A Very British Coup (7 page)

Sir Frederick Porter was the King's private secretary. Perkins had been told to expect him at St Pancras. The previous day Downing Street had been on the line to him in Sheffield and explained the procedure for the transfer of power. At the time the votes had still to be counted, the
pundits had still been predicting a Tory victory and yet the man from Downing Street had spoken as though a Labour victory was already a fact. Telepathy? Perkins had wondered. Or just the establishment hedging its bets? In the event Downing Street's caution had proved justified and now the well-oiled machinery for ensuring a smooth transfer of power was in motion. First there was an audience with the King, morning dress optional. He would ask Perkins to form a government. From that moment on he was Prime Minister and he would be taken from the Palace in a Downing Street car. The outgoing Prime Minister would leave Downing Street by a rear entrance. They would not meet, but it was normal practice for the incoming Prime Minister to make Chequers available to his predecessor.

Perkins put down his briefcase and advanced towards Sir Frederick, hand outstretched. Eton, Balliol and the Guards had taught Sir Frederick to display a stiff upper lip in the face of adversity and as he took Perkins' hand his face betrayed no trace of his inner anguish.

“I have a car, sir,” said Sir Frederick, indicating with a sweep of his hand the general direction of the Euston Road.

“Car?” said Perkins. “What's wrong with a bus? Number 77 runs down Whitehall from here.” Perkins made a fetish of travelling by public transport. Many were the anxious moments chairmen, presiding over mass rallies, had spent looking at their watches because their Party leader's bus was running late. Perkins had resolved that even when he was Prime Minister he would stick to public transport.

For one-hundredth of a second Sir Frederick's face registered dismay, but when he spoke his voice contained precisely the right blend of firmness and humility. “Sir, His Majesty is waiting.”

Perkins might have replied that it would do His Majesty no harm to be kept waiting for once. He might even have said that His Majesty could get stuffed. History records, however, that he simply shrugged, handed his bag to the chauffeur and climbed meekly into the back of the car drawn up in the forecourt of St Pancras station.

They drove to Buckingham Palace in silence. As they passed down Kingsway Perkins reflected wryly that he had suffered his first defeat at the hands of the establishment – and he was not yet Prime Minister.

The King and Queen breakfasted together in the private apartments in the north wing of Buckingham Palace. The crockery was Doulton. The cutlery, Louis XIV. The marmalade, Rose's Lime. The Regency windows looked out over verdant lawns. In the distance a gardener crouched planting polyanthus.

The young Queen gazed first across the gardens and then turned to her husband. “I do hope,” she said firmly, “that you are not going to go about repeating the sort of things you were saying last night.”

The King looked surprised. “I meant every word. This Perkins fellow will be the ruin of us.”

“Do be careful, my love. You know the trouble your father used to get into every time he sounded off about politics.”

The King sighed. It was not the first time they had had this conversation. “You do exaggerate, darling. Perkins would never dare close us down. He'd have an uprising on his hands.”

“He'll be here in two hours. You must bring yourself to be nice to him.” With that the Queen buttered a finger of toast and resumed her gaze across the lawns.

Without another word the sovereign placed his napkin on the table, rose and left. A footman glided noiselessly among the tea cups. He had heard nothing.

After seeing the King, Perkins was driven to Downing Street. The car sent by Number Ten to collect him from the Palace was waiting in the inner courtyard. Sir Frederick Porter stiffly ushered Perkins from the private apartments and handed him into the custody of a man in the full uniform of the middle rank civil service. A blue striped shirt, pin-striped trousers
and a dark jacket. The bowler hat and umbrella were visible on a shelf through the rear window of the car.

“Prime Minister,” said the man, proffering a manicured hand, “my name is Horace Tweed. I am your principal private secretary.”

And with that he opened the rear door of the car, a blue Mercedes driven by a woman in a green uniform (since the Leyland collapse Mercedes had replaced Rovers in the government car pool). Perkins scrambled inside. Tweed closed the door after him, walked round the back of the car and climbed in through the door on the other side. The car slid out of the courtyard. As they passed, the sentries in their lofty bearskins presented arms.

“When I was a kid,” said Perkins, “I wanted to be a soldier with one of those hats.”

Tweed looked at him blankly. When he was a kid he probably never wanted to be anything but private secretary to the Prime Minister, thought Perkins.

Leaving the Palace they ran a gauntlet of photographers, some of them running out into the road alongside the car. A police car materialised, as if from nowhere, and preceded them down the Mall, its headlights on full beam, despite the daylight.

Tweed was saying something about sterling and the Governor of the Bank of England wanted an appointment, but Perkins was reflecting on his audience with the King. It had gone well. With apparent sincerity the King had congratulated him on his party's victory and charged him with forming a government. After formalities they had indulged in a few minutes of small talk, mainly about football and gardens. Perkins said he had never lived in a house with a garden. The King said he would show him his and Perkins had departed saying he would take up his offer some day.

By the time they reached Downing Street, Tweed was saying something about a phone call from the President of the United States. But Perkins could see only the crowds which spilled out into Whitehall and along the pavement outside the Cabinet Office. As the car turned into Downing Street he
glimpsed a young woman in a white raincoat pressed against the barrier. Her long blonde hair was tucked into the collar of the raincoat; her cheeks were lightly freckled and as he passed she smiled a small, discreet smile. Perkins had scarcely time to think that she reminded him of Molly Spence before the thought was lost amid the cheering of the crowd.

A stone's throw from Downing Street, by a quiet terrace of Queen Anne houses overlooking the south-west corner of St James's Park, a Rolls-Royce was disgorging the portly frame of Sir George Fison. Waiting at an open doorway to greet him was a languid figure swathed in a red corduroy smoking jacket – Sir Peregrine Craddock.

“So good of you to come, George.”

“Least I could do in the circumstances, old boy.”

In the oak-panelled dining room a maid was clearing away the remains of Sir Peregrine's late breakfast. A pile of newspapers had been cast unread into an armchair; the morning sun streamed in through a bay window overlooking the park; through the plane trees the Treasury edifice was just visible.

Sir Peregrine poured two black coffees from a silver pot, waited until the maid had gone and then spoke quietly. “No doubt you've guessed why I asked you in. At a time like this it's important that those of us who care about civilised values stick together.”

“Couldn't agree more,” nodded Fison, who had flopped into an armchair by the window. The daylight from behind illuminated his bald crown, creating a kind of halo effect. Sir Peregrine, who was seated facing into the light, was obliged to squint to catch the expression on Fison's face.

The clock on the mantelpiece registered a quarter past the hour in unison with Big Ben, the distant chimes of which were just audible. Sir Peregrine took a sip of coffee and then resumed in the discreet tones he reserved for distasteful subjects: “In order to help people see sense we may have to cut a few corners, if you get my meaning. Float the odd rumour, organise the occasional punch-up.” The expression
‘punch-up' tripped uneasily off Sir Peregrine's refined tongue and he winced as he pronounced it.

“Absolutely,” said Fison, slapping his knee with the flat of his podgy hand. Fison came from a tougher school than Sir Peregrine. He knew exactly what was required. He had started life as an East End barrow boy and a follower of Oswald Mosley. He even had a couple of convictions for incitement under the 1936 Public Order Act. That was a long time ago, of course, but when it came to a bit of bother George Fison could mix it with the best of them. Not that this stopped his newspapers taking a hard line on law and order.

Fison's obvious relish made Sir Peregrine unhappy. “Obviously one doesn't like to think in these terms,” he said quickly. “We are supposed to be a democracy and all that, but it's important that people realise what's at stake. Not just the national interest, but the future of the Western alliance.” Sir Peregrine's voice rose. He was happier talking global strategy.

Fison slapped his knee again. “Entirely agree, dear boy.” The ‘dear boy' was an affectation. People didn't speak like that where he came from, but it had been forty years since he moved from Stepney to Chelsea and Fison had been working ever since to adopt what he believed to be the mannerisms of a gentleman.

Sir Peregrine paused to light a pipe. His first of the day. When the blue smoke cleared he continued. “To start the ball rolling, what I had in mind was, I hesitate to use the word,” he resumed the
sotto voce
reserved for distasteful subjects, “a smear campaign.” He drew on his pipe and then breathed out again, emitting more blue smoke. “Nothing too heavy at first. Just enough to sow the seeds of doubt in the public mind about Perkins and his gang. For the time being we will lay off Perkins himself. His popularity is running high and anything we try to stick on him could blow up in our faces.” He looked across at Fison who was nodding intently. “To start with we must concentrate on ministers and advisers. That way we can discredit Perkins without attacking him directly.”

With graceful movements of his left hand Sir Peregrine brushed tobacco ash from the lapels of his smoking jacket. He wasn't keen on Fison. The man lacked breeding. He was crude and unsubtle. It stood out a mile. Still, one couldn't choose one's friends in a situation like this. He went on, “I've got a team of chaps standing by and the moment we get details of ministerial appointments they'll be going through the files looking for anything that may be useful. Shady business deals, illicit love affairs, trips to Moscow, articles in the
Morning Star
. Naturally we'll pass everything over and you and the other Fleet Street boys can take it from there.”

Sir Peregrine stretched his legs, sank back into the armchair and puffed his pipe. The smoke mingled with the incoming rays of sunlight and caused a cloud to form between himself and Fison. When it cleared he went on, “Normally we'd just shove this sort of stuff in plain brown envelopes and stick it in the post to a few reliable old hands, but this time we want something bigger. That's where you come in.” He looked across at Fison, through the haze. Fison was already composing the lecture he was going to give to his senior editors. The nation, he would tell them, was facing catastrophe. In the battle that was to come there were only two sides. Anyone with doubts about which side they were on could collect his cards now. Fison smiled inwardly. He was sure that his services would not go unrewarded. At the very least he was expecting a peerage to provide the final seal of respectability he craved.

The pipe was now clamped between Sir Peregrine's teeth, causing him to speak through the side of his mouth. As he did so the end of the pipe wobbled. “I want you to get together a few proprietors, editors and senior journalists whom we can absolutely count on. You should meet regularly to coordinate coverage. As things get hotter, and believe me they will, we're going to need people we can rely on. Can you manage?”

“No problem,” said Fison, “no problem at all.”

“What about the journalists? Bound to have some trouble with them if we lay it on too thick.”

Fison wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “I promise you,” he said slowly, “there won't be a peep out of anyone.”

“Very embarrassing to have journalists whining on about ethics and press freedom just as we get a decent campaign going.”

“My dear boy,” Fison leaned towards Sir Peregrine, “take it from me, most Fleet Street journalists wouldn't recognise a real live ethic at five paces. Why do you think we pay them so well?”

“Good, that's settled, then,” said Sir Peregrine, rising. He placed the pipe, by now extinct, in an ashtray on the mantelpiece. “One other thing. Very important you don't breathe a word of this conversation to anybody. Nothing we send you must be traceable to us. If Perkins gets a whiff of what's going on, we'll all be in the excreta up to our necks.”

Gripping both arms of the chair, Fison heaved himself to his feet, panting slightly with the exertion. He drew himself rigidly to attention, a fitting posture for a man about to serve his King and country, “Don't worry, Peregrine, you can count on me.”

Perkins crossed the threshold of Number Ten Downing Street to find the entire staff, private secretaries, clerks, telephonists, footmen and garden girls from the downstairs typing pool lining the corridor that leads to the Cabinet Room. As he entered they applauded. Not entirely spontaneously since many of them confidently expected to be sacked. Only an hour had elapsed since they had gathered on the same spot to applaud the outgoing Prime Minister who had departed by a back entrance.

Guided by the omnipresent Tweed, Perkins crossed the black and white marble tiled floor of the entrance lobby and passed down the corridor to the Cabinet Room, nodding to the right and left in acknowledgment of the applause. He paused respectfully at the entrance to the Cabinet Room as a Catholic might pause in the entrance of a church to cross himself with holy water. Even for a Sheffield steel worker, born and bred with a healthy disrespect for tradition and the
trappings of power, the Cabinet Room had something of a presence. Within these walls the British government had first heard of the loss of the American colonies, plotted the downfall of Napoleon, the Kaiser and Hitler and granted independence to India. Now these same walls were to bear witness to the rise, and perhaps the fall, of Harry Perkins.