiding dislike of David Alcester.
‘Sarah is not accurate. We have supported civil disobedience in the past,’ he retorted. ‘Over Northern Ireland. “Ulster will fight, Ulster will be right.” That was a great slogan.’
‘Life is not all slogans,’ said Peter Makewell from the chair, showing his hand too soon. ‘What does the Shadow Attorney General think?’
But Sarah Tunstall butted in. ‘It’s a lousy slogan applied to the universities,’ she said. ‘First, David is wrong. Only Cambridge has come out definitely so far for defying the law if necessary. The others are wavering. Much will hang on what we decide this afternoon. Second, don’t let’s forget what this is all about. These senior universities, the Russell Group, want to charge our bright young men and women an extra twenty or thirty per cent for their higher education. The students will resist ferociously. They are the strongest supporters of the Bill. The polls show the Bill is popular. I know all the arguments about quality and holding our own with the Americans. I’ve used them myself. But we’d be crazy to push this any further.’
Next, Peter Makewell called the Shadow Attorney General, which meant chief legal adviser to the Opposition. He saw at once that this was a tactical mistake. He would have had to call Clive Wilson into the discussion at some stage, but it would have been better later. Peter Makewell knew that he was making these tactical mistakes more often. He wished that there was a better clutch of lawyers in the Conservative Party from whom to choose. Clive Wilson had recently developed a lawyer’s vocabulary, but that was different from legal wisdom.
He spoke at some length summarising both sides of the argument. He concluded that thirty years ago there would have been no doubt. ‘Statute law was enacted by the Queen in Parliament and in those days that was that. The courts could interpret the law but not question it. If the Queen in Parliament enacted the slaughter of the first-born it would be illegal to prevent the killings – though I imagine there would be evidential problems as regards twins, the loss of birth certificates, and so forth.’ He paused for the chuckle round the table, which did not come. ‘But the position has now changed. What was certain has become uncertain. The Bill preventing the English universities from charging top-up fees is clearly unjust, as we have consistently argued. It restricts their independence and the independence of the parents and students who would pay these fees. Independence of education from political control is implicit in the clauses of the European Convention, which I have quoted. I cannot assert with confidence what would be the conclusion of any legal proceedings brought by the universities, but there must at least be reasonable doubt. I conclude that, the legal position being obscure, the issue for colleagues at this stage is essentially political.’
On that basis the discussion continued round the table. Some, like Clive Wilson,
supported David Alcester because he was their man. Others supported him because it was the job of the Opposition to oppose, in and out of Parliament. Others knew that the universities were right, and the government blind with prejudice and the fear of seeming elitist. There was little doubt of the drift of the argument.
Peter Makewell took his decision without difficulty. It had been building up inside him for several days. He had told Louise in their pillow-talk that morning. ‘You should know that I cannot lead a party that preaches disobedience to the law.’ He did not elaborate, because there was no need.
Sarah Tunstall and four or five others followed him because they agreed with the principle, and liked people like Peter Makewell who were predictable and straightforward. But his qualities had been part of a chapter that had ended, as all political chapters do, in defeat. He had stayed on as Leader of the Party because enough people had asked him to, believing it was not wise to change leader in the immediate shock of defeat. But his time was over. It followed that the threat of resignation he had just made carried no weight. David Alcester spoke again. He wanted to defeat Sarah Tunstall but not antagonise her for ever.
‘Sarah’s quite right about the students. The polls show a lot of anxious parents too. But that is a short-term worry. The long-term gain is too big to throw away. We’ve got the Scots and the Scot-lickers on the run on this Bill, and we have to make that the issue. Look at this for a start.’ He plunged into the case beside his chair and unrolled a poster. A kilted Scot with a beard and knobbly knees was crushing under huge boots two small models of academic buildings, labelled Oxford and Cambridge. Out of his sporran tumbled a scattering of euro notes. Two old men, one clad in stars and one in stripes, labelled Harvard and Yale, cackled happily in the background.
‘My artist in the New England Movement dreamed this up. It’ll be on all the hoardings next week if we can get the right caption.’
The Shadow Cabinet contemplated the future with mixed feelings and in silence.
‘I shall not try to sum up,’ Peter Makewell said. ‘The points have been made clearly on both sides.’ He paused. ‘I think this is one of those occasions when it would be useful to take a vote. For the sake of future clarity.’
The vote was eleven in favour, six against, and gave public support to the universities in any decision to levy top-up fees even after the English Universities (Prohibition of Fees) Bill had received Royal Assent.
Peter Makewell resigned that evening. Within three weeks David Alcester had been elected Leader of the Conservative Party and the Leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition, having defeated Sarah Tunstall by a substantial margin.
They hardly ever disagreed nowadays. Sometimes David regretted the early days with Julia when in between bouts of the other thing they had argued hammer and tongs night after night. But lately peace had come.
He did not quite understand how, but marriage and motherhood had proved a pacifier. In return he made love to Julia rather more often than he himself relished. He had a wife, he had a son; these necessary objectives had been obtained. Pumping himself into Julia once or twice a week had become in his mind the price he paid for these things. He had begun to feel a certain small fondness for her which had nothing to do with sex. He was even taking paternity leave from his duties as Leader of the Opposition, though his fatherly duties at home were hard to define. But all this was an appendage to the consuming interest of his steady political progress.
The baby had to have a name. The press would soon be restive.
‘George is out,’ said Julia. The object of the debate nuzzled at her breast, quiet after a stormy night. She, too, was exhausted. For the moment David slept in the spare room of the flat. He had to be protected against infant noise in order to keep up his strength. Even on leave, though, he coped with the usual flow of e-mail and meetings, the main difference being that the meetings now had to be held at home in the flat rather than at the Commons or Conservative Central Office.
‘George would be hugely popular right across England.’
‘The boy is a boy, a human being, not a political slogan.’ Julia spoke quietly, but David saw that she would not budge. He had prepared an alternative.
‘You’re sure? It’s a huge pity.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Then it will have to be Simon.’
Julia stared at her husband, amazed.
‘I always had a great respect for your father. I didn’t agree with him about everything, but he was a great prime minister.’
And opinion research, as Julia well knew, showed that people still consistently rated Simon Russell high above anyone on the present political scene. ‘You didn’t know him, and what you knew you disliked. You’re just cashing in on his popularity.’ But she spoke without edge.
‘That’s an exaggeration. And it would delight your mother.’
Yes – Louise would make a sharp joke about it, but inside herself would be pleased.
‘I can tell the press?’
‘You can tell the press.’ Julia sank back on the plumped-up pillows. Her inner resolution was that in no circumstance would the new Simon have anything to do with politics. But she knew it was a resolution that she had no power to deliver. Simon began to exact his breakfast.
It was a great relief to be out of the noise and muddle of the baby-dominated flat. David Alcester ran up the staircase of Conservative Central Office two steps at a time. The posters in the entrance hall showed him with Julia holding Simon, all three happy and smiling. That was more satisfactory than the reality of Cambridge Street, Julia tired and usually silent, Simon bawling, unhappy at the move from breast to bottle.
‘You’re nice and fit,’ said an unknown lady from the research department passing her leader as she descended the wide Central Office staircase.
That was what he had hoped someone would say. In fact, he was puffing by the time he reached the landing and turned left towards the chairman’s office.
He had never particularly liked Central Office, a stodgy great block in Smith Square, still too full of Makewell and Courtauld supporters. But Clive Wilson had started well as chairman. He had forced the party machine to let the New England leadership share their office space. This meant getting rid of some of the research department, including perhaps the lady with whom David had just exchanged smiles on the stairs. But neither David Alcester nor Clive Wilson thought much of academic contributions to political life. New England, not facts and figures about policy, held the key to success at the next election.
‘Okay, what do we have this morning?’
The two men met each other alone each day, except for one small young assistant, wearing a New England tie, who sat in a corner adoring the two principals and taking notes of their decisions.
‘Cambridge expect their verdict from the ECHR today or tomorrow.’
Cambridge University, having declared independence of government, was arguing before the European Court of Human Rights that the British government and Parliament had acted illegally in preventing them from charging higher fees for their tutorial systems.
‘What do they expect?’
‘To lose, unfortunately.’
‘That’s not what you advised Shadow Cabinet.’
Clive Wilson was nettled. ‘Not at all, David, you remember perfectly well that I said it was an open question.’
‘What happens after that?’
‘Cambridge will obey. They’ll refund the fees they’ve already levied. They’re not the New England Movement. They can’t flout the law. They’ve come to the end of the legal process.’
‘Bad headlines for us. We’ve invested a lot of political capital in this.’
‘A setback, certainly.’ But it got you the leadership, Clive Wilson added in his own mind.
‘You can’t stiffen the Vice-Chancellor?’
‘No. They’re not interested in our argument about England being run by Scottish votes. They just worry about the dumbing down of the university.’
&nb
sp; ‘Most unreasonable. Cowardly, indeed.’ David spoke without irony. The world of professional party politics, which had formed Clive Wilson and himself, no longer allowed any validity to argument outside its own concerns.
‘We’ll need to compensate. Something eye-catching over the weekend.’
They were back on territory in which Clive Wilson was expert.
‘I think I have it. Flags.’
‘Flags?’
‘There are several places in London that fly the Scots flag, the blue and white cross.’
‘St Andrew’s.’
‘That’s it. St Columba’s, Pont Street, that fat white church, is one. The Royal Bank of Scotland off Bishopsgate is another. I’ve got a list of a dozen. All on good sites for TV and press. We’ll have New England pull them all down on Saturday morning. They’ll put up St George instead.’
It was good, real politics.
‘What do the lawyers say?’ asked David, forgetting that Clive Wilson called himself a lawyer.
‘Not breaking and entering if we do it from outside. Not criminal damage if we keep the flags intact. Not theft. New England would just fold the flags neatly and leave them on the pavement. A soundbite or two about freeing us from Scots rule. St George the champion of freedom, and that’s it.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Another thought. New England’s got its own research team now. Quite unlike that useless bunch we’re getting rid of from the old machine. They’re coming up with some good material. Lots of quotes, of course, from Dr Johnson. God, that man despised the Scots. But earlier stuff as well.’
‘Such as?’
‘When the Scots King James succeeded Elizabeth, he brought a pack of Scottish courtiers down with him – 1603, I think. They had lice. They stank. The English courtiers wouldn’t sit next to them. That’s how the word “stinkers” came into the language.’
‘Stinkers, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled.’
‘Precisely.’
