Be Careful What You Wish For (The Clifton Chronicles) Page 15

  On the first count, Harold Wilson had 86 certainties, George Brown 57, Giles 54 and James Callaghan 19, with Undecided a crucial 42. Giles could see that his immediate task was to get rid of Callaghan and then overhaul Brown, because if the Member for Belper were to withdraw, Griff calculated that most of his votes would come their way.

  After a week of canvassing, it was clear that Giles and Brown were no more than a percentage point apart in second place and, although Wilson was clearly in the lead, the political pundits all agreed that if Brown or Barrington were to withdraw it would be a close-run contest.

  Griff never stopped roaming the corridors of power, happy to arrange private meetings with the candidate for any member who claimed they were undecided. Several of them would remain that way until the last moment, as they had never enjoyed so much attention in their lives, and were also keen to end up backing the winner. Miss Parish was never off the phone, and Sebastian became Giles’s eyes and ears, continually running between the House of Commons and Smith Square, keeping everyone up to date.

  Giles delivered twenty-three speeches during the first week of the campaign, although they rarely made more than a paragraph in the following day’s papers, and never the front page. With only two weeks to go, and Wilson beginning to look a dead cert, Giles decided it was time to go off message and take a risk. Even Griff was surprised by the reaction of the press the next morning, when Giles made every front page, including the Daily Telegraph.

  “There are too many people in this country unwilling to do a day’s work,” Giles had told an audience of trade union leaders. “If someone is fit and healthy and has turned down three jobs in a period of six months, they should automatically lose their unemployment benefit.”

  These words were not greeted with rapturous applause, and the initial reaction from his colleagues in the House was unfavorable; shot himself in the foot was the expression his rivals kept repeating. But as the days passed, more and more journalists began to suggest that the Labor Party had at last found a potential leader who lived in the real world, and clearly wanted his party to govern, rather than be doomed to perpetual opposition.

  All 258 Labor Members of Parliament returned to their constituencies at the weekend, and they quickly discovered a groundswell in favor of the Member for Bristol Docklands. An opinion poll on the following Monday confirmed this, and put Barrington within a couple of points of Wilson, with Brown running a poor third and James Callaghan in fourth place. On Tuesday, Callaghan dropped out of the race, and told his supporters he would be voting for Barrington.

  When Sebastian brought the wall chart up to date that evening, Wilson had 122, Giles 107 with 29 still undecided. It only took Griff and Miss Parish another twenty-four hours to identify the 29 MPs who, for one reason or another, were still sitting on the fence. Among them were members of the influential Fabian group, who made up 11 crucial votes. Tony Crosland, the group’s chairman, requested a private meeting with both the leading candidates, letting it be known that he was keen to hear their views on Europe.

  Giles felt his meeting with Crosland had gone well, but whenever he checked the chart, Wilson still remained in the lead. However, the press were beginning to write the words “neck and neck” in their headlines as the contest entered its final week. Giles knew that he would need a substantial stroke of luck if he was to overhaul Wilson in the last few days. It came in the form of a telegram delivered to his office on the Monday of the last week of the campaign.

  The European Economic Community invited Giles to give the keynote speech at its annual conference in Brussels, just three days before the leadership election. The invitation didn’t mention that Charles de Gaulle had dropped out at the last minute.

  “This is your chance,” said Griff, “not only to shine on the international stage, but to capture those eleven Fabian Society votes. It could make all the difference.”

  The subject selected for the speech was Is Britain ready to join the Common Market? And Giles knew exactly where he stood on that issue.

  “But when am I going to find the time to write such an important speech?”

  “After the last Labor member has gone to bed, and before the first one gets up the following morning.”

  Giles would have laughed, but he knew Griff meant it.

  “And when do I sleep?”

  “On the plane back from Brussels.”

  * * *

  Griff suggested that Sebastian accompany Giles to Brussels, while he and Miss Parish remained in Westminster, keeping a vigilant eye on the undecided.

  “Your flight takes off from London Airport at two twenty,” said Griff, “but don’t forget that Brussels is an hour ahead of us, so you won’t touch down until about four ten, which will give you more than enough time to get to the conference.”

  “Isn’t that cutting it a bit fine?” asked Giles. “My speech is at six.”

  “I know, but I can’t afford to have you hanging about in an airport unless it’s full of MPs who haven’t made up their minds. Now, the session you’re addressing should last about an hour, so it will end around seven, well in time for you to catch the eight-forty flight back to London, where the hour time difference will work to your advantage. Grab a taxi as soon as you land, because I want you back in the House in time for the division on the Pensions Bill at ten.”

  “So what do you expect me to do now?”

  “Get on with your speech. Everything depends on it.”

  * * *

  Giles spent every spare moment honing his speech, showing early drafts to his team and key supporters, and when he delivered it for the first time at his home in Smith Square just after midnight to a one-man audience, Griff declared himself well satisfied. Praise indeed.

  “I’ll be handing out embargoed copies to be checked against delivery to key members of the press tomorrow morning. That will give them more than enough time to prepare leaders and work on in-depth pieces for the next day’s papers. And I think it might be wise to let Tony Crosland see an early draft, so he feels he’s being kept in the loop. And for lazy journalists who will only skim the speech, I’ve highlighted the passage that’s most likely to capture the headlines.”

  Giles turned a couple of pages of his speech until he came across Griff’s marker. I don’t wish to see Britain involved in another European war. The best youth of too many nations have spilled their blood on European soil, and not just in the last fifty years, but for the past thousand. Together we must make it possible for European wars to be found only on the pages of history books, where our children and grandchildren can read about our mistakes, and not repeat them.

  “Why that particular paragraph?” asked Giles.

  “Because some of the papers will not only print it word for word, but won’t be able to resist pointing out that your rival never saw a shot fired in anger.”

  Giles was delighted to receive a handwritten note the following morning from Tony Crosland, saying how much he’d enjoyed the speech, and looked forward to seeing the press reaction the following morning.

  When Giles climbed on board the BEA flight to Brussels later that afternoon, he believed for the first time that he just might be the next leader of the Labor Party.

  20

  WHEN THE PLANE touched down at Brussels airport, Giles was surprised to find Sir John Nicholls, the British Ambassador, standing at the bottom of the steps beside a Rolls-Royce.

  “I’ve read your speech, Sir Giles,” said the ambassador as they were driven out of the airport before any other passenger had even reached passport control, “and though diplomats are not meant to have an opinion, I’m bound to say that I found it a breath of fresh air. Although I’m not sure what your party will make of it.”

  “I’m rather hoping that eleven of them will feel the same way as you do.”

  “Ah, that’s who it’s aimed at,” said Sir John. “How slow of me.”

  Giles’s second surprise came when they drew up outside the European Parliament and he
was met by a large throng of officials, journalists and photographers, all waiting to greet the keynote speaker. Sebastian leaped out of the front seat and opened the back door for Giles, something he’d never done before.

  The President of the European Parliament, Gaetano Martino, stepped forward and shook hands with Giles, before introducing him to his team. On the way to the conference hall, Giles met several other leading European political figures, all of whom wished him luck—and they weren’t referring to the speech.

  “If you’ll be kind enough to wait here,” said the president after they’d climbed up on to the stage, “I’ll make some opening remarks and then hand over to you.”

  Giles had gone over his speech one last time on the plane, making only one or two small emendations, and when he finally handed it back to Sebastian he almost knew it by heart. Giles peeped through a chink in the long black curtains to see a thousand leading Europeans waiting to hear his views. His last speech in Bristol during the general election campaign had been attended by an audience of thirty-seven, including Griff, Gwyneth, Penny, Miss Parish and Miss Parish’s cocker spaniel.

  Giles stood nervously in the wings as he listened to Mr. Martino describe him as one of those rare politicians who not only spoke their mind, but didn’t allow the latest opinion poll to be their moral compass. He could almost hear Griff saying “Hear, hear,” in disapproving tones.

  “… and we are about to be addressed by the next prime minister of Great Britain. Ladies and gentlemen, Sir Giles Barrington.”

  Sebastian appeared at Giles’s side, handed him his speech and whispered, “Good luck, sir.”

  Giles made his way to the center of the platform to prolonged applause. Over the years he had become used to the flashbulbs of over-enthusiastic photographers and even the whirr of television cameras, but he’d never experienced anything quite like this. He placed his speech on the lectern, took a step back and waited until the audience had settled.

  “There are only a few moments in history,” began Giles, “that shape the destiny of a nation, and Britain’s decision to apply for membership of the Common Market must surely be one of them. Of course, the United Kingdom will continue to play a role on the world stage, but it has to be a realistic role, one that has come to terms with the fact that we no longer rule an Empire on which the sun never sets. I suggest that the time has come for Britain to take on the challenge of that new role alongside new partners, working together as friends, with past animosities consigned to history. I never want to see Britain involved in another European war. The finest youth of too many nations have spilled their blood on European soil, and not just in the last fifty years, but for the past thousand. Together we must make it possible for European wars to be found only on the pages of history books, where our children and grandchildren can read about the mistakes we made, and not repeat them.”

  With each new wave of applause, Giles relaxed a little more, so that by the time he came to his peroration, he felt the whole room was under his spell.

  “When I was a child, Winston Churchill, a true European, visited my school in Bristol to present the prizes. I didn’t win one, about the only thing I have in common with the great man”—this was greeted by loud laughter—“but it was because of his speech that day that I went into politics, and it was because of my experience in the war that I joined the Labor Party. Sir Winston said these words: ‘Our nation today faces another of those great moments in history when the British people may once again be asked to decide the fate of the free world.’ Sir Winston and I may be from different parties, but on that we would undoubtedly agree.”

  Giles looked up at the packed gathering, his voice rising with every sentence.

  “We in this hall today may be from different nations, but the time has come for us to work together as one, not in our own selfish interests, but in the interests of generations yet unborn. Let me end by saying, whatever the future might hold for me, you can be assured that I will dedicate myself to that cause.” Giles took a pace back as everyone in the room rose, and it was several minutes before he was allowed to leave the stage, and even then he was surrounded by parliamentarians, officials and well-wishers as he made his way out of the chamber.

  “We’ve got about an hour before we have to be back at the airport,” said Sebastian, trying to appear calm. “Is there anything you need me to do?”

  “Find a phone so we can call Griff, and see if there’s been any early reaction to the speech back home. I want to be sure this isn’t all just a mirage,” Giles said between shaking hands and thanking people for their good wishes. He even signed the occasional autograph; another first.

  “The Palace Hotel is on the other side of the road,” said Sebastian. “We could phone the office from there.”

  Giles nodded, as he continued his slow progress. It was another twenty minutes before he was back on the steps of the parliament saying good-bye to the president.

  He and Sebastian quickly crossed the wide boulevard and made their way into the relative calm of the Palace Hotel. Sebastian gave the number to a receptionist who dialed London and when she heard a voice on the other end of the line said, “I’ll just put you through, sir.”

  Giles picked up the phone to be greeted by Griff’s voice. “I’ve just been watching the six o’clock news on the BBC,” he said. “You’re the lead story. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing with people wanting a piece of you. When you get back to London, there’ll be a car waiting at the airport to take you straight to ITV, where Sandy Gall will interview you on the late night news, but don’t hang about, because the BBC want you to talk to Richard Dimbleby on Panorama at ten thirty. The press like nothing more than an outsider making a late run. Where are you now?”

  “I’m just about to set off for the airport.”

  “Couldn’t be better. Phone me the moment you land.”

  Giles put the phone down and grinned at Sebastian. “We’ll need a taxi.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Sebastian. “The ambassador’s car has just arrived, and it’s parked outside waiting to take us back to the airport.”

  As the two of them made their way through the hotel foyer, a man thrust out his hand and said, “Congratulations, Sir Giles. A bravura performance. Let’s hope it tips the balance.”

  “Thank you,” said Giles, who could see the ambassador standing by the car.

  “My name is Pierre Bouchard. I am the deputy president of the European Economic Community.”

  “Of course,” said Giles, pausing to shake hands. “I’m aware, Monsieur Bouchard, of all the tireless work you’ve done to assist Britain with its application to become a full Member of the EEC.”

  “I’m touched,” said Bouchard. “Can you spare me a moment to discuss a private matter?”

  Giles glanced at Sebastian, who checked his watch. “Ten minutes, no more. I’ll go and brief the ambassador.”

  “I think you know my good friend Tony Crosland,” Bouchard said as he guided Giles toward the bar.

  “Indeed. I gave him an advance copy of my speech yesterday.”

  “I’m sure he would have approved. It’s everything the Fabian Society believes in. What will you have to drink?” Bouchard asked as they walked into the bar.

  “A single malt, lots of water.”

  Bouchard nodded to the barman and said, “I’ll have the same.”

  Giles climbed on to a stool, glanced around the room and spotted a group of political hacks sitting in the corner, checking over their copy. One of them touched his forehead in a mock salute. Giles smiled.

  “What’s important to understand,” said Bouchard, “is that de Gaulle will do anything to stop Britain becoming a member of the Common Market.”

  “‘Over my dead body,’ if I remember his exact words,” said Giles, as he picked up his drink.

  “Let’s hope we don’t have to wait that long.”

  “It’s almost as if the general hasn’t forgiven the British for winning the war.”

/>   “Your good health,” said Bouchard before downing his drink.

  “Cheers,” said Giles.

  “You mustn’t forget that de Gaulle has his own problems, not least—”

  Suddenly, Giles felt as if he was going to faint. He grabbed at the bar, trying to steady himself, but the room seemed to be going around in circles. He dropped his glass, slid off the stool and collapsed on to the floor.

  “My dear fellow,” said Bouchard, kneeling down beside him, “are you all right?” He looked up as a man who’d been seated in the corner of the room hurried across to join them.

  “I’m a doctor,” the man said as he bent down, loosened Giles’s tie and undid his collar. He placed two fingers on Giles’s neck, then said urgently to the barman, “Call an ambulance, he’s had a heart attack.”

  Two or three journalists hurried across to the bar. One of them began taking notes as the barman picked up the phone and hurriedly dialed three numbers.

  “Yes,” said a voice.

  “We need an ambulance. Quickly, one of our customers has had a heart attack.”

  Bouchard stood up. “Doctor,” he said, addressing the man kneeling beside Giles, “I’ll go outside and wait for the ambulance, and let them know where to come.”

  “Do you know the name of that man?” asked one of the journalists, as Bouchard left the room.

  “No idea,” said the barman.

  The first photographer ran into the bar several minutes before the ambulance arrived, and Giles had to suffer more flashbulbs, not that he was fully aware of what was going on. As the news spread, several other journalists who’d been in the conference center filing copy about Sir Giles Barrington’s well-received speech had dropped their phones and run across to the Palace Hotel.