A Very British Coup (16 page)

The first edition of the
Express
arrived at Downing Street within an hour of coming off the presses. Perkins saw it when he returned from the vote at the House. Twenty minutes later the Downing Street switchboard was jammed by calls from other newspapers demanding a statement.

Poor Newsome buried his head in his hands when Perkins showed him the
Express
. “Fancy letting yourself be photographed kissing this lass on the bloody doorstep,” said Perkins, but he did not rub it in. Newsome looked as if he were cracking up. He offered to resign there and then, but Perkins refused to discuss the subject. “Go home and see Annette before the rats from the gutter press get to her.”

By the late editions the story was leading every front page. The phone started ringing at 10.15 that evening and did not stop until Annette took it off the hook. Newsome arrived home to find a horde of newspapermen camped in the front garden. Annette was in the kitchen with a mug of tea and a cigarette. It was a year since she last smoked. She was wearing the silk dressing gown he had bought her at a recent foreign ministers' meeting in Tokyo. Her eyes were red, but she was not crying.

She made him tea and they sat and talked. He tried to apologise, but in the circumstances it did not seem very adequate. Annette wanted to know about Maureen. When had they first met? How often? Where? She received the information calmly. Sitting on the opposite side of the table, puffing her cigarette and sipping her tea. Never quite looking him in the eyes. Taking care that her feet under the table did not touch his.

He told the story quietly, dispassionately. Giving more detail than was strictly necessary. As the words tumbled out, Newsome was conscious for the first time of the extent of his treachery.

They went to bed around two o'clock. Annette said she preferred to sleep in the spare room and Newsome did not argue. Neither of them slept well. Quite apart from everything else, the doorbell kept ringing.

Newsome got up around seven. Peeping through the curtains he could see that the crowd of pressmen had grown. There were television cameras too. He turned on the radio and the story was leading every bulletin.

At seven-thirty he rang John, his eldest boy who was in his second year at Magdalen. He rented a flat in Oxford with two other students and news of the furore had not yet reached him. Newsome advised him to keep a low profile. He offered to come home at once and fend off the press, but Newsome said that would not be necessary. It would all blow over.

The younger boy, James, was working as a waiter in the South of France. Improving his French before going up to Cambridge next year. Newsome searched in vain for a telephone number. Eventually he gave up. The call could wait a couple of hours. It would be a while before the hacks managed to trace him.

At nine Newsome rang the Foreign Office to say he would not be in. The private secretary did not sound surprised.

All day long the chorus of demands for a statement grew louder. By Prime Minister's questions that afternoon, these had turned into calls for Newsome's resignation.

That evening Newsome saw Perkins alone in the study at Number Ten to hand in his resignation letter. This time Perkins did not demur. They both knew resignation was inevitable. The two men shook hands and then Newsome drove for the last time to the Foreign Office. He planned to clear up his papers and then take Annette away somewhere quiet for a few days to give the uproar a chance to die down.

*

When he got back to Camberwell it had gone eleven. The house was in darkness. He turned the key in the front door and switched on the hall light. Annette's coat was hanging on a peg by the door, so she had not gone out. She must be in bed. Not wanting to wake her he trod lightly on the stairs.

The bedroom door was open. In the light from the landing he could see Annette lying on the bed, fully clothed, one leg trailing over the edge.

“Annette,” he whispered, but there came no answer.

He listened for the sound of her breathing, but he could hear nothing.

“Annette,” he screamed, jamming on the light.

She lay on the bed. Very pale and perfectly still. On the table by the bedside was a glass half full of water and beside her on the bed an empty bottle. The label on the bottle said, “Maximum dosage: three tablets.”

The weather in November 1989 was bitter. The lake in St James's Park froze and the keepers had to break a hole in the ice for the ducks. Even the Astrakhan pelicans sought refuge from the cold in the shrubbery on an island in the lake and disappeared from public view.

The weathermen forecast a white Christmas and as the evenings drew in the clear sky turned grey. “What we need now,” said Sir Peter Kennedy to Sir Richard Hildrew, as they took a lunchtime stroll across the park, “is a nice long miners' strike.”

The trade union leaders filed into the Great Parlour at Chequers and took their seats around the polished mahogany table. Before he sat down Bill Knight of the Engineers' Union caressed the oak wall panelling. “This is what I call
class
,” he said and as he spoke his hand drifted to the blue and white porcelain on the mantelpiece. Despite impeccable proletarian origins most union leaders quickly adapted to the comforts of high office.

Chequers, the country residence of the Prime Minister, is a huge Tudor mansion in Buckinghamshire donated to the nation by a patriotic magnate who would no doubt have revolved in his grave if he could have seen Harry Perkins sitting at his dining table.

Or maybe he would not. For Chequers with its galleries and terraces and Old Masters had transformed generations of Labour Prime Ministers into country squires. When he first took office Perkins vowed he would have nothing to do with Chequers, but he was there before the year was out.

“Gentlemen,” said Perkins, turning the cover page of the Cabinet Office brief on the table before him. The document was entitled “The first five years,” and across the top a private secretary had written in longhand “first draft”. The trade
union leaders all had copies before them and they turned the cover page in unison with the Prime Minister. “Gentlemen,” Perkins repeated, “we are here to reach an understanding between the government and the trade unions on the management of the economy for the remainder of our term of office.” As he spoke tea was served by girls in the blue uniforms of the WRNS, seconded to Chequers for such occasions.

Perkins chose his words with care. Every such ‘understanding' between a Labour government and the unions had started by embracing prices, pensions, public ownership and a range of other issues dear to the hearts of trade unionists and ended up as a disguised incomes policy. This was a sore point with union leaders and Perkins was keen to reassure them. “Let me be clear,” he was saying, “we will deliver our share of the bargain.” The government would take control of the pension and insurance funds. Industrial capital would be made available at low rates of interest. There would be quotas on the import of manufactured goods, particularly cars and textiles. He was heard in silence and his pauses were punctuated only by the ticking of the fine grandfather clock in the corner.

Not everyone was listening. Bill Knight of the Engineers' Union was gazing out of the window at the frost-tinted north lawn. Reg Smith, general secretary of the United Power-workers was wondering if the portrait of Oliver Cromwell on the opposite wall would suit the living room of his house in Virginia Water. There are not a lot of power workers living in Virginia Water, but then Smith had come a long way since his days as a stoker in Battersea Power Station.

Perkins stopped and asked for comments. Cups were refilled and the Wrens wheeled away their trolleys. Knight spoke first. “What about wages. You ain't said nothing about wages.”

“That's right,” said Smith, “my lads will be asking for fifty per cent.” This news was greeted by a low whistle from Jim Forrester, the railwaymen's leader. His lads would be lucky with ten per cent.

Perkins concealed his anger, but his cheeks were flushed. Here were two men who had devoted years to fixing Labour
party conferences into voting down just about every progressive demand on the agenda. Now here they were with their hands out at the first opportunity.

“Wages,” said Perkins calmly, “will have to be part of the whole package. If we are going to put money into social services and industrial investment, then we have to go easy on wage claims for the moment.”

“My members will accept that,” said Bob Sanders of the local government workers. Even as he spoke he was nervous. He had seen four Labour governments in his working life. Each one started by promising the moon and ended up turning on the unions. But he would give it a try. He was now a year off retirement and his lifelong dream seemed to have come true. Britain had a real Socialist government at last. He did not want to see it become bogged down by wage militancy. “Providing,” added Sanders, “and only providing that the government keeps faith on its share of the deal.”

“My members only earn half as much as yours.” Sanders was speaking directly to Reg Smith. “Of course they'd like a fifty per cent increase too but they recognise it's a question of priorities. They attach higher priority to reducing unemployment than to higher wages.”

“We're here to represent the employed, not the unemployed,” snapped Smith. Then he stopped abruptly because he knew he'd gone too far.

“Speak for yourself,” said someone at the end of the table.

After that the meeting went more Perkins way. It was agreed that there would be no limit on public sector wage claims. Trade union negotiators would however be asked to bear in mind that there were other ways of improving living standards beside higher wages. Not everyone went along with this. Smith declared that his power workers would be going all out for as much as they could get. And he was heard to say that, if Perkins did not watch out, he would have a strike on his hands.

*

Sir Philip Norton was casting an eye over the Cabinet minutes when the phone rang. It was Fiennes of DI5. “You wanted some background on Lady Elizabeth Fain.”

“At last,” said Sir Philip.

Fiennes read from his notes, “Daughter of the fourth Earl. A former equerry to the King, a thousand acres in Somerset, former colonel in the Coldstream Guards. Retired from the army seven years ago.”

“Never mind the father,” said Norton impatiently, “what about the girl?”

“Aged twenty-five. Private income of £11,500 a year. A mews house near Sloane Square. All fairly predictable really,” said Fiennes wearily.

“And the phone tap?” Sir Philip drummed his fingers on the desk top.

“Nothing much. Her life mainly seems to consist of organising dinner parties or being invited to them.”

A blind alley, thought Sir Philip. Still, it had been worth a try. He was just about to thank Fiennes for his trouble when Fiennes said, “One curious thing, sir. She has made a couple of calls to a number in Camden. Chap by the name of Fred Thompson lives there. Seems to be that young leftie who works in the Prime Minister's office. Strange, someone with her background mixing with a chap like Thompson.”

“Yes,” said Sir Philip, “very strange.” Thanking Fiennes for his help he replaced the phone. So that was how Perkins knew about the conversation at Watlington. In future he would be more careful. You couldn't trust anyone these days.

The phone rang. It was Fiennes again. “One other snippet that might interest you, sir.”

“Go ahead, Fiennes.”

“This Fain girl has just started a job as a research assistant in the Shadow Cabinet office at the House of Commons.”

“Has she by jove?” said Sir Philip. “We'll see about that.”

Fred Thompson was in his Camden flat preparing to set out for the launderette when the phone rang. It was Elizabeth Fain. She sounded upset. “Fred, I've been fired.”

Thompson dropped the bundle of dirty shirts he had been stuffing into a pillowcase and sat on the floor by the telephone. “Why on earth …?”

“They said my work wasn't up to scratch, but I've only been there a week and nobody complained until yesterday.” Poor Elizabeth. She was almost in tears. Normally she was so composed. “I asked why they hadn't complained before and they came over very funny. Said they had really been looking for someone who knew about economics but they never said a word about economics when I was interviewed.” Her voice trailed off.

Thompson was about to commiserate, but before he could say a word Elizabeth spoke again. “Fred, you don't think it has anything to do with what I told you about my weekend in Oxfordshire with the Nortons?”

“How could it? I told no one except …” He had been going to say, “except the Prime Minister,” but stopped himself just in time. Yes, of course that was it. He knew exactly what had happened.

“Except who?”

“Elizabeth, let me buy you lunch. I'll be over in twenty minutes.” Thompson put down the phone and scooped the pile of fifty pence pieces he had been saving for the launderette into the pocket of his raincoat.

Out on the street he hailed a taxi to Sloane Square. They lunched at a bistro on the King's Road and afterwards drove in Elizabeth's Volkswagen to Hyde Park. Walpole the spaniel came too. That afternoon they held hands for the first time.

“Coming on to snow,” said Sir Peter Kennedy as he brushed the flakes from his Aquascutum raincoat. The sky was greyer than ever and the lake in the park remained frozen. An old lady was feeding breadcrumbs to the ducks although the sign said she shouldn't.

“No sign of that miners' strike you were hoping for,” said Sir Richard Hildrew, as they hurried across the park towards Whitehall.

“No,” said Sir Peter, “but looks like the next best thing.
The power workers are threatening a go-slow after Christmas.” By the time they reached the steps leading into Downing Street the snow was falling fast.