
Frank Field was trying to remember which hustings this was. Not the surroundings - Methodist Central Hall was grand enough, and he’d been here ten dozen times before. Nor its position in the running order - it was the last one. But which number was it? On the train up, he and Yvette had passed the time and avoided pricklier topics by counting at least nineteen other debates and Q&As, but he was sure there had been more.
Then there was that one in Blackburn - had they counted that? It was the day after Livingstone’s long-awaited ‘intervention’ - more heat than light, and little dent on the weekend’s UK-NOP. But it had dominated the hustings itself, with the other three candidates trotting out all the greatest hits of the 1997 government, including the scraps the right had been given and told it ought to be grateful. Frank had all the young people in the room on their feet when he trotted out the tried and tested ‘do you want the government to be in charge of your trains, or do you want passengers like you to be in charge of them?’ line.
This was nothing compared to the time in Cardiff he had expected to be carried out of the room on the shoulders of the #TalkingFrank team, of whom most of the audience was made up. That had been the day after his appearance on
Mair in the Morning, and the emails received overnight had included one gushing report of an old ex-member breaking down in tears at the sight of ‘the ethical socialist argument being rationally and cogently debated on the BBC on a Sunday morning’. Cardiff had been easy after that, though Andy’s attempt to shore up his right-of-centre credentials by talking about football had been awkward for all involved.
Frank had always known Diane would be a disaster as deputy, and the feuding between her and David had probably been one more chink in his armour that led to his skewering on Fox’s lance. But, looking back, whipping the party to vote against a substantial rise in the minimum wage three weeks after the election ‘because the Tories are doing it’ had been the best gift Frank could have been given. He’d voted with the government, along with Kate and the rest of the squad, but this time the usual backlash never came. The result was something none of them had anticipated - certainly not when Dan Jarvis gave Frank the last nomination necessary with thirty seconds to go...
“Would any of you offer David Miliband a job in your shadow cabinet?”
Frank snapped out of his unusually detailed trip down memory lane and returned to reality. What was that? A new question from the audience? Yvette and Andy must have finished tearing lumps out of each other over whether Labour was the party of equal fairness or fair equality. Frank had just said he had met Neil Findlay a couple of times, thought he’d make a great First Minister, and he looked forward to working with him in the event that Frank became leader. Giving straight answers wasn’t particularly hard.
In response to the question, there were a few murmurs from the crowd. Julia Hartley-Brewer looked up and down the panel.
“A punchy one to start us off. Andy Burnham.”
Burnham looked, as he always did these days, terrified. “I - er - I think whatever David wants to do next is absolutely for David to decide, but I think it’s important we make a clean break with the leadership that took us into the election in May. At the same time, David’s a great guy and I want him to be part of the Labour conversation for years to come. And I know he wants that too.”
Frank just about avoided looking at his watch. Hartley-Brewer looked next to Yvette, who managed to say even less than Burnham in an even longer period of time. Then, all eyes were on Caroline.
“I supported David as our leader,” she said in her usual crisp tones, “but I think it’s right he isn’t in the driving seat after what happened at the election. To labour the analogy, I don’t think he can realistically be anywhere near the car for a while now. So from me, it’s a no.”
That got a small round of applause, with a few Left-Ultras preferring frantic jazz-hands instead (of course). Once again, Frank admired Caroline’s capacity to give a straight answer. And speaking of which…
“Frank Field, your answer, please. David Miliband. Shadow cabinet material?” Hartley-Brewer was, as ever, smirking.
Frank smiled. “I don’t think there’s any question that David is shadow cabinet material. I think he was and is cabinet material. I think he did a good job at T&E in John’s government, and I’d want him back there in the shadow cabinet.”
“So you’d offer him a job?”
“I’d offer him shadow trade and enterprise.”
“Thank you. Our next question is another from the floor… Ms Chris White, please.”
A microphone was clumsily passed along a row, but Ms White was eventually heard. In a clear, Lancastrian accent, she spoke. “Would you require Labour’s leader in the Senate to resign if you won, or do you think this is an unacceptable request for a Commons party leader to make?”
Hartley-Brewer smiled. “A reference there, no doubt, to David Miliband’s sacking of Michael Meacher in 2010. Yvette, your answer, please.”
As Ms Balls gave an answer only slightly more meaningful than Burnham’s ramble a moment ago, Frank took a moment to consider his own position on this. Labour’s Shadow First Senator had been doing an alright job since Miliband’s own appointee, Charlie Falconer, had resigned with him in back in May. And while there was a certain sense of respect between old horses, if Frank did end up winning he’d probably want someone - Blair? - a bit more in tune with his policy platform. But the way David The Alien had dismissed Mad Mike had not sat well with him - there was no democratic or constitutional justification for it.
“Frank Field, your answer, please.”
“Jeremy Corbyn has been a public servant for decades,” he began, “and has made a fine Shadow First Senator after seven years as a senior figure in our elected upper house. I know Jeremy socially, and I think we could work together, though obviously we have many differences. I don’t think it’s for the leader of the PLP to dictate the leadership of our team in the Senate, and so on balance, no, I wouldn’t ask him to step down.”
“A straight answer, which I think we’ve come to expect by now. Frank, thank you.”
Someone at the back of the room muttered the word ‘bias’, and they probably had a point. The media had developed a queer love-hate relationship with Frank, but love seemed to be winning for now. His unusual aesthetic - comparisons were constantly made with Farage - of smart but dated suits worn unpretentiously with a dash of pattern and colour in the shirt department had earned his campaign the nickname ‘the check republic’.
“I’d like some honesty here,” said a severe looking woman with her hair in a messy bun, “who would the candidates’ say their most ‘questionable friend’ is?”
Ah, Frank would come to miss these. The love-hate campaign in the media had been met by a downright hate campaign among many Labour activists. Out of context quotes from his speeches supporting Bush’s strikes on Iraq, and photographs of Frank stood next to Condoleeza Rice (ignoring the fact that Ken had asked her to play the bloody piano in Downing Street), had been doing the rounds for weeks now.
Yvette took the implication head on, initially sounding like she was defending Frank’s American associations, but then wheeling back around and stressing that she herself had no friends she’d call questionable - “and no questionable guests I would call friends.” She didn’t need to look at Frank when she said it. Congressman Peter King was in everyone’s mind.
Andy Burnham made a joke about Everton or some shit, and then it was Frank’s turn.
“I’ve got a lot of friends, and not all of them are to each other’s taste,” Field said immediately, “but I will say that on the subject that I think we all know is being discussed under the surface here, I will never make apologies for bringing together individuals and groups that have an interest in taking action to end tyranny. Whether it’s in Africa, the Middle East, or Eastern Europe, Labour as a democratic party has a duty to stand up for freedom. As leader, I’ll do that. Oh, and my dodgiest friend is obviously Kate Hoey. She cheats at cards all the time.”
The laughter was more nervous and divided than earlier, but Frank knew this was his weakest area. The Tories would probably try to have some fun with it, but Fox’s own love for the Yanks, first Kerry and then Romney, would neuter any killing blows. Surely?
Julia Hartley-Brewer spoke into her microphone. “And Caroline Lucas, your answer, please.”
“These days, my most questionable friend is probably Frank Field.”
Uproarious laughter emerged, though some po-faces - some in ‘Caroline4Labour’ t-shirts, no less - were not so amused. Caroline laughed along and clarified that she was referring to how well she got on with Frank - and
all the candidates - and how this had earned her some ire for not treating Frank like a leper. She actually managed to turn it into a call for party unity, calling out to a party that was all but certain to give her less than five percent of the vote this weekend. Frank felt himself begin to smile. He hoped he and Caroline could work together again.
“We have time for one more,” said Hartley-Brewer, “I believe I said the gentleman on the balcony would be next… yes, you, sir.”
“Certain members of the panel appear to want to bury the legacy of the policies and the positions that actually helped Labour win elections, in the name of some mythical idea of ‘purity’ and of ‘the centre’,” sneered a large figure in a suit at the back of the balcony, “why does the Labour Party hate winners?”
Andy Burnham was up first this time.
“I don’t think we hate winners. I think Ken Livingstone’s government achieved a great many fantastic things - the minimum wage, Lords democratisation and electoral reform, the return of BR, the National Care Service - but there’s a clear sense that too many people were left out in the cold by that. Our party became inward-looking. You talk about ‘purity’ being a bad thing, sir - I think chasing it is a bad thing, yes, but I was a young MP under Ken, and… well, purity seemed to be a big priority then. You followed the party line, for the class, or you were out. In 2005, the surprise losses we made - the losses that led, in my view, to the agony of the 2010 result and the Liberal-Conservative putsch - were almost all in seats where we’d had messy deselection battles. I’m the unity candidate here, friend, and I know we can put this party back together again. If you want the heart of Labour, vote for me.”
A small round of applause was as good a response as any Andy ever got these days. He seemed resigned to the inevitable - though the latest UK-NOP polls were surely massively out. Frank might win - he had accepted this now - but dear Lord, the margin!
Yvette was up next. “For years, we’ve been told that to win elections, you have to be radical, and to mark out ground of your own. Clement Attlee. Margaret Thatcher. Ken Livingstone. Two great leaders and one with a more mixed legacy, shall we say. But all undoubtedly against the mould of their times. But I say this analysis ignores where elections are truly won - in the centre, and in people’s hearts.”
So this was what ‘the credible moderate’ looked like, was it? Yvette had certainly practiced this one in the bathroom mirror, Frank thought. As she moved on to lambast him (by proxy, of course) as ‘the forces of stagnation’ and ‘Toryism in red trousers’, she built up quite a head of steam.
“And so,” she continued, “there
is another way, I have to say, friends. You don’t have to choose between electoral success and the sensible policies you and I both want. You can have them, under my leadership. I’ll lead a Labour Party that’s smart, pursues policies backed by evidence, and works with the majority view when the majority view is right. But I’ll never forget that we are best when we are Labour - Labour in power, fighting from the left to make this country’s worse off into tomorrow’s champions. Thank you.”
She sat down to a bit more applause than Andy, and Frank considered again that she may well end up beating him into third place. Hartley-Brewer looked expectantly at Lucas.
Caroline adjusted her glasses, then removed them and put down her notes. “I don’t need these to answer this one,” she said proudly. “I don’t think everything that the 1997 government did was a success, or even, in hindsight, whether we had exactly the right priorities on everything. But we have much to be proud of there, and I don’t believe that we’ll be able to win power again until we
own Ken Livingstone again. We have to understand that this is our most electorally successful leader ever, and that means he was on to something. If I sound fired up, it’s because I am - I’m proud to be the standard-bearer for my ‘bit’ of the party, whatever you want to call it, but goodness me, I want to lead the
whole Labour Party, and I want us to do that with the clarity of vision and the radical drive that we had in 1997 under Ken and John. Thank you.”
There was a roar of cheering and applause.
“Probably worth half a percent,” Frank heard Yvette murmur under her breath. Then, it was Frank’s turn.
“Like Andy, I don’t think we hate winners. I don’t hate anyone - life’s too short. Politics isn’t about hate. It’s not about tribes. It’s about good ideas, and working together to find them, and then put them into action. Everyone keeps accusing me of ‘chasing the centre’, but - and you really can do this on hansard.gov, if you’ve got no life - if you look up the number of times I’ve actually said the word ‘centre’ in my parliamentary career… well, if you strip out ‘community centre’ and so on… it’s less than ten. I’m not the one talking about it! I’m certainly not chasing it. I want to lead a Labour Party that empowers people. That gives power back to communities. The man in Whitehall does not always know best, and for too long in this party, we have mistaken radicalism for innovation. ‘The left’ (a term I still have a problem with) have had the party for too long. For too long we’ve been left out in the cold. In David Miliband, we had a chance to change things. Mutualisation was seriously on the agenda for the first time in decades. A mixed economy that was the
right mix was a possibility. But David did not succeed in getting that message across to the voting public, and it’s my belief that he struggled to do so not because of his own weaknesses as a communicator...”
Frank hoped the tiny pause wouldn't give away the polite lie.
“...but because we were a divided party who dragged David to the left every time he tried to announce a policy. Conference after conference demanding local government reform was ignored by ivory tower leftier-than-thou socialists in Transport House jobs-for-life, and for what? For electoral success? For ‘victory’? Where was the victory in Nuneaton, where the Tories increased their majority? Where was the victory for the food bank queues on Portland Walk in Barrow? Where was the victory for the thousands left homeless by this government’s housing crisis, who needed a Labour government more than ever before, and who instead got a reheated 1997 manifesto, 'the Closed Shop for the 21st century', and a promise to ‘seriously examine the monarchy’? The membership of this party has been ignored for
years. It’s time to take our party back, and welcome home those we’ve lost to the Liberals and to apathy. So no, I don’t think we hate winners. I think we hate being patronised.”
Frank sat down to a response roughly equivalent to Arthur Greenwood’s in September 1939. But Hartley-Brewer was clearly in the mood for mischief. She addressed the original questioner again.
“Does that satisfy you, sir? Have you had any straight answers?”
The bristling gentleman in the suit rose to his feet. “Frankly,” he began to groans and a couple of laughs, “I don’t think I have. Andy and Yvette equivocated, Caroline is alright by me but we need to see some more oomph from her. As for Orange Frank… well, the last time his portion of the party had control, we saw weak opposition, a Labour leadership that danced to the Tories’ tune, and of course, the disaster of the 1983 election.”
Frank sighed but didn’t roll his eyes. It was partly in code, but he knew what it all meant. Frank knew what 'orange' meant. It had brought him low when, in his first term in parliament, he’d watched Roy join the Liberals. Denis beating Foot was enough to keep Williams, Rodgers and the rest happy enough to put pay to that ‘Centre Party’ idea that Tony Benn kept warning of throughout the 1980s. Frank had said to Wedgie one day in 1986 that if the right hadn’t walked out while he himself was deputy leader, they weren’t likely to ever go.
As for 1983, Denis had done the best he could with the hand he was dealt, and once Port Stanley was back in British hands the election was a foregone conclusion. That some particularly unpleasant members of the ‘#StopField’ brigade had sought to use Healey’s own
death getting into the headlines last week to take shots at Frank himself had struck him as beneath contempt. This heaving Unite oaf at the back of the room had no doubt been pressing his fat little fingers into an Acorn Pocket that night.
“If I may respond,” Frank began, not intending to let Julia interrupt him, though she didn’t, “that is an unfair characterisation of our party’s history, and I think the gentleman at the back knows it.” A few people hissed the word ‘comrade’ insistently. Frank went on. “I will not, however, fight fire with fire. I have been a backbencher under Jim Callaghan, Denis Healey, Peter Shore, Gwyneth Dunwoody, Ken Livingstone, John McDonnell, and David Miliband. All of them had great things to offer the Labour Party and this country, and I will not have their names dragged through the mud, whatever their politics. It’s precisely this sort of behaviour that gave Fox his majority, and those involved should be ashamed of themselves.”
Half the room began booing, though the louder half was already on its feet, whooping and cheering. ‘Robust party democracy’ had its strengths, Frank had to admit. Wedgie had been onto something there. As Hartley-Brewer began to calm the room down again, Caroline leant over and whispered in Frank’s ear.
“Keep this up, and they’ll think
you’re the unity candidate.”
Frank didn’t really know what to say, so instead gave one of those smiles that he was told ‘the internet’ was very fond of. Within a few minutes, it was all over, and he was on his way outside - though that, as ever, took twenty minutes. He told himself he’d miss the hustings, but not the selfies. Though, he realised with horror, if he
won, they probably wouldn’t stop...
He was now in the street, and had told Freddie he’d be travelling alone back home now - they had a strict rule that he was allowed Wednesday evenings to himself. A journo from the
Amalgamation jogged down the stairs after him and shouted from the pavement.
“They say David Owen will rejoin if you win, Frank.”
“He’ll have to stop running for Mayor first,” Frank shot back, waving and ducking into a cab.