The Image in the Water (24 page)

‘In a way it is because of what happened to my family last week that I have called this special meeting at short notice. Indeed, I had meant to hold it last week, but you will understand the uncertainties through which I was living each day. I wanted to apologise to you all for doing something in extraordinary circumstances that I would normally have scrupulously avoided. At Nice airport I announced a significant development of Conservative policy, namely our support for Scottish independence, in advance of a decision by Shadow Cabinet. I apologise unreservedly for this. I hope you will agree that this development of policy had become inevitable. I had intended to bring it to you before the recess. Only the timing was in question. Ever since I became Leader we have told the government that the Union with Scotland as at present constituted was intolerably unfair to the English majority as regards revenue sharing, as regards representation at Westminster and in other ways. The government has refused to act. What I have long described as an unacceptable situation, namely the dominance of a Scottish minority over our affairs in the United Kingdom, has continued. In these circumstances the logical next step for us is to encourage the Scots to go their own way. Separation has become,
unfortunately, the only cure for an unjust union. That, indeed, is the only basis on which I could continue as Leader. It is hard for a Unionist Party to be forced to this conclusion, but we have always fared best when we faced uncomfortable facts fairly and squarely.'

There were many holes in this argument, and no mention of its connection with the kidnap. David was keen to hang on and smother the meeting with detailed proposals, but he allowed a pause lasting about three seconds for an objection of principle, and even dared to look round the table. He was anxious that they should not be able to argue afterwards that they had been bounced. When he saw Sarah Tunstall staring at the shiny oak table in front of her he knew that he had won. She looked deeply unhappy but showed no sign of wanting to speak. He thanked God that it was not as it had been in the old days. Neither Peter Makewell, nor Roger Courtauld, let alone Joan Freetown or Simon Russell, would have accepted this sleight-of-hand for an instant. His colleagues were genuinely irritated by the Scots, and tempted by the glistening prospect of Tory dominance in a country without them. They were inhibited by the noisiness of New England, a body over which they had no control. They were embarrassed by the kidnap. They would all have noted the blackmail in what he had just said about his own future. It would be deeply damaging, indeed unthinkable, to promote another leadership crisis so soon after David had replaced Peter Makewell. All these thoughts were in their minds, as he had intended. He despised the lack of spunk among his colleagues which was giving him such an easy victory.

‘I wonder if you have consulted any of the senior members of the Party on this? I am thinking of Peter Makewell and
Roger Courtauld in particular.' Lord Downbrook spoke mildly. He was not putting the point to oppose or even delay the change of policy. But the men he named were some of those who had guided his own views over many years and it seemed odd that they were no longer in conclave with the rest.

Indeed, it was a better point than he knew, because the media would certainly ask those two at an early stage for their comments. David intended to speak to both of them, but only after he was armed with a Shadow Cabinet decision. ‘An excellent point,' he replied. ‘Their support will be very valuable. But I think we need to take our own responsibilities first.'

Lord Downbrook always relished mention of ‘responsibilities'. He nodded sagely.

‘Now, as to implementation. As I see it, there are three separate stages after we announce this evening our endorsement of the new policy. First, we need to explain and proclaim it by every means on all possible occasions. It should take priority over all other issues. I shall lead this campaign. Its climax will be a motion and debate at the Party Conference in October. Incidentally, the Scottish Conservatives will still be invited to Bournemouth, but on the same basis as other like-minded sister parties, such as the German CDU and the French RPR. Second, shortly after that when the House gets back, we will table an amendment to the Queen's Speech regretting the absence from the government's programme of a Scotland Independence Bill. Arguably one of us should table such a Bill ourselves, but we need to examine the most promising parliamentary procedure. Third, in parallel with these orthodox political initiatives, we should launch an imaginative public campaign designed to stir up opinion on
our side. The polls are already in our favour. But that's not enough. Public opinion has to be made furious. Its anger has not yet been brought to bear on the media and on Parliament, for example the Liberal Democrat MPs. To put it bluntly, we want to scare all such into supporting us. That campaign will be the responsibility of New England under my direction. They will remain within the law, but otherwise will use all their drive and energy in bringing the question to the boil during the holiday months. I want it to be a long hot summer, plenty of noisy fun. I give you some examples. New England will launch a boycott of Scottish-owned banks in England, in particular NatWest. They will deal with offensive monuments, for example the plaque to William Wallace in Smithfield Market. They will name and shame all government bodies operating in England which have more than one-fifth of their members who live or were born in Scotland, encouraging surplus Scots to resign, beginning, of course, with the Cabinet. They'll discourage English clubs from taking on Scottish footballers. They will keep up the campaign against the flying in England and Wales of St Andrew's cross or the red lion except on Scottish official buildings. Sympathetic local authorities will set up voluntary registers in each borough and county so that residents bearing Scottish names can make it clear that they regard themselves as English. This will prepare the ground for the nationality legislation, which we will need to introduce once Scotland is independent. These are just some of the ideas coming forward, but there are certainly others … Yes, Sarah.'

Sarah Tunstall spoke in the truculent voice of someone half ashamed of herself. ‘In the
Mail
today they speak of a
possible boycott of Scottish produce – oatcakes, even whisky. I doubt…'

‘Of course you are right, Sarah.' David spoke with affection, delighted that the silly woman had come in on a secondary point. ‘It wouldn't work – and, anyway, it's not in line with our philosophy. We want Scotland to prosper, to sell us oatcakes and whisky. Those of you who like them will be able to go north and toss the caber and play the bagpipes. We'll propose them for membership of the EU. NATO too, though they may not want it. The UN certainly. What we don't want is Scots domineering here in England, owning our banks, running the unions. Our natural allies now are the Scottish Nationalists – not the puny Scotnats lot now sitting in the executive in Leith, co-operating with Labour at every turn, but the true Nationalists out in the streets campaigning for independence now.'

‘But not the kidnappers, presumably,' said Sarah.

It was an awkward remark, made too late. David hesitated, but only for a second. ‘Not, of course, the kidnappers. As I said, everything must be within the law.'

Sitting in his deck-chair watching the polo Roger Courtauld reviewed his life. It was a habit growing on him, perhaps because he found the balance between regret and satisfaction hard to strike. He had inherited a little money, put by a little more during his years at the Bar, married more again, learned as a politician to live within his means and was now coasting quite comfortably into old age. By contrast his son, young Roger, liked to contemplate a wide range of pleasures without having to think how they might be paid for. Of these pleasures polo was the latest and most expensive. Up to now Roger had
borrowed ponies from friends and a godfather. If he was to continue with the sport he would soon have to buy one, perhaps two.

From his chair Roger could just see Manston in the valley below him. It was not a big house, in fact three small cottages knocked together, but distinguishable by its thatched roof in a land of stone, and by its position on the bank of the Axwell. Odd that a slim thread of water could have cut such a wide valley through the heart of England. The polo field had been created on a ridge separating the sweep of the Cotswolds to the south from the softer more flexible Midlands to the north and east. Because the flat ground on the summit was a little narrower than the necessary measurement of the field, riders and ponies as viewed by the spectators would, from time to time, suddenly lose their legs, and continue the game with heads and legless bodies outlined against the woods and pastures of Northamptonshire verging towards the distant smudge of Birmingham. Then legs would be miraculously restored as the two teams returned up the incline and manoeuvred towards a goal mouth.

Today the silhouettes were solid and hard against a particularly hazy background. For a fortnight the sun had ruled England, providing the hottest and driest summer since 2005. The fields were parched and yellow. There had even been a question, quickly dismissed by eager competitors, as to whether the ground was too hard that day for the game to be safe. But the sun's reign was crumbling. Blunt, massive clouds, interleaved in a different shade of grey with touches of yellow, were accumulating and gradually thrashing forward from the west. Roger had already heard one distant rumble of dry thunder.

On the whole sitting in his chair, feeling a little younger than his sixty-seven years, Roger struck the balance in favour of contentment. It was six years since his disastrous leadership campaign, two years since separation from his wife Hélène. These events had built confining banks through which his life flowed more narrowly than before. More narrowly, and yet also more sluggishly, for the volume of his energy had lessened. His two non-executive directorships in London and a third in Bristol took up four or five days a month and kept him mildly in touch with the world of business. He chaired the governing body of a local school for those with learning difficulties, the fund-raising committee for the fabric of the cathedral, and the local branch of a national cancer charity. And he was still, of course, the Member of Parliament for South Northamptonshire. It was fashionable, indeed had been fashionable throughout his political career, to write about the formidable pressures of an MP's life. Roger, on the backbenches, had been surprised to find how easy it was, provided you knew your towns and villages, employed a good secretary and research assistant, and had said goodbye to political ambition. Faced with a Labour majority of over eighty in the Commons, the whips did not bother him much about voting. Every now and then the BBC or someone else invited him as a former Home Secretary to give an interview on some asylum case or prison escape; he almost always refused. Politics had lost its savour for Roger; he had never developed an appetite for finance or commerce; Hélène's decision to leave him had removed the attractions, never great, of social coming and going. A staid part-time housekeeper made his bed and cooked his supper. John, the pensioner down the road, mowed the lawn. What was left were books, a few friends, his interest
in his children, the prospect of a week's fishing with old Peter Makewell in Scotland, the choice of wine for today's picnic, the decision whether his lavender hedge at Manston, now in full bloom, had grown too scraggy and needed replanting.

In a pause between young Roger's chukkas his father began to snooze. The sun shone hotter than ever, through a thickening haze.

‘Sorry to interrupt, Sir Roger, but …'

He recognised the voice of the man who had been broadcasting an often inaccurate commentary on each chukka from the committee hut in the centre of the ridge, just his side of the ice-cream van. A somewhat patronising voice – what was the name? Martin Venables – but a good man. Venables ran the whole event almost single-handed, using the respect that he had earned locally fifteen years back by leading the Pytchley hunt down Whitehall at the height of the campaign to save fox-hunting.

Roger opened his eyes properly and found that Venables, having left the commentary in charge of a deputy, stood at his side. ‘Weather's going to break.'

‘We need the rain.'

‘That's certain. I'll have to cancel the cross-country next week unless the ground softens.'

‘Looks like thunder.'

‘Might be rough on the partridges if it comes too hard. Chicks at their weakest just now.'

Roger's wife, being French, had often complained that in rural England this kind of conversation could go on for ever. Nothing so far explained why Martin Venables had deserted the commentary box to interrupt Roger's snooze. Roger decided on silence, and this unlocked the mystery.

‘What do you make of young Alcester?' asked Venables.

Still baffled, Roger prepared to creak into his usual ambiguities about the leader of the Conservative Party. ‘Plenty of good material there. Of course I don't know him well, just—'

‘Have you seen the paper today?'

By ‘paper' Martin would have meant the
Daily Telegraph,
or less probably the
Mail
.

‘Not yet.' Roger felt no guilt. The
Telegraph
lay, still folded and unread, at the bottom of the canvas bag that had held their picnic baps and the bottle of Gewürztraminer. It had seemed more important to listen to young Roger talk about his ponies and their rivals than to read what had happened in the world yesterday.

‘Alcester made a big speech. In Carlisle, I think. Somewhere in the north, anyway. Waving his arms at the Scots. Threatening to throw them out. And against Europe, too, of course. Thousands turned up. Arrests, mounted police, people knocked down. It was even worse on TV than in the paper.'

‘Nothing new in any of that.'

Venables stood awkwardly in front of Roger's chair leaning on a stick. He was ill at ease except when handling horses and the affairs of horses.