by John Harris
‘Christ,’ Wedderburn said, quite unaware that he was echoing the thoughts of his general. ‘What a bloody shambles it’ll be.’
Two
At his house at Brighton, the Leader of the Opposition was studying the reports that had been delivered to him from the House of Commons. The Home Secretary, the Foreign Secretary and the Defence Minister were, by arrangement, courteously allowing him to keep in touch with events. This was not unusual at a time of crisis but, somehow, Carey had a feeling at that moment that there was more than mere courtesy involved. More and more he felt that a climax was imminent, and he suspected they knew it, too, and were allowing him deliberately to keep abreast of events.
He glanced up at the men at the table by the window. Moffat was leaning over the pile of newspapers, watched by the Shadow Chancellor.
‘Starke’s wavering,’ he said.
‘He’ll never waver,’ the Shadow Chancellor snorted.
Moffat rattled the sheets on the table before him and looked round at Carey.
‘The Times has it again that you’re prepared to join a coalition,’ he said.
‘Well, The Times is wrong,’ Carey answered.
‘Don’t you think, in view of the danger, we ought to consider a coalition?’
‘Not under Starke,’ Carey said. ‘He’s come round to the idea and sounded me. I told him that we couldn’t serve under him, and, in fact, that the country didn’t want him.’
‘That was pretty brutal, Spencer.’
‘It was intended to be. He’s a bit of a limpet and we now have a clear chance of office.’
Moffat smoothed the newspapers slowly. ‘A coalition would stop the rot,’ he persisted. ‘It would mean there’d be some direction at last.’ He paused, eyeing Carey. ‘He’s still hoping,’ he pointed out. ‘He’s been in touch with Bryerly, Thompson and Rayner Clark. I heard he’s even had a go at Lord Forbes.’
‘Elders of the Party,’ Carey snapped. ‘Men who no longer have any hopes of office if we get in.’
He knew that the men around him saw the crisis to a large extent as an opportunity to seize power after too many years in opposition, and he knew they would be more than willing to try any method to kick open the door. He had himself accused the Government only the previous night of hedging, and of endeavouring to justify its actions in half a dozen niggling ways, and he stared at his own words now in the scattered Press cuttings on the desk in front of him, uneasily conscious that they sounded hollow and even cynical, because the by-election at Rudkin and Hale had shown the way the country was thinking. He was well aware that with a similar swing throughout the country, he could reckon on a solid majority at a General Election.
He pushed the cuttings aside with a quick gesture, telling himself he was anticipating events. Starke was too crafty to allow himself to be manoeuvred into an early election – especially with opinion against him. Yet – Carey frowned at the realisation – if he hung on to the last minute, there was a good chance that the country could be destroyed economically for years to come and even of a disastrous possibility of a world at war. It was hardly an auspicious set of events for a new administration to inherit. The pressure would have to be put on the Prime Minister a little.
He moved restlessly in his chair, impatient and resentful. It seemed incredible to him that Starke could continue to survive the outcry that Stabledoor had aroused. It was worse even than at the time of Suez. In spite of being repelled by the police, the students were coming back again and again; and no section of the community – even a resilient student section – would go on doing that if they didn’t believe wholeheartedly that Stabledoor was illogical, immoral and unnecessary. Police reinforcements had had to be called into the capital to help the Metropolitan Force but, with outbreaks elsewhere, only the county forces had been able to spare men, and for the most part they weren’t used to city streets and didn’t handle riots as well as the London men, and casualty wards all over the city were filling up, with police and students in beds next to each other. The dockers’ strike at Southampton had turned into a minor battle and tear-gas bombs had been used in Bristol. All output had been stopped at Birmingham, Coventry and Middlesbrough because works managers could not promise that what was turned out was not going to be used against the Khanzians; and there had been trouble at more than one pub in the Notting Hill area of London as premises had been wrecked by coloured mobs and white men had been beaten up.
England was sinking into disrepute. Abroad, she stood accused by America, Russia, China, France and a dozen Afro-Asian countries. India had threatened once more to withdraw from the Commonwealth and there was a danger of even Canada, New Zealand and Australia severing the tenuous links that still held them to England.
Weighing matters up, Carey decided that perhaps it would be wiser not to hurry Starke too much. If Starke went too quickly, his successor would inherit not only a great deal of the difficulties but also some of the odium, and he wanted to see the blame set fairly on the shoulders of the men in office first. There must be no taint attached to the Opposition, in case the Party managed to seize power, and no question of joining a coalition while blame still remained unapportioned. If power came, it had to come clear-cut and backed by the whole of the country, and it seemed worth the gamble of waiting.
He sat back in his chair, irritated by the need for restraint when power seemed so near. In front of him The Times showed the Prime Minister leaving Downing Street. He looked worried and there were placards visible demanding his resignation. Yet, while he could still command such a substantial majority in the House as he did, there was nothing Carey could do but wait and play his cards close to his chest.
For a moment, he regretted the speech he had made the previous day in the House. Reading it again in the columns of The Times, it sounded less like an appeal to restore the country’s integrity than an effort to destroy the Government and climb to power on the wreckage. His political instincts had overcome him when he had intended to show only patriotism, and he would have to be more careful. There must be no feeling in the constituencies that he was making political capital out of the crisis. The debate that had followed his speech had been as bitter, fruitless and arid as ever, and there had been a great many shouts of ‘Traitor’ from both sides of the House. Speeches had been constantly interrupted so that the noise had increased to a deafening intensity, and it had eventually become so impossible to hear a thing even from the other side of the despatch table, that the Speaker, with wave after wave of noise beating about the Chamber, had risen and left the House to bring the sitting to an end.
It had been a sad stupid scene and marked the very depths of parliamentary behaviour, and the Leader of the Opposition was still suffering from an uneasy feeling that perhaps they had gone about things the wrong way, when his secretary came to say there was a telephone call from Greenaway.
He sat up abruptly in his chair. A call from Greenaway could mean only one thing.
He picked up the telephone and Greenaway spoke at once.
‘May I come and see you, Spencer?’ he asked. ‘I can be there in a couple of hours.’
‘Will any useful purpose be served?’ Carey asked. ‘I’ve refused twice, George.’
Greenaway coughed. ‘It’s nothing to do with the Prime Minister,’ he said.
‘Can’t you tell me what it is?’
‘I’d rather not over the telephone.’
‘Is it to do with Stabledoor?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then I’d like to have Moffat here as well.’
‘I’ll agree to that.’
Something in Greenaway’s manner made Carey suspicious. ‘Can’t you give me a hint as to what’s going on?’ he asked.
‘I think we’d better leave it till I see you.’
Greenaway’s car turned into the drive before the two hours were up and he was shown at once into Carey’s study. Moffat rose from his seat by the window and they all shook hands.
‘Now, George,’ Carey said. ‘For
God’s sake, spit it out.’
‘I think you should be in London,’ Greenaway said at once.
‘Why, George?’
‘Do I have to spell it out?’
Carey’s heart leapt. He knew quite well what Greenaway was hinting at but he hardly dared to think about it.
‘Why, George?’ he asked. ‘What’s happening?’
Greenaway looked embarrassed. ‘There’s a feeling among us,’ he said, ‘that Stabledoor must be stopped.’
Carey glanced at Moffat, but neither of them spoke, and Greenaway went on uncomfortably.
‘It’s well known,’ he said, ‘that Russian submarines are dogging it every inch of the way, and we know now that Malala’s likely to back out. Not only have the Americans and the African states been at them, but we’ve heard also that Russia’s prepared to offer machinery and a thumping big loan.’ He lifted unhappy eyes to Carey. ‘Nobody wants the sort of war this could become,’ he said, ‘and they’re all – even Russia – willing to offer bribes. Braka will get most of them for himself, but he’ll never be able to resist them. He’ll back out all right.’
Moffat gestured. ‘How about your position in this, George?’ he asked. ‘I suppose we ought to know.’
Greenaway paused. ‘I’ve already offered my resignation to my constituency,’ he said. ‘So no one can accuse me of being a traitor to the Party. I’ve been involved in the events of the last few days more deeply than I like; and as I told you, when they start to look for a scapegoat, it’ll probably be me. So I’m resigning. I’ve done my best to help the Government, but only for the good of the country. I’m sure you both know that.’
The other two men glanced at each other and Greenaway sighed within himself, feeling they were taking in only half of what he said. Politicians had changed since he’d first entered Parliament, he decided, and he was no longer able to keep up with the harder-headed men who were rising to the top, younger men who seemed more fitted by temperament to big business than politics. Patriotism and duty nowadays seemed to be only catchwords.
‘Anybody else in this?’ Carey asked sharply. ‘Anyone big, I mean.’
Greenaway paused. ‘Yes,’ he said after a while. ‘But I can’t say who.’
Carey nodded, wondering whether it were the Home Secretary or the Foreign Secretary who had finally lost his nerve and sent Greenaway to see him. Popular opinion was running against the Government and the ripples of uncertainty had spread out from Downing Street through Westminster and Fleet Street. The newspapers were full of speculation already and it was said that Lord Edbury, bringing his weight to bear, had openly started to sound Government back-benchers about their views.
‘It’s only fair to tell you,’ he said, ‘that I think now we can afford to shift our position. We’re no longer interested in joining a coalition because I think we can afford to aim for the whole lot.’
Greenaway sighed. ‘Who said anything about a coalition?’ he asked.
Carey looked narrowly at him, suddenly suspicious. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ Greenaway nodded. ‘The Americans have taken a hand. They’ve been in touch with the Foreign Secretary – though not directly. They’re determined to have Starke out.’
‘It’s no business of theirs,’ Carey snapped. ‘This isn’t an American affair.’
‘They feel it is. They claim that since this country’s held together by American money, they’ve a right to put their views. That’s all they have put at the moment.’
Carey’s temper cooled. ‘Go on, George,’ he prompted.
Greenaway shrugged. He felt very old suddenly. ‘They’re anxious to bring the crisis to an end,’ he said. ‘They want Hodgeforce turned round, and they’ve been in touch with a few of our back-benchers. The feeling is that if the Prime Minister were to resign – on any grounds– they could step in and mollify Scepwe. It would save peace.’
Carey frowned. ‘I can’t see him resigning, George,’ he said. ‘He’s still young and he’s damned ambitious, and he won’t want to lose that much face.’
‘It’s been suggested that he might get out of it by being taken ill. If he went into hospital abruptly, all sorts of thing could be blamed on him and, if we could get someone to say he’d had a nervous breakdown, the whole thing could be explained as the work of a man not responsible for his actions, and we could withdraw without loss of face. Something’s got to be done. There are likely to be resignations.’
‘Thank God someone’s got a conscience.’
Greenaway looked up quickly as Carey spoke.
‘Don’t moralise too much, Spencer,’ he warned him sharply, his voice suddenly hard. ‘You might well find yourself in the same position some day. These things have a habit of creeping up on you, as I’ve found out. Before you know where you are, you’re committed – and in a way you never intended.’
Carey nodded, accepting the wisdom of the remark, and Greenaway went on.
‘There’s a belief among us,’ he said, ‘that we might persuade him he no longer has our support. I was asked to see you, to find out whether you were prepared. I was asked for the same reasons as I was asked last time.’
Carey smiled. ‘I’m ready, George,’ he said. ‘But you’ll never pull it off.’
‘We’ve got Sir Wilfred Craig to say he’ll put his name to any report on his health. He’s the Royal Physician so it should carry some weight.’
The Leader of the Opposition eyed Greenaway for a moment. ‘There’s just one thing,’ he said slowly. ‘I asked for a new Government. I didn’t ask for a new party in office. Why do they want me to be ready? What’s wrong with the Foreign Secretary?’
‘He can’t get enough support. If Stabledoor continues, he’s prepared to resign. And so is the Home Secretary. But there’ll be too many in the Party who’ll feel they’ll have stabbed him in the back. They’d never form a government.’
Carey felt a surge of excitement. It was like the sudden feel of power. ‘Is there no one else?’ he asked.
Greenaway shook his head. ‘No one with enough stature to take this lot on his shoulders,’ he said. He looked shrewdly at Carey, wondering whether he were a statesman or just another politician like himself. ‘I’m not sure you are. You’ve not held the office before.’
‘I might surprise you, George,’ Carey said confidently.
‘I hope you will.’
Carey moved away. One had to admit, Greenaway told himself, he had a commanding presence. He had a presence, ability, and a rare gift of oratory. He wondered if it were enough, and if, underneath the Party tactician, there were the sweeping emotions, idealism and passion of a real leader.
‘Since you seem to be in some doubt about me’ – Carey’s words made Greenaway jump and he was startled to realise that his thoughts could have been so transparent – ‘it might startle you to know that I’m not going along with you.’
Moffat swung round. ‘You’re not?’ He found it hard to believe that a man could refuse the chance of such high office.
Greenaway was staring at Carey now, sorely troubled. ‘This is no time to play politics, Spencer,’ he said.
Carey shook his head. ‘I’m not playing politics,’ he said, though Greenaway found it hard to believe. ‘I have no need to, the way things are.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
Carey still had his back to the fireplace, his hands behind him, warming them against the flames.
‘I won’t be a party to any conspiracy, either by the back-benchers or by the Americans,’ he said. ‘If Starke goes, he goes in a proper democratic manner, because there’s no longer any support for him. I’ll not be involved either by the other side or by any foreign power.’
Greenaway looked weary. ‘Perhaps we can’t wait that long,’ he said quietly. ‘This thing could escalate overnight. Things are moving fast and with everything set up as it is, we could be carried along simply by the weight of armaments, as in 1914. There’d be no drawing bac
k.’
‘I must risk that.’
‘For the record?’ Greenaway asked bitterly, and Carey looked at him sharply.
‘We’ve been a long time in opposition,’ he said, ‘and there’s a chance now for us to get into office. I’ve never been Prime Minister, George, and it’s an office any man could be proud of. I like to think I could make a good job of it. Perhaps I’d be proved wrong – I don’t know – but I think I ought to have the chance to try.’
Greenaway lifted his head wearily, suddenly full of doubt about Carey.
‘If Stabledoor collapses,’ he said heavily, ‘you’ll be as responsible for the disaster as anyone. You could turn it back if you wished.’
Carey shook his head stubbornly. ‘It must be done constitutionally,’ he insisted. ‘I’ll wait until the apple drops off the tree.’
‘In spite of the urgency?’
‘It’s a matter of honour.’
Greenaway looked defeated. ‘What a mess the honour of honourable men can make of things,’ he said bitterly to Moffat, then, with a movement of infinite weariness, he picked up his hat and coat and left the room.
While Greenaway was talking to Carey, Arthur Starke sat alone in his chair in the Cabinet Room at Number Ten, keeping his long vigil.
In front of him the desk was littered with papers. There was a note from the Chief Whip’s Office insisting that there must be a statement by him after Questions the following week, and that there might be a demand for an emergency debate that could not be resisted. Underneath it, there were a group of Most Immediate telegrams from African states, all of them showing a shifting viewpoint over King Boffa Port and demanding to know Britain’s position. There were also numerous slips of paper fed to him by his Parliamentary Private Secretary with summaries of what they said and suggested replies, and he listlessly wrote ‘Approved’ across one or two of them and signed his initials, resentful that so many people should be carrying on the normal business of the country, and that so many trivialities should still be offered to him for his advice or approval when so much hung in the balance.
