'I can't become Prime Minister, not at this time of night!'
- Thread starter Meadow
- Start date
Monday, 10 March 1976 (continued)
‘This is BBC Radio Four. The news at ten o’clock.’
Bong.
‘The Prime Minister, Harold Wilson, has died at the age of 69. Leaders in both Britain and on the world stage have paid tribute to the man described by his successor as ‘a believer in everything that is great about Britain’.’
Bong.
‘The Lord President of the Council and Acting Leader of the Labour Party, Edward Short, has been invited to form a government by the Queen and succeeded Mr Wilson as Prime Minister this morning.’
Bong.
‘A Labour leadership contest will select Mr Wilson’s permanent successor, with Mr Short proclaiming from the steps of Downing Street today that he intends only to be a caretaker Prime Minister. It is believed-’
Jim Callaghan turned off the radio and took off his glasses. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he stretched his legs out under his desk and yawned. He’d done enough for today. He and his aides had completely redrafted their documents based on projected support for Callaghan if he entered the contest to succeed Harold. The figures were encouraging, but meaningless without putting in the footwork and telephone calls involved in gauging support. It had been suggested he seize the initiative and formally enter the contest at the earliest possible opportunity, which was expected to be some time after lunch, after the NEC had established a timetable. As he stood up from his desk, Jim cursed under his breath as the telephone rang. Angrily, he snatched up the receiver.
‘I thought I told you, no more calls!’ he hissed.
‘I’m terribly sorry, Jim, I didn’t realise I had already been in touch,’ said Ted Short.
Jim loosened his collar.
‘Ted! I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was you. Congratulations.’
‘It’s a burden, Jim, I tell you that. An honour, yes, but a burden nonetheless. I can’t think why you want it.’
Jim rolled his eyes.
‘Ted, I want it because, with the greatest of respect, I’d be able to do something with it. You’ve been left holding someone else’s football but you’re not allowed to kick it about.’
There was a pause. Jim frowned. Then Ted’s distinctive, barking laugh came down the line, to Jim’s relief.
‘You’re right, Jim, you’re right. I’m sorry to call at this hour, but unfortunately there’s a few pieces of protocol still to carry out.’
‘Oh.’
‘You know what Sir John is like, everything by the book, and so on.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Anyway, do you want to be Foreign Secretary?’
Jim hesitated.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Protocol, Jim. I can’t slow everything down by inviting everyone round to form the cabinet again tomorrow morning. Everyone stays where they are until my permanent successor can be elected.’
Jim breathed a sigh of relief, his foolish confusion dissipating. The new PM had to appoint his cabinet, as ever.
‘I thought I’d get it over with for everyone personally,’ Ted continued, ‘I don’t imagine anyone’s about to turn around and refuse.’
Jim allowed himself an audible chuckle.
‘You’re right, Ted. I would, of course, be honoured to serve at the FCO.’
‘Right, ta,’ said the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, ‘Got some more calls to make. Cheers.’
Jim put the receiver down, shaking his head.
Tuesday, 11 March 1976
As the breakfast of a Prime Minister, toast and marmalade was not particularly auspicious. Such thoughts were far from Ted’s mind, however, as he pored over the papers and occasionally glanced at his watch. Marcia was to arrive at any moment, and at that point the day could begin. She was to walk him through it, at least until he got to the House, where Jack, his PPS, would meet him and take things from there.
The headlines were to be expected. ‘A nation mourns’ blubbed The Guardian, ‘RIP’ splashed The Sun, and ‘Harold Wilson dead at 69’ reported The Times. The staff had informed him there was still a small crowd of mourners, many of them not of the most sound mind, outside Downing Street. They would have to be dealt with in time, Ted thought, looking up in time to see his wife enter the room.
‘Darling,’ he began, stretching out an arm.
‘Good morning,’ she said politely and sat down opposite him. Ted slowly retracted the arm.
‘Everything alright, my dear?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied, and reached for the teapot.
They sipped in silence for a number of minutes, Ted absently scanning the obituaries for anything scurrilous or unfair before feeling too depressed to continue. He glanced at his watch again just as a knock at the door announced the arrival of Marcia Falkender. Ted rose, pulled on his jacket, and kissed his wife on the cheek as he moved across the room to shake Marcia by the hand.
‘Prime Minister,’ she said stiffly.
‘Marcia. Thank you so much, once again.’
Mrs Falkender simply nodded. Ted stretched and massaged the back of his neck, before inhaling deeply and sharing one last look with his wife before turning around to the door and walking with Marcia into the corridor.
‘Shall we get on with it, then?’ he said with a forced smile.
‘Certainly, Prime Minister,’ she replied, and began listing his appointments for the morning.
Roy Jenkins raised his order paper and issued a thundering jeer in the direction of the member for Croydon South. The waffling Conservative had tripped over his figures in his question, and was now being mercilessly barracked to submission. The Speaker called for order, and Mr Clark of Croydon South returned to his feet. He had barely said ten words when a cry of, ‘No thanks, I’m sweet enough!’ from the Labour backbenches led to guffaws, uproar, and more jokes about his background in the sugar business.
Roy rolled his eyes and thought back to that morning's cabinet meeting. It had been a brief affair, with Ted calmly thanking everyone for agreeing to serve under him (no-one had declined his requests to resume their posts) and presenting a convincing case for his being capably in charge. Roy had little objection to this. What he did have an objection to was the icy glares that Denis and Jim had been giving each other across the table for the entirety of the meeting. Since Harold’s death, the relationship between the two men had rapidly deteriorated. No-one had announced an intention to seek the leadership yet, but it was surely only a matter of time now, as the NEC had informed the Prime Minister’s office that a timetable for the contest had been agreed and would be announced that afternoon.
The shouting in the Commons had reached new heights, and Roy sighed and was about to crack a joke to Tony Crosland when a hushed silence rippled through the room. The Labour front bench had begun to stand up, and Roy joined them when the wave of rising men reached his seat. As a smattering of applause grew to a cacophonic standing ovation, it became clear why. As Ted passed him, Roy joined the dozens of others patting him on the back. The Speaker cleared his throat and spoke as soon as the applause ended.
‘Questions to the Prime Minister.’
‘This is BBC Radio Four. The news at ten o’clock.’
Bong.
‘The Prime Minister, Harold Wilson, has died at the age of 69. Leaders in both Britain and on the world stage have paid tribute to the man described by his successor as ‘a believer in everything that is great about Britain’.’
Bong.
‘The Lord President of the Council and Acting Leader of the Labour Party, Edward Short, has been invited to form a government by the Queen and succeeded Mr Wilson as Prime Minister this morning.’
Bong.
‘A Labour leadership contest will select Mr Wilson’s permanent successor, with Mr Short proclaiming from the steps of Downing Street today that he intends only to be a caretaker Prime Minister. It is believed-’
Jim Callaghan turned off the radio and took off his glasses. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he stretched his legs out under his desk and yawned. He’d done enough for today. He and his aides had completely redrafted their documents based on projected support for Callaghan if he entered the contest to succeed Harold. The figures were encouraging, but meaningless without putting in the footwork and telephone calls involved in gauging support. It had been suggested he seize the initiative and formally enter the contest at the earliest possible opportunity, which was expected to be some time after lunch, after the NEC had established a timetable. As he stood up from his desk, Jim cursed under his breath as the telephone rang. Angrily, he snatched up the receiver.
‘I thought I told you, no more calls!’ he hissed.
‘I’m terribly sorry, Jim, I didn’t realise I had already been in touch,’ said Ted Short.
Jim loosened his collar.
‘Ted! I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was you. Congratulations.’
‘It’s a burden, Jim, I tell you that. An honour, yes, but a burden nonetheless. I can’t think why you want it.’
Jim rolled his eyes.
‘Ted, I want it because, with the greatest of respect, I’d be able to do something with it. You’ve been left holding someone else’s football but you’re not allowed to kick it about.’
There was a pause. Jim frowned. Then Ted’s distinctive, barking laugh came down the line, to Jim’s relief.
‘You’re right, Jim, you’re right. I’m sorry to call at this hour, but unfortunately there’s a few pieces of protocol still to carry out.’
‘Oh.’
‘You know what Sir John is like, everything by the book, and so on.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Anyway, do you want to be Foreign Secretary?’
Jim hesitated.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Protocol, Jim. I can’t slow everything down by inviting everyone round to form the cabinet again tomorrow morning. Everyone stays where they are until my permanent successor can be elected.’
Jim breathed a sigh of relief, his foolish confusion dissipating. The new PM had to appoint his cabinet, as ever.
‘I thought I’d get it over with for everyone personally,’ Ted continued, ‘I don’t imagine anyone’s about to turn around and refuse.’
Jim allowed himself an audible chuckle.
‘You’re right, Ted. I would, of course, be honoured to serve at the FCO.’
‘Right, ta,’ said the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, ‘Got some more calls to make. Cheers.’
Jim put the receiver down, shaking his head.
*
Tuesday, 11 March 1976
As the breakfast of a Prime Minister, toast and marmalade was not particularly auspicious. Such thoughts were far from Ted’s mind, however, as he pored over the papers and occasionally glanced at his watch. Marcia was to arrive at any moment, and at that point the day could begin. She was to walk him through it, at least until he got to the House, where Jack, his PPS, would meet him and take things from there.
The headlines were to be expected. ‘A nation mourns’ blubbed The Guardian, ‘RIP’ splashed The Sun, and ‘Harold Wilson dead at 69’ reported The Times. The staff had informed him there was still a small crowd of mourners, many of them not of the most sound mind, outside Downing Street. They would have to be dealt with in time, Ted thought, looking up in time to see his wife enter the room.
‘Darling,’ he began, stretching out an arm.
‘Good morning,’ she said politely and sat down opposite him. Ted slowly retracted the arm.
‘Everything alright, my dear?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied, and reached for the teapot.
They sipped in silence for a number of minutes, Ted absently scanning the obituaries for anything scurrilous or unfair before feeling too depressed to continue. He glanced at his watch again just as a knock at the door announced the arrival of Marcia Falkender. Ted rose, pulled on his jacket, and kissed his wife on the cheek as he moved across the room to shake Marcia by the hand.
‘Prime Minister,’ she said stiffly.
‘Marcia. Thank you so much, once again.’
Mrs Falkender simply nodded. Ted stretched and massaged the back of his neck, before inhaling deeply and sharing one last look with his wife before turning around to the door and walking with Marcia into the corridor.
‘Shall we get on with it, then?’ he said with a forced smile.
‘Certainly, Prime Minister,’ she replied, and began listing his appointments for the morning.
*
Roy Jenkins raised his order paper and issued a thundering jeer in the direction of the member for Croydon South. The waffling Conservative had tripped over his figures in his question, and was now being mercilessly barracked to submission. The Speaker called for order, and Mr Clark of Croydon South returned to his feet. He had barely said ten words when a cry of, ‘No thanks, I’m sweet enough!’ from the Labour backbenches led to guffaws, uproar, and more jokes about his background in the sugar business.
Roy rolled his eyes and thought back to that morning's cabinet meeting. It had been a brief affair, with Ted calmly thanking everyone for agreeing to serve under him (no-one had declined his requests to resume their posts) and presenting a convincing case for his being capably in charge. Roy had little objection to this. What he did have an objection to was the icy glares that Denis and Jim had been giving each other across the table for the entirety of the meeting. Since Harold’s death, the relationship between the two men had rapidly deteriorated. No-one had announced an intention to seek the leadership yet, but it was surely only a matter of time now, as the NEC had informed the Prime Minister’s office that a timetable for the contest had been agreed and would be announced that afternoon.
The shouting in the Commons had reached new heights, and Roy sighed and was about to crack a joke to Tony Crosland when a hushed silence rippled through the room. The Labour front bench had begun to stand up, and Roy joined them when the wave of rising men reached his seat. As a smattering of applause grew to a cacophonic standing ovation, it became clear why. As Ted passed him, Roy joined the dozens of others patting him on the back. The Speaker cleared his throat and spoke as soon as the applause ended.
‘Questions to the Prime Minister.’
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Thanks. That had crossed my mind (though I wrote this at midnight) and I'll edit it appropriately. Woy's evidently not that much of an internationalist. It was a 1980s football phenomenon, was it not?
In other news, this has been nominated in the Best New Cold War category for the Turtledoves, and if you're a fan of this or any of the other great TLs it's up against, do play your part in choosing the eventual winner here.
Meadow
Well checking with our old friend Wiki there seems to have been a fair number of cases in the US in the late 60's and 70's but it only really became well known world-wide after the 1986 World Cup in Mexico so I doubt that Roy would be familiar with it at this point.
Steve
I like the tension between Ted and his wife, indicating things may not all be roses.
Yes, I noticed that when I started the TL. He's the oldest living former member of the House of Commons.
Nope, but I was in another play until two nights ago. It was my last show at Uni, actually. Alas.
Anyway, I'm a bit freer now so should be able to move ahead with day two. PMQs will take some work, as I'll be walking a fine line between good storytelling and realistic protocol in light of TTL events.
Meadow
Sorry to hear it, about his death that is. I'm going to be off-line for a week or two but will catch up when I get back.
Steve
Just read this end to end and it’s nice to see a high quality TL that doesn’t use the book extracts style for a change. also in another post you talked about a 2010 election TL by you and Red in your sig it’s not there anymore so could I have a link please.
One more thing Meadow, Ford refers to Short as "Mr Prime Minister" is just because he's American getting it wrong or is it the proper form of address? I always thought it was simply “prime minster” as in “yes prime minster”