This Was A Man (13 page)

Mr Sutcliffe, the headmaster of Grangemouth School, was grateful that Lady Barrington had accompanied Freddie back to Scotland, and once the boy had reluctantly returned to his
house, asked if he might have a private word with her. Karin readily agreed, as she’d promised Giles she would try to find out the reason Freddie had run away.

Once they had settled down in his study, the headmaster didn’t waste any time raising the subject that was on both their minds. ‘I’m rather pleased that your husband
isn’t with you, Lady Barrington,’ he began, ‘because it will allow me to be more candid about Freddie. I’m afraid the boy’s never really settled since the day he
arrived, and I fear his mother is to blame for that.’

‘If you’re referring to Lady Virginia,’ said Karin, ‘I’m sure you know she isn’t his mother.’

‘I’d rather assumed that was the case,’ said the headmaster, ‘which would explain why she hasn’t once visited Freddie while he’s been here.’

‘And she never will,’ said Karin, ‘because it doesn’t serve her purpose.’

‘And while Lord Fenwick does everything in his power to help,’ continued Sutcliffe, ‘he isn’t the boy’s father, and I’m afraid the situation became worse when
Freddie met your husband for the first time.’

‘But I thought that went rather well.’

‘So did Freddie. He talked of nothing else for several days. In fact, after coming back at the beginning of term, he was a different child. No longer haunted by the other boys continually
teasing him about his mother because he was now inspired by the man he wished was his father. From that day, he scoured the papers in search of any mention of Lord Barrington. When your husband
called to say Freddie was with him in London, I can’t pretend I was surprised.’

‘But are you aware that Giles wrote to Freddie, wishing him every luck for the Castle versus Village cricket match, and asked him to let him know how it turned out but didn’t get a
reply.’

‘He carries the letter around with him all the time,’ said the headmaster, ‘but unfortunately he scored a duck, and his side was soundly beaten, which might explain why he
didn’t reply.’

‘How sad,’ said Karin. ‘I can assure you, Giles still scores far more ducks than centuries on and off the field.’

‘But the boy couldn’t know that, and his only other experience of reaching out was to Lady Virginia. Look where that got him.’

‘Is there anything I can do to help, because I’d be delighted to?’

‘Yes, there is, Lady Barrington.’ He paused. ‘I know you come up to Scotland from time to time, and wondered if you’d consider taking Freddie out for the occasional exeat
weekend?’

‘Why only weekends? If Archie Fenwick will agree, he could also join us at Mulgelrie during the summer holidays.’

‘I must confess it was Lord Fenwick’s idea. He told me about the chance meeting with your husband.’

‘I wonder if it was by chance?’

The headmaster didn’t comment, simply adding, ‘How do you think Lord Barrington will react to my request?’

‘I’ll let you into a little secret,’ said Karin. ‘He’s already chosen the twenty-two yards on which to put up a cricket net.’

‘Then you can tell your husband that Freddie is likely to be the youngest boy ever to play for the school’s First Eleven.’

‘Giles will be delighted. But can I make one small request, headmaster?’

‘Of course, Lady Barrington.’

‘May I be allowed to tell Freddie what we’ve decided before I return to London?’

W
HEN
J
AMES
C
ALLAGHAN
made his final speech as leader of the Labour Party at the annual conference in
Blackpool, Giles was well aware that if he backed the wrong candidate to succeed him, his political career was over.

When four former cabinet ministers from the Commons allowed their names to go forward, he wasn’t in any doubt that there were only two serious candidates. In the right corner stood Denis
Healey, who had served as Chancellor of the Exchequer under Callaghan and Harold Wilson, and like Giles had been decorated in the Second World War. In the left corner, Michael Foot, arguably the
finest orator in the House of Commons since the death of Winston Churchill. Although his ministerial career did not compare to Healey’s, he had the backing of most of the powerful trade
unions, who had ninety-one paid-up members representing them in the House.

Giles tried to dismiss the thought that if he had chosen to stand in the by-election for Bristol Docklands ten years before, rather than accepting Harold Wilson’s offer of a seat in the
Upper House, he too could have been a serious contender to lead the party. However, he accepted that timing in politics is everything, and that there were at least a dozen of his contemporaries who
could also come up with a credible scenario where they became leader of the party, and not long afterwards found themselves living in No. 10 Downing Street.

Giles believed there was only one candidate who could possibly beat Mrs Thatcher at the next general election and he could only hope that the majority of his colleagues in the Lower House had
also worked that out. Having served in government and opposition for over thirty years, he knew you could only make a difference in politics when you were sitting on the government benches, not
spending fruitless years in opposition, winning only the occasional unheralded victory.

The decision as to who should lead the party would be taken by the 269 Labour members who sat in the House of Commons. No one else would be allowed to vote. So once Callaghan had announced that
he was stepping down, Giles rarely left the corridors of power until the lights were switched off each night following the final division. He spent countless hours roaming those corridors during
the day, extolling the virtues of his candidate, while spending his evenings in Annie’s Bar, buying pints as he tried to convince any wavering colleagues in the Lower House that the
Conservatives were praying they would elect Michael Foot and not Denis Healey.

The Tories’ prayers were answered when in the second ballot Foot beat Healey by 139 votes to 129. Some of Giles’s colleagues in the Commons openly admitted they were quite happy to
settle for a period in opposition as long as the new leader shared their left-wing ideology.

Emma told Giles over breakfast the following day that when Margaret Thatcher had heard the news, she opened a bottle of champagne and toasted the 139 Labour members who’d
guaranteed that she would remain in No. 10 Downing Street for the foreseeable future.

The long-held tradition in both parties is that when a new leader is chosen, every serving member of the front bench immediately tenders their resignation, then waits to be invited to join the
new team. Once Giles had written his letter of resignation, he didn’t waste any time waiting to hear which office of state he would be asked to shadow, because he knew the phone would never
ring. The following Monday, he received a short, handwritten note from the new leader, thanking him for his long service to the party.

The following day, Giles moved out of the leader of the opposition’s office in the Lords on the first floor to make way for his newly anointed successor. As he sat alone in an even smaller
windowless room somewhere in the basement, he tried to come to terms with the fact that his front-bench career was over, and all he could look forward to was years in the wilderness on the back
benches. Over dinner that night, he reminded Karin that just ten votes had sealed his fate.

‘Five, if you think about it,’ she replied.

1981

‘I’
M SORRY
.’

‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’ said Jessica, glaring at him.

Sebastian placed an arm around his daughter’s shoulder. ‘I promise I’ll be back in time to take you and your mother for a celebration dinner.’

‘I remember the last time you promised that, then flew off to another country. At least then it was to support an innocent man, not a crook.’

‘Desmond Mellor is only allowed visitors on a Saturday afternoon between two and three o’clock, so I wasn’t left with a lot of choice.’

‘You could have told him to get lost.’

‘I promise I’ll be back by five. Six at the latest. And as it’s your birthday, you can choose the restaurant.’

‘And in the meantime I’m expected to babysit Jake, and when Mom gets back, explain to her why you’re not around. I can think of more exciting ways of spending my
birthday.’

‘I’ll make it up to you,’ said Seb. ‘I promise.’

‘Just don’t forget, Pops, he’s a crook.’

As Sebastian battled through the late morning traffic on his way out of London, he couldn’t help thinking his daughter was right. Not only was it likely to be a wasted
journey, but he probably shouldn’t be having anything to do with the man in the first place.

He should have been taking Jessica to lunch at Ponte Vecchio to celebrate her sixteenth birthday, rather than heading for a prison in Kent to visit a man he despised. But he knew that if he
didn’t find out why Desmond Mellor wanted to see him so urgently, he would be forever curious. Only one thing was certain: Jessica would demand a blow-by-blow account of why the damned man
had wanted to see him.

There were about ten miles to go before Seb spotted the first signposts to Ford Open. No mention of the word ‘prison’, which would have offended the locals. At the barrier an officer
stepped out of the small kiosk and asked his name. After ‘Clifton’ had been ticked off on the inevitable clipboard, the barrier was raised and he was directed to a patch of barren land
that on Saturdays acted as a car park.

Once he’d parked his car, Seb made his way to the reception area, where another officer asked for his name. But this time he was also requested to provide identification. He produced his
driving licence – another tick on another clipboard – and was then instructed to place all his valuables, including his wallet, watch, wedding ring and some loose change, in a locker.
He was told firmly by the duty officer that under no circumstances was he to take any cash to the meeting area. The officer pointed to a notice screwed to the wall warning visitors that anyone
found in possession of cash inside the prison could end up with a six-month sentence.

‘Forgive me for asking, sir,’ said the officer, ‘but is this the first time you’ve visited a prison?’

‘No, it’s not,’ said Seb.

‘Then you’ll know about vouchers, should your friend want a cup of tea or a sandwich.’ He’s not my friend, Seb wanted to say, as he handed over a pound note in exchange
for ten vouchers.

‘We’ll refund the difference when you return.’

Seb thanked him, closed the locker door and pocketed the key along with his vouchers. When he entered the waiting room, another officer handed him a small disc with the number 18 etched on
it.

‘Wait until your number is called,’ said the officer.

Seb sat on a plastic seat in a room full of people who looked as if this was just part of their daily routine. He glanced around to see wives, girlfriends, parents, even young children, who had
their own play area, all with nothing in common except a relation, a friend or a lover who was locked up. He suspected he was the only person visiting someone he didn’t even like.

‘Numbers one to five,’ said a voice over the tannoy. Several of the regulars leapt up and hurried out of the room, clearly not wanting to waste a minute of their allocated hour. One
of them left behind a copy of the
Daily Mail
, and Seb flicked through it to pass the time. Endless photographs of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer chatting at a garden party in
Norfolk; Diana looked extremely happy, while the Prince looked as if he was opening a power station.

‘Numbers six to ten,’ crackled the tannoy, and another group made their way quickly out of the waiting room. Seb turned the page. Margaret Thatcher was promising to bring in
legislation to deal with wildcat strikes. Michael Foot described the measures as draconian, and pronounced her policy as jobs for the boys, but not for the lads.