Be Careful What You Wish For

20

WHEN THE PLANE touched down at Brussels airport, Giles was surprised to find Sir John Nicholls, the British Ambassador, standing at the bottom of the steps beside a Rolls-Royce.

‘I’ve read your speech, Sir Giles,’ said the ambassador as they were driven out of the airport before any other passenger had even reached passport control, ‘and though diplomats are not meant to have an opinion, I’m bound to say that I found it a breath of fresh air. Although I’m not sure what your party will make of it.’

‘I’m rather hoping that eleven of them will feel the same way as you do.’

‘Ah, that’s who it’s aimed at,’ said Sir John. ‘How slow of me.’

Giles’s second surprise came when they drew up outside the European Parliament and he was met by a large throng of officials, journalists and photographers, all waiting to greet the keynote speaker. Sebastian leapt out of the front seat and opened the back door for Giles, something he’d never done before.

The President of the European Parliament, Gaetano Martino, stepped forward and shook hands with Giles, before introducing him to his team. On the way to the conference hall, Giles met several other leading European political figures, all of whom wished him luck – and they weren’t referring to the speech.

‘If you’ll be kind enough to wait here,’ said the president after they’d climbed up on to the stage, ‘I’ll make some opening remarks and then hand over to you.’

Giles had gone over his speech one last time on the plane, making only one or two small emendations, and when he finally handed it back to Sebastian he almost knew it by heart. Giles peeped through a chink in the long black curtains to see a thousand leading Europeans waiting to hear his views. His last speech in Bristol during the general election campaign had been attended by an audience of thirty-seven, including Griff, Gwyneth, Penny, Miss Parish and Miss Parish’s cocker spaniel.

Giles stood nervously in the wings as he listened to Mr Martino describe him as one of those rare politicians who not only spoke their mind, but didn’t allow the latest opinion poll to be their moral compass. He could almost hear Griff saying ‘Hear, hear,’ in disapproving tones.

‘. . . and are we about to be addressed by the next prime minister of Great Britain. Ladies and gentlemen, Sir Giles Barrington.’

Sebastian appeared at Giles’s side, handed him his speech and whispered, ‘Good luck, sir.’

Giles made his way to the centre of the platform to prolonged applause. Over the years he had become used to the flashbulbs of over-enthusiastic photographers and even the whirr of television cameras, but he’d never experienced anything quite like this. He placed his speech on the lectern, took a step back and waited until the audience had settled.

‘There are only a few moments in history,’ began Giles, ‘that shape the destiny of a nation, and Britain’s decision to apply for membership of the Common Market must surely be one of them. Of course, the United Kingdom will continue to play a role on the world stage, but it has to be a realistic role, one that has come to terms with the fact that we no longer rule an Empire on which the sun never sets. I suggest that the time has come for Britain to take on the challenge of that new role alongside new partners, working together as friends, with past animosities consigned to history. I never want to see Britain involved in another European war. The finest youth of too many nations have spilt their blood on European soil, and not just in the last fifty years, but for the past thousand. Together we must make it possible for European wars to be found only on the pages of history books, where our children and grandchildren can read about the mistakes we made, and not repeat them.’

With each new wave of applause, Giles relaxed a little more, so that by the time he came to his peroration, he felt the whole room was under his spell.

‘When I was a child, Winston Churchill, a true European, visited my school in Bristol to present the prizes. I didn’t win one, about the only thing I have in common with the great man’ – this was greeted by loud laughter – ‘but it was because of his speech that day that I went into politics, and it was because of my experience in the war that I joined the Labour Party. Sir Winston said these words: “Our nation today faces another of those great moments in history when the British people may once again be asked to decide the fate of the free world.” Sir Winston and I may be from different parties, but on that we would undoubtedly agree.’

Giles looked up at the packed gathering, his voice rising with every sentence.

‘We in this hall today may be from different nations, but the time has come for us to work together as one, not in our own selfish interests, but in the interests of generations yet unborn. Let me end by saying, whatever the future might hold for me, you can be assured that I will dedicate myself to that cause.’ Giles took a pace back as everyone in the room rose, and it was several minutes before he was allowed to leave the stage, and even then he was surrounded by parliamentarians, officials and well-wishers as he made his way out of the chamber.

‘We’ve got about an hour before we have to be back at the airport,’ said Sebastian, trying to appear calm. ‘Is there anything you need me to do?’

‘Find a phone so we can call Griff, and see if there’s been any early reaction to the speech back home. I want to be sure this isn’t all just a mirage,’ Giles said between shaking hands and thanking people for their good wishes. He even signed the occasional autograph; another first.

‘The Palace Hotel is on the other side of the road,’ said Sebastian. ‘We could phone the office from there.’

Giles nodded, as he continued his slow progress. It was another twenty minutes before he was back on the steps of the parliament saying goodbye to the president.

He and Sebastian quickly crossed the wide boulevard and made their way into the relative calm of the Palace Hotel. Sebastian gave the number to a receptionist who dialled London and when she heard a voice on the other end of the line said, ‘I’ll just put you through, sir.’

Giles picked up the phone to be greeted by Griff’s voice. ‘I’ve just been watching the six o’clock news on the BBC,’ he said. ‘You’re the lead story. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing with people wanting a piece of you. When you get back to London, there’ll be a car waiting at the airport to take you straight to ITV, where Sandy Gall will interview you on the late night news, but don’t hang about, because the BBC want you to talk to Richard Dimbleby on Panorama at 10.30. The press like nothing more than an outsider making a late run. Where are you now?’

‘I’m just about to set off for the airport.’

‘Couldn’t be better. Phone me the moment you land.’

Giles put the phone down and grinned at Sebastian. ‘We’ll need a taxi.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Sebastian. ‘The ambassador’s car has just arrived, and it’s parked outside waiting to take us back to the airport.’

As the two of them made their way through the hotel foyer, a man thrust out his hand and said, ‘Congratulations, Sir Giles. A bravura performance. Let’s hope it tips the balance.’

‘Thank you,’ said Giles, who could see the ambassador standing by the car.

‘My name is Pierre Bouchard. I am the deputy president of the European Economic Community.’

‘Of course,’ said Giles, pausing to shake hands. ‘I’m aware, Monsieur Bouchard, of all the tireless work you’ve done to assist Britain with its application to become a full Member of the EEC.’

‘I’m touched,’ said Bouchard. ‘Can you spare me a moment to discuss a private matter?’

Giles glanced at Sebastian, who checked his watch. ‘Ten minutes, no more. I’ll go and brief the ambassador.’

‘I think you know my good friend Tony Crosland,’ Bouchard said as he guided Giles towards the bar.

‘Indeed. I gave him an advance copy of my speech yesterday.’

‘I’m sure he would have approved. It’s everything the Fabian Society believes in. What will you have to drink?’ Bouchard asked as they walked into the bar.

‘A single malt, lots of water.’

Bouchard nodded to the barman and said, ‘I’ll have the same.’

Giles climbed on to a stool, glanced around the room and spotted a group of political hacks sitting in the corner, checking over their copy. One of them touched his forehead in a mock salute. Giles smiled.

‘What’s important to understand,’ said Bouchard, ‘is that De Gaulle will do anything to stop Britain becoming a member of the Common Market.’

‘“Over my dead body”, if I remember his exact words,’ said Giles, as he picked up his drink.

‘Let’s hope we don’t have to wait that long.’

‘It’s almost as if the general hasn’t forgiven the British for winning the war.’

‘Your good health,’ said Bouchard before downing his drink.

‘Cheers,’ said Giles.

‘You mustn’t forget that De Gaulle has his own problems, not least—’

Suddenly, Giles felt as if he was going to faint. He grabbed at the bar, trying to steady himself, but the room seemed to be going around in circles. He dropped his glass, slid off the stool and collapsed on to the floor.

‘My dear fellow,’ said Bouchard, kneeling down beside him, ‘are you all right?’ He looked up as a man who’d been seated in the corner of the room hurried across to join them.

‘I’m a doctor,’ the man said as he bent down, loosened Giles’s tie and undid his collar. He placed two fingers on Giles’s neck, then said urgently to the barman, ‘Call an ambulance, he’s had a heart attack.’

Two or three journalists hurried across to the bar. One of them began taking notes as the barman picked up the phone and hurriedly dialled three numbers.

‘Yes,’ said a voice.

‘We need an ambulance. Quickly, one of our customers has had a heart attack.’

Bouchard stood up. ‘Doctor,’ he said, addressing the man kneeling beside Giles, ‘I’ll go outside and wait for the ambulance, and let them know where to come.’

‘Do you know the name of that man?’ asked one of the journalists, as Bouchard left the room.

‘No idea,’ said the barman.

The first photographer ran into the bar several minutes before the ambulance arrived, and Giles had to suffer more flashbulbs, not that he was fully aware of what was going on. As the news spread, several other journalists who’d been in the conference centre filing copy about Sir Giles Barrington’s well-received speech had dropped their phones and run across to the Palace Hotel.

Sebastian was chatting to the ambassador when he heard the siren, but didn’t give it a thought until the ambulance came to a halt outside the hotel and two smartly dressed orderlies jumped out and rushed inside wheeling a stretcher.

‘You don’t think—’ began Sir John, but Sebastian was already running up the steps and into the hotel. He stopped when he saw the orderlies bearing the stretcher towards him. It only took one look at the patient for his worst fears to be confirmed. When they placed the stretcher in the back of the ambulance, Sebastian leapt inside, shouting, ‘He’s my boss.’ One of the orderlies nodded while the other pulled the doors closed.

Sir John followed the ambulance in his Rolls-Royce. When he arrived at the hospital, he introduced himself and asked the receptionist on the front desk if Sir Giles Barrington was being seen by a doctor.

‘Yes, sir, he’s being checked out in the emergency room by Dr Clairbert. If you’d be kind enough to take a seat, your excellency, I’m sure he’ll come and brief you as soon as he’s completed his examination.’

Griff switched the television back on to catch the seven o’clock news on the BBC, hoping that Giles’s speech was still the lead story.

Giles was still the lead story, but it took Griff some time to accept who the man on the stretcher was. He collapsed back into his chair. He’d been in politics too long not to know that Sir Giles Barrington was no longer a candidate to lead the Labour Party.

A man who’d spent the night in room 437 of the Palace Hotel handed his key into reception, checked out and paid his bill in cash. He took a taxi to the airport, and an hour later boarded the plane back to London that Sir Giles had been booked on. On arrival at London Airport he queued for a taxi, and when he reached the front of the line he climbed into the back seat and said, ‘Forty-four Eaton Square.’

‘I’m puzzled, ambassador,’ said Dr Clairbert after he’d examined his patient for a second time. ‘I can’t find anything wrong with Sir Giles’s heart. In fact, he’s in excellent shape for a man of his age. However, I’ll only be sure once I’ve had all the test results back from the lab, which means I’ll have to keep him in overnight, just to be absolutely certain.’

Giles dominated the front pages of the national press the following morning, just as Griff had hoped he would.

However, the headlines in the first editions, Neck and Neck (the Express), All Bets Off (the Mirror), Birth of a Statesman? (The Times) had quickly been replaced. The Daily Mail’s new front page summed it up succinctly: Heart Attack ends Barrington’s chances of leading the Labour Party.

The Sunday papers all carried lengthy profiles of the new leader of the opposition.

A photograph of Harold Wilson aged eight, standing outside 10 Downing Street dressed in his Sunday best and wearing a peaked cap, made most of the front pages.

Giles flew back to London on the Monday morning, accompanied by Gwyneth and Sebastian.

When the plane touched down at London Airport, there wasn’t a single journalist, photographer, or cameraman there to greet him; yesterday’s news. Gwyneth drove them back to Smith Square.

‘What did the doctor recommend you should do once we’d got you home?’ asked Griff.

‘He didn’t recommend anything,’ said Giles. ‘He’s still trying to work out why I was ever in hospital in the first place.’

It was Sebastian who pointed out to his uncle an article on page eleven of The Times that had been written by one of the journalists who’d been in the bar of the Palace Hotel when Giles collapsed.

Matthew Castle had decided to stay in Brussels for a few days and make further inquiries, as he wasn’t altogether convinced that Sir Giles had suffered a heart attack, even though he’d seen the whole incident unfold in front of his eyes.

He reported: one, Pierre Bouchard, the deputy president of the EEC, had not been in Brussels to hear Sir Giles’s speech that day, as he was attending the funeral of an old friend in Marseille; two, the barman who had phoned for an ambulance dialled only three numbers, and failed to give whoever was on the other end of the line an address to come to; three, the St Jean Hospital had no record of anyone phoning for an ambulance from the Palace Hotel, and was unable to identify the two orderlies who wheeled Sir Giles in on a stretcher; four, the man who left the bar to meet the ambulance never returned, and no one paid for the two drinks; five, the man in the bar who said he was a doctor and claimed Sir Giles had suffered a heart attack hadn’t been seen since; and six, the barman didn’t report for work the following day.

Perhaps this was nothing more than a string of coincidences, suggested the journalist, but if it wasn’t, might the Labour Party now have a different leader?

Griff returned to Bristol the following morning, and as there wasn’t likely to be an election for at least another year, he spent the next month on a bender.