This Was a Man (The Clifton Chronicles #7)(20)
‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’
Emma rose from her place and shook hands with her new boss. When she left the room, she found Alison standing in the corridor.
‘Congratulations, minister. A car is waiting to take you to your department.’
As they walked back downstairs, past the photographs of former prime ministers, Emma tried to take in what had happened during the last few minutes. Just as she reached the hallway, the front door opened and a young man stepped inside, to be led up the stairs by another secretary. She wondered what position Norman was about to be offered.
‘If you’d like to follow me,’ said Alison, who opened a side door that led into a small room with a desk and telephone. Emma was puzzled until she closed the door and added, ‘The Prime Minister thought you might like to call your husband before you begin your new job.’
8
GILES SPENT THE MORNING moving his papers, files and personal belongings from one end of the corridor to the other. He left behind a spacious, well-appointed office overlooking Parliament Square, just a few steps from the chamber, along with a retinue of staff whose only purpose was to carry out his every requirement.
In exchange, he moved into cramped quarters, manned by a single secretary, from which he was expected to carry out the same job in opposition. His downfall was both painful and immediate. No longer could he rely on a cadre of civil servants to advise him, organize his diary and draft his speeches. Those same servants now served a different master, who represented another party, in order that the process of government should continue seamlessly. Such is democracy.
When the phone rang, Giles answered it to find the leader of the opposition on the other end of the line.
‘I’m chairing a meeting of the Shadow Cabinet at ten o’clock on Monday morning in my new office in the Commons, Giles. I hope you’ll be able to attend.’
No longer able to call upon a private secretary to summon Cabinet members to No. 10, Jim Callaghan was making his own phone calls for the first time in years.
To say that Giles’s colleagues looked shell-shocked when they took their places around the table the following Monday would have been an understatement. All of them had considered the possibility of losing to the lady, but not by such a large majority.
Jim Callaghan chaired the meeting, having hastily scribbled out an agenda on the back of an envelope which a secretary had typed up and was now distributing to those colleagues who’d survived the electoral cull. The only subject that concentrated the minds of those seated around that table was when Jim would resign as leader of the Labour Party. It was the first item on the agenda. Once they had found their opposition feet, he told his colleagues, he intended to make way for a new leader. Feet that would, for the next few years, do little more than tramp through the No’s lobby to vote against the government, only to be defeated again and again.
When the meeting came to an end, Giles did something he hadn’t done for years. He walked home – no ministerial car. He’d miss Bill, and dropped him a line to thank him, before joining Karin for lunch.
‘Was it ghastly?’ she asked him as he strolled into the kitchen.
‘It was like attending a wake, because we all know we can’t do anything about it for at least four years. And by then I’ll be sixty-three,’ he reminded her, ‘and the new leader of the party, whoever that might be, will undoubtedly have his own candidate to replace me.’
‘Unless you throw your support behind the man who becomes the next leader,’ said Karin, ‘in which case you’ll still have a place at the top table.’
‘Denis Healey is the only credible candidate for the job in my opinion, and I’m pretty confident the party will get behind him.’
‘Who’s he likely to be up against?’ Karin asked as she poured him a glass of wine.
‘The unions will support Michael Foot, but most members will realize that with his left-wing credentials the party wouldn’t have much hope of winning the next general election.’ He drained his glass. ‘But we don’t have to worry about that possibility for some time, so let’s talk about something more palatable, like where you’d like to spend your summer holiday.’
‘There’s something else we need to discuss before we decide that,’ said Karin, as she mashed some potatoes. ‘The electorate may have rejected you, but I know someone who still needs your help.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Emma rang earlier this morning. She hopes you might be willing to advise her on her new job.’
‘Her new job?’
‘Hasn’t anyone told you? She’s been appointed Under Secretary of State for Health, and she’ll be joining you in the Lords.’ Karin waited to see how he would react.
‘How proud our mother would have been,’ were Giles’s first words. ‘So at least something good has come out of this election. I’ll certainly be able to show her which potholes to avoid, which members to heed, which ones to ignore and how to gain the confidence of the House. Not an easy job at the best of times,’ he said, already warming to the task. ‘I’ll call her straight after lunch and offer to take her round the Palace of Westminster while we’re in recess.’
‘And if we were to go to Scotland for our holiday this year,’ said Karin, ‘we could invite Harry and Emma to join us. It would be the first time in years you wouldn’t be continually interrupted by civil servants claiming there’s a crisis, or journalists who say sorry to disturb you on holiday, minister, but . . .’