Authors: Robert Barnard
Political Suicide
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Chapter 3: A Process of Selection
Chapter 13: The Alliance Candidate
Dead Member
It was a quiet Friday morning in Downing Street. The Prime Minister was stewing over a draft bill to privatize the armed forces, many of the aides and secretaries who normally cluttered the place were already off for the weekend, and in the kitchens the cook was preparing a light lunch of staggering ordinariness.
At 10:40 the Prime Minister's Principal Private Secretary tapped on the study door and poked his head in.
“Oh, Prime Ministerâjust heard on the wires: Jim Partridge is dead.”
The Prime Minister looked up from the paper-strewn desk.
“Ask the Chairman when would be the best time for a by-election. I'd have said before the Budget, wouldn't you? And make sure the usual messages are sentâdeepest sympathy, and all that.”
And the prime-ministerial head bent down over the papers again.
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The death of James Partridge, MP for Bootham East, made slightly more stir elsewhere in the country.
“Dead?” said Harold Fawcett, his party agent, warming his backside against the imitation-coal gas fire in his Bootham living-room, and speaking into the telephone on his mantelpiece. “
Dead
, Chairman? But I can't believe it, I saw himâwhat?âtwo weeks ago. No, I lie, three. He looked perfectly all right then. He was
what
? Fished out of the Thames? . . . But that's incred . . . Was he
what
? Having an affair? If he was, he wasn't having it in Bootham. Well, he wouldn't be, to be perfectly frank. We're not exactly his type, no disrespect to his memory. And to be honest, I never heard anything like that about him . . . No,
certainly
I never saw him drunk . . . Before the Budget? But is that wise? It will look like a rush job, and it will
be
a rush job . . . Naturally we've no candidate lined up. Partridge was a man of forty-twoâwe thought he'd be here for decades yet. And if there's going to be flak from his death, I'd have thought it would be
very
unwise to . . . Oh, the PM . . . the PM wants it . . . Right. I'll get on to the Committee at once . . . I'll be back to you, Chairman.”
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As the day wore on, telephone wires up and down the country began to buzz. Young stockbrokers, gentlemen farmers, bored and ambitious solicitors, research workers at Central Officeâall ringing up their friends, their political contacts, each other. Had you heard? Are you interested? What was the majority? The phone at Harold Fawcett's hardly stopped ringing all day: “I
say, I've just heard . . . Terrible tragedy, quite appalling . . . at his age . . . Look, old chap, I know it's early days yet, but I was wondering . . .”
So busy was the Bootham Agent's line that when the Party Chairman tried to ring him again from London later in the day, it was forty minutes before he could get through.
“Ahâyou've got things well in train? . . . Final selection meeting tentatively set for January 10th. Quiteâwe've got Christmas intervening, haven't we? Awful nuisance, Christmas” (said the Chairman, a gentleman of impeccable Christian credentials). “Well, if everything goes smoothly thenâand I'm sure you'll see that it doesâthen perhaps we could pencil in, even more tentatively, say Thursday, February 27th, as a pretty good date. That's well before the Budget, and before the Chancellor starts flying kites for the Budget . . . Yes, he is inclined to do that. In fact last time he gave practically the whole thing away in advance . . . Oh yes, and there's one more thing, HaroldâI may call you Harold? We'll probably be seeing a fair bit of each other in the near future. Well, I think you should know that the PM will probably want the candidate to be One of Us. Entirely up to you, the choice, of course, but do make it One of Us. Right? I don't have to spell it out, do I? Good! I can see we're going to get on famously.”
So what it came down to was that a good seventy per cent of those telephone wires vibrating with life up and down the country represented so much wasted money thrown into the national coffers. All unknowing, the gentlemen farmers, the solicitors in Leeds, the
local councillors and the retired army men were basing their hopes on a chimera. They were not One of Us. The more sensible among them, though, were aware of the odds against them, and were far from building castles, or seats, in the air. Those who were One of Us, similarly (young economists of a certain stamp, men in PR, men who'd made their first million by the time they were twenty-five), they knew that the odds were stacked in their favour, and they were chuckling with delight.
“Derek?” said Antony Craybourne-Fisk, on the phone to Derek Manders, the Member for Crawley South, “Have you heard? Jim Partridge has died.”
“So I heard,” said Manders, surveying the length of an elegantly-trousered leg as he sat in the study of his Mayfair home, bought with a large part of that first million. “But I haven't heard any of the details. What was it?”
“Suicide, so the whisper goes, but I don't think anybody really knows. Dredged up out of the Thames.”
“Really? Something of a surprise, isn't it? I hadn't heard any rumours. What was it? Business difficulties?”
“I wouldn't have thought so, would you? Not Jim Partridge. Straight old Jim. Wouldn't have thought it could be sex either, but you never know. It usually is with us. I hope they manage to hush things upâfor the good of the by-election. Oh, and on that subjectâ”
“I thought that might be why you were ringing, Antony. How big was his majority?”
“According to
The Times Guide to the House of Commons
ânot that you can trust thatâit was close on six thousand.”
“Hmmm. Results at the last election were a bit misleading. What was his majority in '79? Something quite small, I fancy. After all, Bootham is hardly natural Tory country, is it? Got any connections in that part of the world?”
“None. Wait a bit thoughâI think my grandmother was born in Yorkshire.”
“Any chance of wheeling her out?”
“I'm not sure. I think she's in a home for decayed Rep actresses in Southsea. For all I know she might be best kept under wrapsâsenile dementia, or DTs, or something like that. Still, I suppose she could be
mentioned
 . . .”
“Quite.”
“What I was thinking, Derek, is that you have the ear of the Chairman . . .”
“Oh, I wouldn't say that.”
“
And
the PM, if you would but use it. And I thought that if you were to mention my name . . . in passing . . .”
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It was not only in the middle and upper echelons of the ruling party that the death of James Partridge was beginning to cause ripples. Ex-Labour MPsâfar from an endangered species at the period we are dealing withâwere up and down the country ringing each other up:
who
had been the candidate last time, did they know? Was he firmly ensconced there still, or was there a chance for anybody else? “Of course, if
you
were interested, old man, I wouldn't think of sticking my oar in,” several of them said, not meaning to be believed, and not being. And at Labour Party Headquarters, two members of the National Executive discussed
the inevitable by-election over two thick cups of thick tea.
“We've got to put up a good showing there,” said one. “It'll be seen as a test of the new party leader.”
“The new leader's had a fair number of tests by now.”
“Quite. Some he's come through with flying colours. Others . . .”
“Exactly. Who's the candidate there?”
“Sam Quimby. He was MP for one of the Manchester seats, you remember. Lost it in '79. Fought Bootham East in '83âput up quite a good fight. Might have won it, if it hadn't been for that damned Alliance. He'll be a good candidate. We'll back him up to the hilt. Leader, Deputy Leader, Tony Benn, the whole caboodle. It could be a very promising show, for us.”
But unknown to them the matter was in danger of slipping out of the control of the National Executive (as so many matters did). At the very moment they were speaking, a phone call was in progress between the Hampstead branch secretary of Workers for Revolutionary Action and that movement's Deputy Chairperson in Deptford. Both were members of the Labour Party of some three years' standing.
“Have you heard, Sid? Jim Partridge's chucked himself off some bridge or other.”
“Who's he when he's at home?”
“MP for Bootham East. Right? Get me?”
“Get you, Frank. Interesting. We've put in a fair bit of work there, I know. Who's the candidate?”
“Sam Quimby.”
“Sam Quimby! He's practically a Tory!” said Sid, in a voice of practised and patently theatrical outrage
that was not meant to be taken seriously. Sam Quimby was a mildly distinguished ex-MP of impeccably anti-nuclear, anti-American and anti-Common Market credentials.
“Exactly. A point we shall be making as forcibly as we know how over the next few weeks.” Frank chuckled happily. “Old Sam's a gentleman, you know. He'll splutter, but he'll go without a fight.
And
put out a statement of support for our candidate. Getting rid of him will be a piece of cake.”
“And we're strong there?”
“Couldn't be stronger. Our men and their supporters virtually took over the party a couple of months ago. Sam would have been out on his little pink ear by spring in any case.”
“And who'll be the new Labour candidate, then?”
“Well, I'll tell you who we've got in mind. Jerry Snaithe.”
“The GLC man?”
“The very one. Chairman of the Arts and Leisure Activities Committee of the Greater London Council. Had lots of publicity over some of his handouts. And rock-solid from our point of view.”
“Bootham's in Lancashire, though.”
“Yorkshire.”
“Same difference. Will they want a Londoner foisted on them? They tend to resent that kind of thing.”
“Ahâ
BUT
! Trump Card! Our Jerry just happened to go to school in Yorkshire.”
“I didn't know that. That alters things. Where?”
“Amplehurst, actually.”
“Isn't that a public school? RC or something?”
“Right. Jerry's dad was a diplomat, and a Holy Roman to boot.”
“Well, our Jerry's certainly lived that down, hasn't he?”
“Hasn't he just! And of course all we say in the election address is âwent to school in Yorkshire.' Or even âgrew up in Yorkshire.' The Tory gutter press never dug it up for the GLC elections, so there's no reason why they should now.”
“I'd say it was beginning to look promising.”
“I'd say it was looking very promising indeed.”