The Image in the Water Read online

  The years had tidied her up a bit. Her hair, now grey and thinner, no longer flowed across her face, and her voice was quieter. She had tried, he thought, to look and sound as tough as Joan Freetown, but she had never succeeded, even in the days when she had attemped to harass him as Home Secretary for softness on crime. The dreary years in opposition had mellowed and disappointed her as she tried in vain to restrain her new leader. Roger found that he liked and respected her more than in the past, but he could not spare her a hard choice.

  ‘I’m going to speak tomorrow in Central Hall.’

  ‘For the government?’ But she could hardly be surprised.

  ‘Not for the government. For the referendum, and for a decent way of running the United Kingdom.’

  She did not react. Her hands were clasped on the folder of constituency cases which she had just dealt with. He read something in the whiteness of the knuckles.

  ‘You must pull David back. He’s run out of control. His policy won’t work.’

  ‘Not his policy, ours. All of us in the Shadow Cabinet supported independence for Scotland, independence for England. So do the opinion polls.’

  ‘The polls are shifting already. People see how David Alcester hijacked policy on the back of that kidnap. He exploited you all. I bet you opposed him at that special meeting of the Shadow Cabinet after he came back from Nice. He’s a shit, Sarah, you know that now. Some people say he even organised the kidnap himself.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  ‘Nor, as a matter of fact, do I. But he certainly exploited it to the full.’

  Sarah was not proud of her performance at that meeting of the Shadow Cabinet. She should have been quicker, spoken out more strongly. But she wouldn’t give in to Roger, who had backed out of the struggle earlier and more completely.

  ‘You don’t understand about women in politics.’

  ‘Don’t change the subject, Sarah.’

  ‘It is the subject. Or part of it, as it concerns me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She tidied her hair with one hand. ‘There are still too few of us. We still feel it’s a world run by men, under the rules they made. Loyalty to party is one of them.’

  ‘Rules are there to be broken, when necessary.’

  ‘That’s a silly remark, as you know. Frivolous, masculine. Women feel they must hold on to the rules even more tightly because they did not make them. Men can fool about with rebellion and disloyalty. We women can’t afford that.’ Another pause. ‘In the end the Shadow Cabinet decided unanimously in favour of David’s independence policy. I can’t go back on that.’

  Roger pointed to the bundle of papers on the desk. ‘There are wider loyalties. You have them there under your hand, all those constituents you are helping. You didn’t go into politics to serve David Alcester.’

  ‘But that’s where I’ve ended up. You bear some of the responsibility for that.’

  It was true, of course. Roger now believed he could have won that leadership contest, and probably the election that followed. In that case Sarah would now be a successful Secretary of State for Education, not a wispy has-been dealing with the pension cases and traffic problems of Ealing West. But what a stubborn woman. ‘I admire your stubbornness, Sarah.’ Wrong tone. ‘No, seriously, I respect what you say. I can’t ask you to come on the platform with me tomorrow. But you can reopen the whole thing in Shadow Cabinet. You can force David Alcester to back down. You can.’

  ‘I’ll think about it, Roger.’ Sarah stood up, as if dismissing a constituent at the end of his allotted time. ‘Thank you for coming to see me. I have a Chamber of Commerce lunch round the corner and I need a few minutes to sort these papers.’ She let him peck her cheek.

  As he went down the stairs Roger was dissatisfied. Somehow he had let her take the initiative from him.

  Sarah did not sort the papers, for they were already sorted. She sat at the table for some minutes staring at the row of photographs on the wall of past Town Clerks. Then a noise in the street outside disturbed her. She got up and opened the window. A small group of youths in balaclavas carrying New England banners had established themselves outside the Nat West Bank opposite the community centre. Two of them moved to fasten a big poster on one of the windows facing the street. A solitary policeman made no attempt to hinder them.

  ‘England for the English. Boycott the Tartan bank. Send the thieves home across the border.’

  Discordantly the small crowd began to sing ‘There’ll Always Be an England.’ Somebody put a match to a kilt, but it would not burn. The youths who had fixed the poster began to tape up the slots in the outside cash machine. The policeman still made no move.

  Sarah watched for a minute. The futility and small malice of what she saw changed her mind. On her laptop she summoned up David Alcester’s home telephone number. She had never been good at remembering telephone numbers by heart.

  ‘It would be marvellous if you could. People have a huge respect for you and for Simon in the background behind you. You just have to say a few words.’

  Louise was attracted by the idea, but still amazed that her husband should suggest it. ‘It would be such a final step. I’m not sure I could do it.’

  ‘It would make my position easier. No, I didn’t say that. It’s quite easy for me, though I shall hate every minute of it. By contrast, once you get going you’ll relish it. Hat?’ he added.

  ‘Hat?’

  ‘Will you wear a hat?’

  ‘God, no – or yes, perhaps I should.’ Pause. ‘Peter, you’re trying to force the pace.’

  ‘I think you should definitely wear a hat. Something formidable in straw.’

  ‘I haven’t decided whether to go at all.’

  ‘When are you going to give us an answer? The Prime Minister rang me again this morning.’

  ‘I can’t until I’ve given myself an answer. I’ve married two prime ministers, no need to bother with a third.’

  ‘But you’re genuinely still thinking?’

  ‘Still thinking.’

  ‘Think hard.’

  John Turnbull had disliked the cold, unfeeling pillars of Central Hall, Westminster, ever since as a young minister he had been heckled there by the massed ranks of the Metropolitan Police Federation. But it held a lot of people. Because it was just across Parliament Square from the House of Commons, its meetings seemed to radiate a special influence to the political world outside.

  He could still hear shouts from Tothill Street, which the police had given over to the New England crowd as part of the bargain to keep Victoria Street open to traffic. The Home Secretary had just passed him a note along the line of Cabinet ministers seated on the front of the stage. All well: some scuffles, a dozen arrests so far, no serious violence, fewer demonstrators than expected.

  All reasonably well, too, he thought, inside the hall. His opening speech had been short and simple. He had not argued at all closely the case for the Union. The referendum, he had said, was in part a vote on the right way of doing things. Our forefathers and great-grandmothers had fought for the vote because it was a way of achieving change without bloodshed. There was another way that was always tempting for those who were impatient and intolerant. Then he had launched into an attack on New England, and on the SLA in Scotland. James Cameron had just been released by the SLA but in a bad way, bruised and beaten. Turnbull referred to those politicians, unnamed, who had taken no part in violence – indeed, had themselves with their families suffered from it (pause while this sank in) but who nevertheless were willing to benefit from it. None of this was particularly logical as a defence of the referendum, but it had gone down well, and if he was right about the quickly changing mood of the public, it would help.

  Then the surprise speakers. Neither Peter Makewell nor Roger Courtauld were great orators, but both were in that stage of retirement where the controversies of their own pasts were forgotten, and it was remembered that they were decent people who had done their best. Decent
people, decent methods, a decent country – every now and then this underlying decency had to be reasserted so that the practitioners could get back to the games, often silly games, of politics without doing any real harm to anyone. Turnbull, not used to articulating such thoughts even to himself, supposed this was why he, Courtauld and Makewell had agreed after dinner at Chequers.

  The name of the final surprise was not announced. She simply walked from the wings up to the lectern. This, too, was a gamble. Would enough of the audience immediately recognise Louise and give her the necessary welcome? The answer was yes, after a pause of three seconds, and the applause was excited and tumultuous because of the surprise. She wore a black coat and skirt over a yellow blouse. No hat, her silver hair profuse but disciplined.

  ‘Unlike the others who have spoken I have no knowledge of the ins and outs of the constitution.’

  A noise of polite dissent.

  ‘Well, perhaps you do pick up a bit late at night or across the breakfast table, though usually it’s the last thing they want to talk about.’

  Then back to her notes.

  ‘I am here as a widow, as a wife, as a mother … as a grandmother.’

  A murmur of sympathy in the hall as they remembered little Simon’s ordeal.

  ‘From all these relationships I have watched and helped human beings who are deep in politics. After all these years I am not one of those who are cynical about politics and politicians. On the contrary, I have never known a set of people who work so hard for others, as well as for themselves. But I have learned about a right way of doing things in politics and a wrong way. The Prime Minister is trying to get the discussion about Scotland back into the right way of doing things. The Prime Minister belongs to the Labour Party. You have heard my Conservative husband, Peter Makewell, support him. I know I am absolutely certain that Simon Russell, whom I remember day and night, would have done the same. I hope that you will support him too. That is all I have to say.’

  It was enough. It was all worth it for that. The standing ovation would throw Louise’s words round the world again and again. They would stay in people’s minds for the necessary weeks up to the referendum.

  The organisers had hoped that Julia Alcester would follow Louise. On the whole, the Prime Minister was glad that she had refused. He was a conservative in some matters. Whatever their views (and they could only guess at Julia’s) he thought that wives should stick with their husbands. And, anyway, it was enough. His new Conservative allies had given him an impetus that he knew was now unstoppable. Weeks of argument lay ahead. There was no doubt in his mind of the outcome.

  ‘Well done, Prime Minister.’ Peter Makewell and Roger Courtauld took leave of him rather formally, at the side door of Central Hall.

  ‘Thank you. It’s enough, I think.’

  ‘It’s enough,’ said Roger Courtauld.

  ‘I agree,’ said Peter Makewell.

  There was no need for any more making of history that day. The old man who was Prime Minister was ushered into his car. Peter Makewell waited for his wife, who was besieged by photographers. The third old man, Roger Courtauld, began to look for a taxi to take him back to Marylebone and Northamptonshire.

  Four days later the Cambridge Street flat was very quiet. Even the baby rites of Simon’s day seemed to be performed in half-silence. David Alcester closed the lift door gently as he returned home at mid-morning. Unusually, he sought out his wife. She was in the kitchen shelling broad beans. ‘I’ve thrown it in.’

  Julia said nothing.

  ‘The referendum campaign. The lot.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked, no expression yet in her voice.

  ‘It was hopeless. Everything has been running against us. We’re down to thirty-five per cent no, against fifty-five for yes.’

  ‘You’ve got three weeks to go. Clive Wilson was saying on TV last night…’

  ‘Clive Wilson,’ said David, as if passing some judgement.

  ‘What does he advise?’

  ‘To carry on. He said his job and mine depended on it.’

  ‘Was he right?’

  ‘He was certainly right. I shall give up the leadership as well.’ A pause. ‘I don’t know what I’ll live on.’

  ‘What you will live on?’

  They were at the heart of it.

  ‘Thank you for not going to Central Hall that day.’

  ‘How did you find out that I was asked?’

  ‘These things do not stay hidden. Why did you refuse?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to wear.’

  David gaped. The old Julia was in the kitchen with him, shelling beans. He was glad. But he needed to be sure.

  ‘You don’t believe what Louise believes about Simon’s kidnap?’

  ‘I don’t believe it. I half believed it when she said it. But not now.’

  ‘Then…’

  ‘Then we have to consider what we will live on.’

  David ran to the window where, unbelievably long ago, he had held up the rescued Simon to the crowd.

  The Evening Standard headline was just legible from the stack of papers at the front of the newsagent opposite. ‘David Loses All,’ it said.

  ‘Perhaps not quite everything,’ said David to the empty street and hoped it was true.

  A Note on the Author

  The Rt Hon Lord Hurd of Westwell, CH, CBE enjoyed a distinguished career in government spanning sixteen years. He was educated at Eton and Trinity College, Cambridge, where he obtained a first-class degree in history and was President of the Cambridge Union. After joining the Diplomatic Service, he went on to serve at the Foreign Office in Peking, New York and Rome. He ran Edward Heath’s private office from 1968 to 1970 and acted as his Political Secretary at 10 Downing Street from 1970 to 1974.

  He later served in the governments of Margaret Thatcher and John Major; following terms as Minister of State in the Foreign Office and the Home Office, he became Secretary of State for Northern Ireland (1984-85) and Home Secretary (1985-89) before his appointment as Foreign Secretary in 1989. He was MP for Mid-Oxfordshire (later Witney) from 1974 until 1997.

  Upon his retirement as Foreign Secretary in 1995, Lord Hurd joined the Nat West Group and is now Deputy Chairman of Coutts Bank. He is also Chairman of British Invisibles and Chairman of the Prison Reform Trust charity. Viewed as one of the Conservative Party’s senior elder statesmen, he is a patron of the Tory Reform Group, and remains an active figure in public life.

  Hurd is a writer of political thrillers including Image in the Water, and a collection of short stories in Ten Minutes to Turn the Devil. He lives in Oxfordshire with his family.

  Discover books by Douglas Hurd published by Bloomsbury Reader at

  www.bloomsbury.com/DouglasHurd

  Ten Minutes to Turn the Devil

  Image in the Water

  This electronic edition published in 2012 by Bloomsbury Reader

  Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square,

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  First published in Great Britain 2001 by Little, Brown and Company

  Copyright © 2001 Douglas Hurd

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  eISBN: 9781448209767

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