She was surprised how many people recognized her. Some even applauded as she passed by, while others stared at her in sullen silence. Then a cheer went up, and Emma turned to see her brother getting out of a car and waving to his party’s supporters before disappearing into Transport House.
Emma reentered a building she had become all too familiar with during the past month, and was greeted by several leading party apparatchiks she’d come across while out on the campaign trail. People surrounded televisions in every room, as supporters, party workers, and Central Office staff waited for the first result to come in. Not a politician in sight. They were all back in their constituencies, waiting to find out if they were still Members of Parliament.
Croydon Central was declared at 1:23 a.m., with a swing of 1.8 percent to the Conservatives. Only muted cheers were offered up because everyone knew that suggested a hung parliament, with Jim Callaghan returning to the palace to be asked if he could form a government.
At 1:43 a.m. the cheers became louder when the Conservatives captured Basildon, which on Emma’s chart suggested a Conservative majority of around 30. After that, the results began to come in thick and fast, including a recount in Bristol Docklands.
By the time Mrs. Thatcher drove over from her Finchley constituency just after three a.m., the lights were already going out in Transport House. As she entered Central Office, the doubters were suddenly long-term supporters, and the long-term supporters were looking forward to joining her first administration.
The leader of the opposition paused halfway up the stairs and made a short speech of thanks. Emma was touched that hers was among the names mentioned in dispatches. After shaking several outstretched hands, Mrs. Thatcher left the building a few minutes later, explaining that she had a busy day ahead of her. Emma wondered if she would even go to bed.
Just after four a.m., Emma dropped into John Lacy’s office for the last time to find him standing by the chart and filling in the latest results.
“What’s your prediction?” she asked as she stared at a sea of blue boxes.
“It’s looking like a majority of over forty,” Lacy replied. “More than enough to govern for the next five years.”
“And our sixty-two marginal seats?” Emma asked.
“We’ve won all except three, but they’re on their third recount in Bristol Docklands, so it could be just two.”
“I think we can allow Giles that one,” Emma whispered.
“I always knew you were a closet wet,” said Lacy.
Emma thought about her brother, and how he must be feeling now.
“Goodnight, John,” she said. “And thank you for everything. See you in five years’ time,” she added before making her way out of the building and back across to her home on the other side of the square, where she planned to return to the real world.
* * *
Emma woke a few hours later to find Harry seated on her side of the bed, holding a cup of tea.
“Will you be joining us for breakfast, my darling, now that you’ve done your job?”
She yawned and stretched her arms. “Not a bad idea, Harry Clifton, because it’s time I got back to work.”
“So what’s the plot for today?”
“I have to get back to Bristol, sharpish. I’ve got a meeting with the newly appointed chairman of the hospital at three this afternoon, to discuss priorities for the next year.”
“Are you happy with your successor?”
“Couldn’t be more pleased. Simon Dawkins is a first-class administrator and he was a loyal deputy, so I’m expecting the handover to be seamless.”
“Then I’ll leave you to get dressed,” said Harry, before handing his wife her tea and heading back downstairs to join Giles for breakfast.
Giles was seated at the far end of the table surrounded by the morning papers, which didn’t make good reading. He smiled for the first time that day when his brother-in-law entered the room.
“How are you feeling?” asked Harry, placing a consoling hand on the shoulder of his oldest friend.
“I’ve had better mornings,” admitted Giles, pushing the papers to one side. “But I’m hardly in a position to complain. I’ve served as a minister for nine of the past fourteen years, and I must still have a chance of holding office in five years’ time, because I can’t believe that woman will last.”
Both men stood when Emma entered the room.
“Congratulations, sis,” said Giles. “You were a worthy opponent, and it was a deserved victory.”
“Thank you, Giles,” she said, giving her brother a hug, something she hadn’t done for the past twenty-eight days. “So what are you up to today?” she asked as she sat in the chair beside him.
“Some time this morning I’ll have to hand in my seals of office so that woman,” he said, stabbing a finger at the photograph on the front page of The Daily Express, “can form her first, and I hope last, administration. Thatcher’s due at the palace at ten, when she’ll kiss hands before being driven to Downing Street in triumph. You’ll be able to watch it on television, but I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t join you.”
* * *
After Emma had finished packing, Harry placed their suitcases by the front door before joining her in the drawing room, not surprised to find her glued to the television. She didn’t even look up when he entered the room.
Three black Jaguars were emerging from Buckingham Palace. The crowds standing on the pavement outside the palace gates were waving and clapping as the convoy made its way up the Mall to Whitehall. Robin Day kept up a running commentary.
“The new prime minister will spend the morning appointing her first Cabinet. Lord Carrington is expected to be foreign secretary, Geoffrey Howe chancellor, and Leon Brittan home secretary. As for the other appointments, we will have to wait and see who is preferred. I don’t suppose there will be many surprises, although you can be quite sure there will be several anxious politicians sitting by their phones hoping for a call from Number Ten,” he added as the three cars swept into Downing Street.
As the prime minister stepped out of her car, another cheer went up. She made a short speech quoting Saint Francis of Assisi before disappearing into No. 10.
“Better get moving,” said Harry, “or we’ll miss the train.”
* * *
Emma spent the afternoon with Simon Dawkins, her successor at Bristol Royal Infirmary, before clearing out her second office that day. She filled the backseat of her car as well as the boot with all the personal possessions she had accumulated over the past decade. As she drove slowly out of the hospital grounds for the last time, she didn’t look back. She was looking forward to a quiet supper at the Manor House with Harry, and later to placing her head on a pillow before midnight for the first time in weeks, while hoping for more than four hours’ sleep.
* * *
Emma was in her dressing gown enjoying a late breakfast when the call came.
Harry picked up the phone on the sideboard and listened for a moment, before covering the mouthpiece and whispering, “It’s Number Ten.”
Emma leapt up and took the phone, assuming it would be Mrs. Thatcher on the other end of the line.
“This is Number Ten,” said a formal voice. “The prime minister wonders if you could see her at twelve thirty this afternoon.”
“Yes of course,” said Emma without thinking.
“When?” asked Harry as she put the phone down.
“Twelve thirty at Number Ten.”
“You’d better get dressed immediately while I bring the car around. We’ll have to get a move on if you hope to catch the ten past ten.”
Emma ran upstairs and took longer than she intended deciding what to wear. A simple navy suit and a white silk blouse won the day.
Harry managed “You look great,” as he accelerated down the driveway and out of the front gates, glad to have avoided the morning rush. He pulled up outside Temple Meads just after ten.
“Call me as soon as you’ve
seen her,” he shouted at the departing figure, but couldn’t be sure if Emma had heard him.
Emma couldn’t help thinking as the train pulled out of the station, that if Margaret just wanted to thank her, she could have done it over the phone. She scanned the morning papers, which were covered with pictures of the new prime minister and details of her senior appointments. The cabinet were due to meet for the first time at ten o’clock that morning. She checked her watch: 10:15 a.m.
Emma was among the first off the train, and ran all the way to the taxi rank. When she reached the front of the queue and said, “Number Ten Downing Street, and I have to be there by twelve thirty,” the cabbie looked at her as if to say, Pull the other one.
When the taxi drove into Whitehall and stopped at the bottom of Downing Street, a policeman glanced in the back, smiled, and saluted. The taxi drove slowly up to the front door of No. 10. When Emma took out her purse, the driver said, “No charge, miss. I voted Tory, so this one’s on me. And by the way, good luck.”
Before Emma could knock on the door of No. 10, it swung open. She stepped inside to find a young woman waiting for her.
“Good morning, Lady Clifton. My name is Alison, and I’m one of the prime minister’s personal secretaries. I know she’s looking forward to seeing you.”
Emma followed the secretary silently up the stairs to the first floor where they came to a halt in front of a door. The secretary knocked, opened it, and stood aside. Emma walked in to find Mrs. Thatcher on the phone.
“We’ll speak again later, Willy, when I’ll let you know my decision.” The prime minister put the phone down. “Emma,” she said, rising from behind her desk. “So kind of you to return to London at such short notice. I’d assumed you were still in town.”
“Not a problem, prime minister.”
“First, my congratulations on winning fifty-nine of the sixty-two targeted marginal seats. A triumph! Although I expect your brother will tease you about failing to capture Bristol Docklands.”
“Next time, prime minister.”
“But that could be five years away and we’ve got rather a lot to do before then, which is why I wanted to see you. You probably know that I’ve invited Patrick Jenkin to be secretary of state for health, and of course he will need an undersecretary in the Lords to steer the new National Health Bill through the Upper House and safely onto the books. And I can’t think of anyone better qualified to do that job. You have vast experience of the NHS, and your years as chairman of a public company make you the ideal candidate for the post. So I do hope you’ll feel able to join the government as a life peer.”
Emma was speechless.
“One of the truly wonderful things about you, Emma, is that it hadn’t even crossed your mind that was the reason I wanted to see you. Half my ministers assumed they got no more than they deserved, while the other half couldn’t hide their disappointment. I suspect you’re the only one who’s genuinely surprised.”
Emma found herself nodding.
“So let me tell me you what’s going to happen now. When you leave here, there will be a car outside to take you to Alexander Fleming House, where the secretary of state is expecting you. He will take you through your responsibilities in great detail. In particular, he will want to talk to you about the new National Health Bill, which I’d like to get through both Houses as quickly as possible, preferably within a year. Listen to Patrick Jenkin—he’s a shrewd politician, as is the department’s permanent secretary. I would recommend you to also seek your brother’s counsel. He was not only an able minister, but no one knows better how the House of Lords works.”
“But he’s on the other side.”
“It doesn’t work quite like that in the Lords, as you’ll quickly find out. They are far more civilized at the other end of the House, and not just interested in scoring political points. And my final piece of advice is to make sure you enjoy it.”
“I’m flattered you even considered me, prime minister, and I’m bound to admit, somewhat daunted by the challenge.”
“No need to be. You were my first choice for the job,” said Mrs. Thatcher. “One final thing, Emma. You are among a handful of friends who I hope will still call me Margaret, because I won’t have this job forever.”
“Thank you, prime minister.”
Emma rose from her place and shook hands with her new boss. When she left the room, she found Alison standing in the corridor.
“Congratulations, minister. A car is waiting to take you to your department.”
As they walked back downstairs, past the photographs of former prime ministers, Emma tried to take in what had happened during the last few minutes. Just as she reached the hallway, the front door opened and a young man stepped inside, to be led up the stairs by another secretary. She wondered what position Norman was about to be offered.
“If you’d like to follow me,” said Alison, who opened a side door that led into a small room with a desk and telephone. Emma was puzzled until she closed the door and added, “The prime minister thought you might like to call your husband before you begin your new job.”
8
GILES SPENT THE MORNING moving his papers, files, and personal belongings from one end of the corridor to the other. He left behind a spacious, well-appointed office overlooking Parliament Square, just a few steps from the chamber, along with a retinue of staff whose only purpose was to carry out his every requirement.
In exchange, he moved into cramped quarters, manned by a single secretary, from which he was expected to carry out the same job in opposition. His downfall was both painful and immediate. No longer could he rely on a cadre of civil servants to advise him, organize his diary, and draft his speeches. Those same servants now served a different master, who represented another party, in order that the process of government should continue seamlessly. Such is democracy.
When the phone rang, Giles answered it to find the leader of the opposition on the other end of the line.
“I’m chairing a meeting of the Shadow Cabinet at ten o’clock on Monday morning in my new office in the Commons, Giles. I hope you’ll be able to attend.”
No longer able to call upon a private secretary to summon Cabinet members to No. 10, Jim Callaghan was making his own phone calls for the first time in years.
* * *
To say that Giles’s colleagues looked shell-shocked when they took their places around the table the following Monday would have been an understatement. All of them had considered the possibility of losing to the lady, but not by such a large majority.
Jim Callaghan chaired the meeting, having hastily scribbled out an agenda on the back of an envelope which a secretary had typed up and was now distributing to those colleagues who’d survived the electoral cull. The only subject that concentrated the minds of those seated around that table was when Jim would resign as leader of the Labour Party. It was the first item on the agenda. Once they had found their opposition feet, he told his colleagues, he intended to make way for a new leader. Feet that would, for the next few years, do little more than tramp through the No’s lobby to vote against the government, only to be defeated again and again.
When the meeting came to an end, Giles did something he hadn’t done for years. He walked home—no ministerial car. He’d miss Bill, and dropped him a line to thank him, before joining Karin for lunch.
“Was it ghastly?” she asked him as he strolled into the kitchen.
“It was like attending a wake, because we all know we can’t do anything about it for at least four years. And by then I’ll be sixty-three,” he reminded her, “and the new leader of the party, whoever that might be, will undoubtedly have his own candidate to replace me.”
“Unless you throw your support behind the man who becomes the next leader,” said Karin, “in which case you’ll still have a place at the top table.”
“Denis Healey is the only credible candidate for the job in my opinion, and I’m pretty confident the party will get behind him.”
“The unions will support Michael Foot, but most members will realize that with his left-wing credentials the party wouldn’t have much hope of winning the next general election.” He drained his glass. “But we don’t have to worry about that possibility for some time, so let’s talk about something more palatable, like where you’d like to spend your summer holiday.”
“There’s something else we need to discuss before we decide that,” said Karin, as she mashed some potatoes. “The electorate may have rejected you, but I know someone who still needs your help.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Emma rang earlier this morning. She hopes you might be willing to advise her on her new job.”
“Her new job?”
“Hasn’t anyone told you? She’s been appointed undersecretary of state for health, and she’ll be joining you in the Lords.” Karin waited to see how he would react.
“How proud our mother would have been,” were Giles’s first words. “So at least something good has come out of this election. I’ll certainly be able to show her which potholes to avoid, which members to heed, which ones to ignore, and how to gain the confidence of the House. Not an easy job at the best of times,” he said, already warming to the task. “I’ll call her straight after lunch and offer to take her around the Palace of Westminster while we’re in recess.”
“And if we were to go to Scotland for our holiday this year,” said Karin, “we could invite Harry and Emma to join us. It would be the first time in years you wouldn’t be continually interrupted by civil servants claiming there’s a crisis, or journalists who say sorry to disturb you on holiday, minister, but…”
“Good idea. By the time Emma is presented to the House in October, her new colleagues will think she’s already spent a decade in the Lords.”
This Was a Man Page 6
