The Friends of Harry Perkins Page 10

  ‘As we all know,’ Thompson continued, ‘the country remains deeply divided over Brexit, although my instinct is that the tide is turning. I have brought us together today to decide a way forward for our party and for the country. We can either continue to drift with the status quo, in which case we will have to accept a long slow decline into insularity and irrelevance. Or we can be bold . . .’ Bold, a word that in other contexts meant positively foolhardy. He paused to survey his colleagues. One or two shifted uneasily in their seats, but there was no sign of panic. ‘. . . and attempt to put the genie back in the bottle.’

  ‘Meaning . . .?’ The intervention came from Charlie Forbes, a big, gruff Yorkshireman, whose constituents had voted Leave by a margin of two to one.

  ‘Hang on a minute, Charlie. Let me finish.

  ‘My view is that, if we are to stand any chance of forming a government, we have to go into the next election with an economic programme entirely distinct from that of the current management. We all know that Brexit is a disaster. An increasing number of our voters are waking up to that reality. The issue can no longer be fudged. A handful of zealots have manoeuvred our country into this position and it is time we stood up to them.’

  ‘So what exactly are you proposing?’ It was Charlie Forbes again.

  ‘I am proposing that we sound out the EU with a view to discovering on what terms they would allow us to rejoin.’

  Sharp intakes of breath all round. Save for those already in the know.

  ‘Reapply . . .? You must be bloody mad.’

  ‘What’s more, since there isn’t the slightest chance of today’s deliberations remaining confidential for more than a few hours – indeed I’m surprised we’ve got this far – I’m proposing that we arrive at a clear decision today and announce it to the world before we depart this evening. For that reason I have invited Celia Monaghan, the party’s head of communications, to join us here at 5 p.m.’

  * * *

  They went round the table. A long debate followed. Only Charlie Forbes offered outright opposition, repeatedly citing the views of his constituents until someone responded, ‘It’s not about your constituents, Charlie, it’s about the national interest.’ Others talked practicalities: ‘Supposing the EU tells us to f-off ?’ ‘What if they continue to insist on open borders?’ ‘How do we counter arguments about the will of the people?’ ‘If not now, when?’ The only surprise was Felicity Mather. All she said was that it was worth a try, but shouldn’t the risks be underestimated.

  ‘Our bright, young, upwardly mobile shadow home secretary’s contribution was decidedly muted this morning, for one so obviously a member of the metropolitan elite,’ whispered Mrs Cook to Jock Steeples when they adjourned for lunch in the orangery.

  ‘Known in the trade as “doing a Theresa May”,’ replied Steeples in between mouthfuls of cheese and pickle sandwich. ‘She’ll be quietly in favour of the new policy until it goes belly-up and, if it does, she will turn. Fred needs to watch out. Poor chap’s only been in the job three months and already she’s on manoeuvres.’

  When they resumed after lunch Thompson responded to the points raised in the morning session. ‘If the EU tells us to eff off, we will have to accept that, but my feeling is they won’t. Their position is not as strong as it once was. The eastern Europeans are becoming steadily more authoritarian and they are dragging the entire continent with them. The Italians are looking shakier by the day. The migration crisis is unresolved. The Eurocrats need all the help they can get.’

  ‘And so do we,’ Mrs Cook chipped in, just loudly enough to be audible around the table.

  ‘As regards open borders, we have to recognise that is the single biggest issue for the British public and it will need to be addressed. My aim will be to persuade Brussels to give us all or part of the moratorium on free movement to which we were entitled after the Eastern bloc signed up in 2004 and which we—’

  ‘We? You mean Tony Blair?’ a voice at the end of the table interjected.

  ‘Yes, I mean Tony Blair . . . unwisely declined.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’ It was Charlie Forbes again.

  ‘That’s a bridge we will cross when we come to it.’

  He paused to fill his glass from a water jug in the centre of the table. ‘Mind you don’t spill it,’ said Stephen Carter, ‘or we won’t be invited again.’

  ‘As regards arguments about the so-called will of the people,’ Thompson took a sip of his water, ‘we must respond that it is almost a decade since that accursed – but please don’t use that word – referendum. A great deal of water has flowed under the bridge since then and perhaps the time has come for a further test of public opinion. If, after sounding out the EU Commission, we judge that they would respond favourably to an application for renewed British membership, we shall make it a central plank of our election manifesto. So, no one will be able to argue that they haven’t been warned. Is everybody happy?’

  They went around the table again. Unsurprisingly everyone was not happy. The expression ‘high-risk strategy’ featured several times in the ensuing discussion. Charlie Forbes talked of having to consider his position. Ms Mather made another brief and bland contribution. Somebody mischievously enquired what Harry Perkins would have said (it was well known that he had been a Eurosceptic), to which Thompson interjected that Harry was also fearless and no stranger to big and bold strategies.

  ‘Aye, and look where that got us.’ It was Charlie Forbes again.

  They adjourned for coffee while a short statement was drafted. The text was put to the meeting, there was a bit of haggling – a reference to the need to protect the interests of the fishing industry was inserted along with several minor amendments – but in the end everyone signed up except Charlie Forbes who was still muttering about considering his position. The statement began: ‘The shadow cabinet has authorised the leader of the opposition to open discussions with representatives of the EU Commission as to the terms on which Britain might renegotiate its relations with the EU with a view, in the short term, to rejoining the customs union and the single market. In the longer term we do not rule out reapplying for full membership.’

  ‘In other words,’ remarked Mrs Cook, as the coach whisked them back to Brighton railway station, ‘it’s shit or bust.’

  SIXTEEN

  The news burst like a bombshell on the political world. The newspapers and the commentators divided along more or less predictable lines. ‘At last, a politician prepared to lead,’ said the Financial Times. ‘Harry’s Boy Launches Brexit Exocet’ was the Mirror’s take. The Times opted for studious neutrality. ‘FRED THE SHRED’ was the Sun’s headline, a reference to a late, unlamented banker, one of the architects of the 2008 financial crash. Even so, there were those who noted that the Sun’s reporting of this latest twist in the Brexit soap opera was uncharacteristically restrained. Was some unseen hand at work? The Telegraph led on the news that a group of hedge funders, several of whom had made fortunes out of Brexit, were launching yet another campaign to defend Britain’s sovereignty. ‘No Turning Back’ was their slogan. That too rang bells from an earlier era. As for the rest of the Brexit tabloids, they were beside themselves. In the days that followed they grew steadily more splenetic, urging their readers to new heights of fury, and it was from them that many of the online commentators took their cue.

  * * *

  An inspector from the Metropolitan Police Protection Command came to check over the flat. ‘You can’t stay here,’ he advised, ‘not safe in the current climate.’ His name was Nigel. A graduate of the University of Newcastle, in politics and international studies, no less. He wore glasses and carried a copy of the Guardian. The first thing he surveyed was the bookshelves. ‘Politics today is not like it was when I was a lad,’ he remarked wistfully. ‘In the sixties the prime minister could walk down Whitehall unmolested. And anyone could walk through Downing Street. Had myself photographed on the front step, I did. Those gates were only supposed to be temporary
, but from the moment they went up I knew they’d never come down. First it was the IRA, then the jihadis. Now it’s Brexit. Mind you, it comes to something when even the leader of the opposition isn’t safe.’ He added, ‘There’s even talk of having to offer protection to the Lib Dem leader. Now that really is a sign of the times.’

  His eye alighted on Alan Bullock’s biography of Bevin. ‘Ernie Bevin, now there’s a great man. Don’t make ’em like old Ernie anymore. Mind you, I liked that Harry Perkins, too. A friend of yours, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I worked for him.’

  ‘Ah yes, so you did. Didn’t agree with him on everything, but Harry Perkins was a man of substance. True to his principles. Today’s politicians are minnows by comparison.’ He paused and added, ‘No offence, sir. Maybe you’re going to be the exception.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  They got down to business. ‘As I say, nice flat and all that, but I’m afraid you can’t stay here. No way. A security nightmare. Too exposed, no rear exit, nowhere to billet the protection officers.’

  ‘Officers, plural? How many?’

  ‘They’ll be a team of eight.’

  ‘Eight?’

  ‘Not all at once. They work in pairs, round the clock.’

  ‘Do I get a say in this?’

  ‘Not really, sir. It’s decided in Whitehall, by a committee with access to intelligence. Their assessment is that you are at risk.’

  ‘What do you advise?’

  ‘Well, the Home office have an apartment in a safe house in Belgravia which they might be prepared to lend you. Nice address. Comfortable. A mews exit. A basement flat for the protection officers.’

  Elizabeth, silent until now, said she was having none of it. Fred could go if he wanted, but she and Lucy were staying put.

  ‘I wouldn’t advise that, madam. As I said, there’s some real loonies around these days. What would you do if someone shoved a fire cracker through the letterbox?’

  They agreed to reflect and come back to him in a couple of days. In the meantime, there would be a policeman stationed outside the front door. If nothing else, it would at least help with door-stepping reporters and cameramen who lay in ambush. Each morning when Fred opened the front door he had to force his way through a scrum of insolent journalists, thrusting microphones under his nose and cameras in his face, shouting questions, demanding answers.

  ‘Why are all these people shouting at Daddy?’ Lucy enquired one day. ‘Is it because Daddy is famous?’

  * * *

  In the end it was agreed that, for the foreseeable future, Elizabeth and Lucy would live with her parents. Lucy would have to change schools, but there was nothing they could do about that. ‘There’s a good prep school nearby. My father has offered to pay.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, please don’t, Lizzie. That’ll bring down another great shower of shite on our heads. There’s no shortage of good state schools in and around Oxford.’

  There was a row, but in the end she gave in. ‘Another little nail in the coffin of our marriage,’ he thought, but did not say.

  ‘Oh, Fred, what have you got us into?’ she sighed.

  * * *

  Nigel from Protection was duly informed. ‘A wise decision, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir. And, of course, there is an upside, quite apart from the flat in Belgravia.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It comes with a bombproof Jag and a driver, courtesy of HMG. A perk of office, you could say, sir. You’d be surprised how reluctant some of your colleagues are when the time comes to part with it, as you will do one day.’

  ‘I shall be only too glad.’

  ‘That’s what they all say, sir. To begin with.’

  * * *

  Thompson commenced a tour of European capitals. He was careful to emphasise that he was not offering a surrender. There would have to be concessions from the Europeans too. David Cameron had come home with nothing and look what happened. That was a fate he was determined to avoid. What he wanted was a credible proposition. One that he could put to the electorate in a general election. One that addressed their concerns, in particular on migration. He would only get one chance and this was it. The French were haughty. The Germans non-committal. The Swedes, the Danes and the Dutch sceptical, but open to discussion. The Italians, Austrians and just about all the former Eastern bloc had continued to drift right, and far-right parties were making gains in France, Germany, Spain and the Netherlands. Increasingly there was alarmist talk of a return to the 1930s.

  In private Thompson was robust. ‘How can you afford to be so complacent?’ he demanded of the French president, who was particularly insufferable. ‘You must know where this path leads. Look what is happening. Your precious project is crumbling before your eyes. You need us and we need you.’ To the cautious Germans he said, ‘I am taking a big risk. All I am asking in return is that you take a small one and climb down from your high horse before it is too late.’

  At home he walked a fine line. Cartoons in the Brexit press depicting him as a dwarf going cap in hand to arrogant giants. Editorials talked of a choice between freedom and national humiliation. The Sun launched a ‘Fly the Flag for Britain’ campaign which was quickly adopted by other tabloids and spread like wildfire through housing estates which had once been Labour strongholds.

  Nerves began to fray. ‘I hope you know what you are doing, Fred,’ whispered Ronnie Morgan, one of his staunchest supporters, ‘you should hear what they are saying about you down at the club.’ There was grumbling, too, at the monthly meeting of his constituency management committee and on the party’s national executive. In the polls the party continued to lag behind the incumbents, although the gap had closed marginally. The polls also indicated a revival of support for the far-right English Nationalist Party who were becoming increasingly brazen. Several of Thompson’s shadow cabinet colleagues were noticeably silent and one or two were reported to be privately critical. Twice his minders had intervened to rescue him from angry mobs. An attempt to hold a series of public rallies had to be called off on police advice. On one occasion Thompson was sprayed with red paint, on another he was hit by eggs. And the threats multiplied. Directed not only at Thompson, but also against Elizabeth and Lucy. Mrs Jeffries, in his Sheffield office, who was also the target for much of the abuse, was saying she didn’t think she could cope much longer. In public Thompson was unwavering. Privately he began to wonder if he had bitten off more than he could chew. And then, gradually, imperceptibly at first, things started to change.

  * * *

  The meeting with Sir Hugh Evans took some time to arrange. Thompson resisted a suggestion that he come to M15 headquarters on Millbank and turned down Sir Hugh’s offer of dinner in a private room at his club. In the end they settled for beer and Waitrose sandwiches at Thompson’s temporary abode in Belgravia. In the best traditions of his profession, Sir Hugh entered via the mews entrance and was shown up the servants’ staircase. There was some small talk first, Sir Hugh enquiring after Elizabeth and Lucy as though they were old friends, wondering how they were coping with what he called ‘all this fuss’ and affecting to admire the Hogarth prints from the government art collection on the sitting room wall. And then to business.

  ‘We think we can help you,’ he said.

  ‘Really? I thought you guys had given up interfering in politics.’

  ‘We have. We can’t take sides, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ allowing just a ghost of a smile to cross his face.

  ‘No, seriously, it’s different now. There was a big clear-out after that unfortunate business with Perkins.’

  ‘So I should hope.’

  ‘Talking of which, Sir Peregrine sends his regards, by the way. Actually this meeting was his idea.’

  Thompson was struck by how normal he seemed. Marks & Spencer rather than Fortnum & Mason. Shepherd’s Bush rather than St James’s. Almost youthful in appearance. A certain boyish charm. A full head of hair, greying at the temples. Self-made, the
product of a provincial university. A slight air of diffidence, lacking the armour-plated self-confidence of those educated at the better public schools.

  The room, for all its fading elegance, gave the impression of being camped in rather than lived in. A briefcase unopened on a table by the window, bookshelves empty save for a couple of Chinese vases and volume three of Charles Moore’s monumental biography of Thatcher, left by a previous occupant. ‘It’s safeguarding national interest we are concerned with.’

  ‘That’s what they said last time.’

  Sir Hugh ignored the barb and sailed smoothly on. ‘What is of particular concern to us is the security cooperation with our friends on the Continent.’

  ‘I thought that, at least, was settled.’

  ‘In theory, yes. In practice, no. We no longer enjoy the degree of co-operation that we were used to and as a result a number of terrorist suspects have slipped through the net. In fact we had a close shave only the other day. Can’t go into details, but it set alarm bells ringing, that I can tell you.’

  The light was fading, Thompson reached for the lamp.