Implosion, page 11
“Excuse me, sir.”
Bart glanced up. A flushed and panting MOH guard stood over him, sweating.
“Yes?”
“Sir, you’re wanted on the telephone. Matron says please take the call in her office.”
“Thank you. Tell her I’m coming, will you?” He got to his feet, dusting off sand.
Julia opened her eyes. “Oh no! Can’t they leave you alone for a moment?”
“You stay here, darling. I’ll be back. I expect it’s Miss Parkins can’t find something.”
“That,” said his wife, “will be the day.” She saw his expression. “Don’t look so worried, John—you don’t even know what it is.”
Bart did not answer. To take a call in the Matron’s office was very inconvenient; it was the other side of the camp, his own chalet was less than a hundred yards away. There was, however, one difference. The phone in Matron’s office had a scrambler attachment.
It was not as bad as it might have been, but bad enough. Farmer had had a mild heart attack, and wanted Bart. Half an hour later he was being driven with hair-raising expertise back to London.
The Premier was flat on his back in bed when Bart reached Downing Street. Grailey, the heart specialist, was there, and Farmer’s own doctor. It had not been a serious attack, but rest was essential.
The Prime Minister grunted at the sight of his Minister of Health. “You’ve been a bloody long time, John.” He waved a hand at his wife, “Shove off, Grace. I’ll be all right with Bart—he knows a bit of first aid.”
Bart surveyed his chief with a professional eye. He had seen the cardiograph readings, heard Grailey’s opinion and was not really worried. He said so, adding, “But you’ve really got to rest—”
“Why d’you think I sent for you? Enough damned quacks without your help. Don’t go on about it; I know I’ve got to slow down—but the work’s got to go on. Means more for you. Simple.”
Bart looked thoughtfully at the Premier, then walked to the window and gazed out across the Horse Guards Parade. Neither he nor Farmer had reopened the subject of the succession, but naturally Bart had thought about it. Without being consciously aware of it, his views had changed since he had entered politics. He still had no great craving for power. But there was no denying it got things done, and increasingly Bart liked getting things done. But this …
Farmer, lying very still with his eyes closed, broke the silence. “Bit frightened?”
Bart’s first impulse was to say no, but he hesitated and was less sure. “Well, you can’t deny it’s a little daunting.” He turned and faced the bed. “And are you sure you want me as a stick rather than the Chancellor, or the Foreign Secretary? They’re both experienced men—”
“Don’t waste time, especially mine. You know damned well I made my mind up months ago. True, both sound men. Snag is they’re both Old Guard. No good for this age—not as leaders. Anyway, I’m not offering you my job. You take over all home affairs, chair Cabinet meetings, do the TV stuff. I will handle defense and watch foreign affairs. You’ll have to represent me at functions—dreary bloody dinners.” Farmer visibly brightened at the thought.
“Well, if you think I’m up to it—”
Farmer’s expression showed what he thought of that. “You’d better get on with it. Draft an announcement. Factual. Another thing; I’ve been thinking for some time that Minister of Health sounds a bit damn silly for what everyone knows is the number-two man. People connect it with orange juice and drains. How about Minister of Regeneration? Still keep the other one as well.”
Bart saw the point. “How do you think the rest of the Cabinet will take it?”
“Chancellor may not like it. Rest won’t be difficult. They’re not fools. Six months ago it might have been tricky. Not now. Up to you to be a bit tactful. Helps.”
For a fleeting moment Bart tried to recall Farmer being tactful with his colleagues. “I’ll try.”
“Right.” Farmer stared steadily at Bart. “Now me. Tell me quite straight. Am I finished?”
Bart shook his head. “No! Good Lord, no! There’s a lot of mileage left in you yet. Do as you’re told, and in three months you’ll be back in full charge. As long as you’re PM you’ll have to have regular checks, and cut out all excessive activities.” He added as an afterthought, “And that will probably include your smoking.”
Farmer glared. “Damned glad you’re not my quack!”
“You needn’t expect Grailey will be any better,” Bart grinned. “May stop your Scotch as well! And don’t get worked up about that, either.” He bent down and took the Premier’s pulse. “Yes. Time I left you to rest.” His tone softened. “Don’t be a fool, George. I know if you had your way, you’d be up and doing in a week and damn the consequences. You mustn’t. The country can’t afford it—and neither can I.”
Farmer found his tone embarrassing. “Tripe.”
“You’re full of old-world charm,” observed Bart. “I’ll get down to your office. If you’re very good I’ll let you see the communique. Might even let you sign a statement regularizing my position.”
Farmer grinned. “Too bloody late, lad. I signed your appointment before you got here!”
If Bart thought he was busy before Farmer’s illness he revised that opinion very quickly. Fortunately he had the ability to pick good assistants, and, equally important, was prepared to let them get on with their particular job. Sleep, he cut to a minimum, and his operation room staff, controlling his growing MOH army, never knew, day or night, when his gangling figure would appear in their midst. Sometimes he would stride in, talk affably with the Duty Controller, nod and smile at plotters, coders or teletype operators. On other occasions he would stand stock-still in the middle of the large room, hands thrust in pockets, shoulders slightly hunched. In this mood he would read the latest situation reports and leave without speaking.
Not only his staff saw him tense up under the increased burden. The Cabinet soon discovered that he disliked verbosity as much as Farmer. His TV talks were terse and to the point; he never answered viewers’ letters. People said he was not as “good” as Farmer, but what he lacked in the human touch was replaced by the added sense of urgency he brought to the screen. Farmer was a father-figure, Bart was not, and he did not try to copy the Premier’s style. However awkward he might appear, few, if any, doubted his sincerity or devotion.
His only relaxation in those days was his daily talk by telephone with Julia. Whatever the situation he found time to call her. Sometimes they would talk for an hour, more often it was for ten or fifteen minutes. If the call was made from his office, and with increasing frequency it was, his staff knew that whatever emergency arose, it would have to wait until he had finished. Apart from these calls, and rare dinners with the Flavells, he gave all his time to his work. Mrs. H hardly saw him. Often she would arrive in the morning to find his supper still untouched. Only the unmade bed and a wet towel on the bathroom floor showed that he had been there at all.
For the first three weeks Bart was unable to get down to Clacton. Then he did manage one night. It was not a great success; he was too full of tension, and there was no time to unwind—even if state affairs had let him. The evening was punctuated with telephone calls, and although Bart had curtly ordered supper to be served in his chalet, their first private meal together for months was an edgy affair, full of sudden silences and forced smiles. Julia understood his preoccupation, but still felt a twinge of annoyance which she instantly suppressed. It was not his fault, she told herself several times. She banked on breaking through to him once they got to bed. And she might have succeeded had the phone not rung five minutes after he had put the light out.
Bart’s quiet controlled anger at the disturbance did little to soothe Julia’s feelings. Bart’s anger cooled as he listened. He gently disengaged himself from his wife’s arms, switched on the light and sat on the edge of her bed.
There had been what appeared to be a serious riot in North London. This was regarded by the HQ Duty Controller—and Bart—as ominous. The newly formed Woman’s Union was involved, not for the first time. This highly militant organization, with no very clear aims, was attracting a lot of sterile women, serving as a focus for their growing frustrations. Both the MOH and Scotland Yard had been watching the development closely. Now it seemed they had broken up a parents’ meeting, arranged by the MOH. Julia hid her head in the pillows as she heard him order his car for seven o’clock. She stifled her bitter urge to tell him not to wait that long. For a while he sat thinking, then he bent over and softly kissed her. She heard him go into their living room, there was a quiet ping as he lifted the telephone. Deep in conversation with the Home Secretary, Bart did not hear Julia quietly cry herself to sleep. The visit was not a success.
As the holidays drew to a close, the campaign for the children was restarted. Preparation of National Schools had gone ahead unabated, and in areas where some were already operating the old day-schools were closed or heavily reduced in scope and staff—the latter had gone to the new establishments. Parents were thus confronted with the choice of a markedly inferior service or the new, almost glittering—and completely free—centers. Parents might protest, but they had no sympathy from the sterile, and none from parents who had already bowed to the inevitable. The squeeze was on, and all the time the message was hammered home. “Your children are special. Only the best is good enough.”
One of the faster growing sections of MOH was the Publicity Department. In the early days it had been a Cabinet decision that the situation justified “full use of all mass media communication.” Thereafter they were not consulted, and had little idea what this involved. The use of subliminal TV, for example, was known only to Farmer, Bart and Section 2(a) of the Department, who prepared the films. Initially both men felt some misgivings about the extent of their propaganda, but finer feelings gradually eroded under the pressure of events.
Because of his personal involvement, Bart remained uneasy about the effort directed at the Mothers Homes. Obviously, Mums were particularly susceptible to TV. By “arrangement” with the BBC and ITV, programs were adjusted so that on four evenings a week, at peak times, both offered entertainment of “low female interest content.” On BBC, perhaps a hoary Western on one channel, an archaeological lecture on the other. On ITV, a football match. At these times the Homes closed-circuit network (all Homes were linked by land lines via MOH Control) would have “Mothers Hour.” This was a melange of suitable fashions and dressmaking, inter-Home quizzes and audience participation games. And all of it was in color, still a great novelty outside. By this means a good ninety percent of the Mums were induced to watch their “very own program,” and at the same time the illusion of freedom of choice was preserved. And always, by the odd phrase here and there, by implication and sometimes by straightforward statement, the point was made; “Mums are special. You are special. Only the best is good enough for you.”
Inter-Home TV news also clashed with BBC and ITV bulletins and was always shown in dining halls and recreation rooms. The news was much the same as outside, but the emphasis was different. Outside, some public event—say, the Lord Mayor’s Show—might be the main item, a bad air crash getting little coverage. On the Home circuit this order would be reversed. The impression was fostered that outside was a rather grim place, full of dangers not found in Mothers Homes. Mothers Homes were safe, happy and secure … almost cosy.
13
It was nearly four months before the Premier’s doctors pronounced him fit to resume office. There were numerous provisos about adequate rest, freedom from strain and other counsel.
In those four months Bart had seen a good deal of his chief. He had always respected and admired Farmer; now there was added a genuine affection. In his turn, the Premier who liked Bart, now regarded the shy and lonely Minister of Regeneration as a son, and had a deeper insight into his complex nature.
In early December Bart handed back the reins, thankful, yet at the same time, strangely reluctant. As M of R he was now officially recognized as the second in command. Bart heartily disliked his new title, and as far as he could worked as Minister of Health.
Farmer suggested Bart might like to take over the Chancellor’s house, No. 11, but Bart was horrified. He did not need it, nor the prestige. Indeed he had grown very tired of his solitary life in Stanhope Mews, and as for Downing Street—.
It was shortly after this suggestion had been turned down that Bart had one of his infrequent encounters with Mrs. H. He said something about the house being too big. With several apologetic declarations that she did not want to intrude, diversified by frequent unobtrusive adjustments to her teeth, she said she “happened to know” of a flat that was coming vacant in nearby Queen’s Gate. She thought it “might suit.” The present owners were regulars of hers.
Bart was most anxious to conceal any move from Julia, and one stumbling block was the need to retain the same telephone number. It would be an easy matter to arrange its transfer to another telephone in the same exchange area, but another area was, he knew, technically difficult. Mrs. H told him the flat was on the same exchange.
“Very nice people, sir,” she said confidentially. “He’s a gentleman in the City; very nice. His wife’s very particular, mind you. Likes everything just so, but she’s very nice too.” She added reflectively, “Once you get to know her. Clean as a new pin, it is. Wouldn’t need no decoration or anything.”
Bart had a shrewd suspicion that Mrs. H had thought about a move before he had. He looked at her with greater interest.
“You think I should move, don’t you?”
“Well sir, it’s not for me to say, I’m sure, but—yes, I do.” She flicked some imaginary dust off the table. “You’ll never be happy here alone, and with poor dear Mrs. Bart—”
“Yes,” said Bart hastily, “you think this flat would be the place for me?”
“Sure of it, sir!” Mrs. H was all eagerness. “I happen to know they’d sell the place lock, stock and barrel as the saying is. Save you a lot of trouble.” It was delicately put.
Bart eyed her affectionately. “You’re a crafty old woman, Mrs. H! All right; arrange for me to see it. Remember one thing; I don’t want my wife to know now, or ever.”
So Bart moved, and saw another facet of the new age. The Stanhope Mews house did not sell immediately, as he had expected. Demand for houses was falling off, the agent said. It was several months before it was sold, and then at a considerable loss. The flat, two bedrooms, a large living room, kitchenette and bath suited him very well. Never keen on entertaining, Bart now had neither the time nor the inclination for any sort of social life, and the cool, impersonal flat was, for him, ideal.
After his ill-starred visit to Clacton in September, Bart decided he would not go again until he was reasonably certain of an uninterrupted weekend. There was no possible chance in October; November was even worse. Several times he missed his evening call to Julia during the height of the BAOR crisis.
This arose over Farmer’s decision to bring forward the date of withdrawal of all British forces. The decision was the Premier’s, but Bart had to carry it out. Bart, who had his eye on the estimated two thousand fertile women, wives and daughters of the troops, told the West German Government of the intention. They objected strongly, and the wives echoed their objections. Some couples disappeared into East Germany. A few, a very few, heroic women had volunteered to return to the UK, but the majority was most unwilling. Morale slipped badly. For a time there was a state of near-mutiny. Bart flew out to address troops and their families and found himself confronted with an almost impossible position. The men knew that soon after their return most of them would be discharged from the Army and be faced with a cold and hard civilian existence. This did not add to their loyalty. In addition the attitude of the German people was becoming increasingly hostile. In thirty years many businesses had been founded on the prosperity and trade the British Army had brought.
For nearly a week Bart toured the units scattered over the chill, damp plains of northwestern Germany. The strain was immense. TV was bad enough, but to face row upon row of sullen faces … Bart lacked the ability to make the ice-breaking joke. All he could do was to say, awkwardly, what he had to say, sustained only by the knowledge that he was right. Night after night he would sink with relief into some strange bed, depressed and spent.
He finally achieved a compromise with the troops and the Germans. The withdrawal would be spread over two years instead of one. Women would not be required to return except with their men. But he made it plain that refusal to go when ordered, or desertion, would mean instant discharge from the Army, loss of British citizenship, and confiscation of all UK property. In the future pay would be credited to British banks, and no withdrawals would be permitted over £10 without the written authority of the unit CO.
Bart flew back bitterly angry with himself because he had not achieved more. The assurances of his Cabinet colleagues that no one could have done better meant nothing.
So a slow trickle of women began to come home. As they had never been subjected to the drug, their fertility rate was up to the pre-PROLIX standard. Bart watched the figures hungrily. It was some consolation for the dilemma they posed. On the one hand it was scant encouragement to the remainder if he drafted them straight into the Homes. On the other, it was likely to cause resentment if he did not. There was also the very real risk of clashes with the more virulent elements in the Woman’s Union. He chose the first course, and much as he did not like it, imposed a strict censorship on any news regarding the returning women, particularly between the UK and BAOR.
By the time Farmer took over the situation was in hand. BAOR had settled down uneasily to the routine.
Bart, tense and strained by his stewardship, and especially the BAOR affair, was not fit to cope with his private life, and knew it. He might have taken a weekend in early December, but could not face it. For the first time since his marriage, he would spend a weekend alone.
