A Very British Coup Read Free

dignified.
    â€œCAT-AST-ROPHIC.” The Belfast brogue of Sir Harry Boyd, who twenty years earlier had been the last Unionist Prime Minister of Northern Ireland, broke the gloomy silence around a television set which was delivering a computer prediction of a Labour majority of at least 100 seats. “Catastrophic,” repeated Sir Harry quietly, collapsing into an armchair.
    â€œWe could be in for civil war,” said Jonathan Alford, a rather correct man in his late thirties and a senior television news executive. Civil war was something Alford knew a bit about since he was also a major in the territorial Special Air Services. He was one of a number of senior BBC personnel whose spare time was spent scrambling over assault courses inHerefordshire and attending lectures in army staff colleges on strike-breaking and riot control. The outgoing government had trebled the territorial army budget and left recruits in no doubt that they would have a rôle to play in the event of large scale civil disturbance.
    Major Alford was just beginning to enlarge, rather gleefully, some felt, on the prospects of civil war when he was interrupted by a shrill cry of, “Oh Christ, there goes Roddy,” from over by the television set.
    The scream, for that is what it was, emanated from the considerable frame of Dame Margaret Carrington, Justice of the Peace and chairperson of the Historic Homes Association. Roddy was Lieutenant-General Sir Rodney Appleton, until now Member of Parliament for Taunton, of whom it was once said, “If there was a canal in Taunton he’d send a gunboat up it.” Sir Rodney was a neighbour of Dame Margaret’s in Surrey.
    Over by the door the Director General, Sir Roland Chance, was administering a stern warning to Jack Lansman, link-man on the breakfast-time radio news programme. It would be Lansman’s job to break the news of Perkins’ election victory to those members of the British public who hadn’t sat glued to their television sets into the small hours. “I do hope we’ve got this straight, Jack,” drawled the Director General. “You can’t go on describing these people as ‘extremists’. After all, they are now the government.”
    Lansman was unrepentant. “I’ve been calling them extremists for years, and nobody’s ever complained.”
    The DG was sympathetic. “You really mustn’t take this personally, old chap. I don’t like them any more than you do. It’s just that they’ve
won
and we shall have to take them seriously.”
    â€œIf you say so,” sighed Lansman, “but what about the moderates? Surely I can identify a moderate or two? Damn it all, the public have a right to know what they are in for.”
    â€œThey’ll find out soon enough. The public don’t need any guidance from you. Just give it to them straight. No more labels. Do you understand?” Lansman nodded sulkily. TheDG sidled off to commiserate with Dame Margaret, leaving Lansman muttering, “I’ll give it to them straight all right.”
    On leaving the Athenaeum, Sir Peregrine Craddock crossed Pall Mall and headed up a side street into St James’s Square. He cut the corner by the London Library and turning left walked crisply up Duke of York Street, then through Church Place and into Piccadilly, emerging by the Church of St James. Although the buses had long since stopped, taxi cabs were doing brisk business and private cars still cruised towards Piccadilly Circus.
    Turning left, Sir Peregrine walked quickly past Hatchards and Fortnum and Mason where he had recently purchased a pound of caviar to celebrate his daughter’s birthday. Past the Royal Academy on the other side of Piccadilly, its huge metal gates locked shut, and past the Ritz Hotel. All symbols of everything he found best in the British way of life.
    Sir Peregrine was a troubled man. For years he had laboured to keep British public