Part 18 - Ship of Fools (Thursday, 26 December 1968, 2200 GMT) It was a beautiful summer's morning. The south coast of New South Wales was visible from the starboard as Morning Cloud raced in the fresh breeze. The navigator was in the cabin, listening to the weather forecast on the radio, determining if the winds would be stronger in close or if they should go further out into the Tasman Sea. Morning Cloud was increasing the lead she had held ever since she had led the rest of the fleet through the Heads of Sydney Harbour. Already some of the sailors were discussing what they would do when they reached Hobart, how they would raise the level of the all-too-shallow Tasmanian gene pool. Ted Heath loved yachting. He'd always wanted to go in the Sydney-to-Hobart race, a blue water sailing classic. Yet the pressures of office during the last decade... In a way Powell had done him a favour. But Heath would never admit that, not even to himself. No, the new Prime Minister had shamefully stripped him of his rightful office as Chancellor and then added insult to injury by offering him the post of Secretary of State for Northern Ireland. Heath had strode to the back benches in high dudgeon. But he would be back, oh yes, he would be back. Soon even know-it-all Enoch would realise how much he needed Ted. But Heath was away from all that back-stabbing in London and doing one of the things he liked best. It was restorative to be here, to be at sea. As captain of Morning Cloud Heath was sole authority on this island of humanity amidst the vast ocean. A voice came from below, "Take her out." "Aye, aye," said the helmsman, and turned the wheel counter clockwise. The other sailors moved with precision to trim the sails. "Skip," said the helmsman, "could you lean over the port rail?" Obligingly, Heath checked his safety harness and placed the his personal ballast over the said rail. The boat turned to port and to the rising sun. Heath could see a whitecap approach, it hit him in the face with a whap! of salty wetness. It was good to be alive.

Thursday 26 December 1968 Dear Bob, Please excuse the handwriting, this is being written in the potting shed which is the only place on the premises one is allowed to enjoy a pipe. Christmas is turning into a complete shower, as I foreshadowed in my previous message. Worse, the new mother-in-law turns out to be the spitting image of the 'Mrs Dalek' character from that 'Two Graemes' show on the telly. Not that we can watch the telly unless the programme has been approved from the Whitehouse. Alcohol is right off the agenda, as feared. Didn't hardly have a drop on Xmas day either, Peggy insisting that I needed a clear head for the trip. Couldn't see the point because as per usual she ended up doing all the driving but I suppose it was on the good Socialist principle that if she wasn't having any then no-one else should have any either. The last time I had proper drinkies was when the two houses rose for Christmas and I fell in with Denis Thatcher. Now before you start, I only had a couple of scotches, three at the most. He was matching me drink-for-drink and more with G&Ts that must have been trebles. The funny thing about Thatcher is that while he still gets drunk he doesn't get loud or aggressive or maudlin. He just gets more Thatcher. It's got to the stage now where the younger parliamentarians no longer refer to the archetypal Tory back-bencher as 'Sir Bufton Tufton'. Today he is likely to be known as 'Denis Thatcher'. We ended up talking about all sorts of things. He never remarried after his wife left him during the War. I asked him how he copes without the comforts of married life but he just muttered something about Soho as if that explained everything. I would have thought with all the money he made directing that oil company he could have married quite well but it seems that for an ex-bloated capitalist he doesn't care too much for the stuff. "Money's just a way of keeping score," he said, "Business is just about doing business. Meeting with chaps. Chaps helping chaps, that sort of thing." Turns out he's given most of his money away. A lot of it to the Tory party. He claims in return he was offered the choice of a knighthood or a safe seat. I laughed then. That sort of thing happened in Lloyd-George's day, it doesn't happen today. Thatcher just gave me a funny look. He says he chose parliament because he 'wanted to give something back to the country'. The Conservative noblesse oblige. Not that he contributes much in the Commons. As far as I can tell the only time he utters a word in parliament is when he is leading the government backbench in a chant of 'shame, shame' whenever Peggy is on her hind legs lambasting the other side about Vietnam or the dollar. By then we were on our fourth drink. As I was sipping my Laphroaig, Thatcher asked me, "Jimmy, how do you do it? How do you put up with That Bloody Woman?" His last three words were distinctly capitalised. I explained that Peggy was not so bad, not nearly as bossy as you might think from her public performance. "But she's a Communist, Jimmy." I imagine all Tories think that. A strong Socialist like Peggy is just so far to the left of them that to them she looks like a communist. It doesn't help when so many of them themselves are practically fascists. By then Thatcher did not want for company. About half-a-dozen people, practically the entire Parliamentary Liberal Party, had come over to watch him drink with fascinated curiosity. I made my apologies and let Bill my driver take me home. Sorry to hear about Alice's glaucoma. Hilary has promised to post a package from Tunisia that should help. Do write and let me know when it arrives. Yours aye, Jimmy

(Sunday, 29 December 1968, 1600 GMT) It had just gone 2am. Morning Cloud had rounded the Iron Pot and was sailing up the Derwent Estuary. Traditionally this was the most treacherous part of the race, the mountains on the western side of the river could leave a boat becalmed. But there was a strong summer night's sea breeze blowing from the south and the crew were taking every advantage. Despite the late hour, there was a small flotilla of pleasure craft on the Derwent, following in the wake of the moonlit Morning Cloud, hoping to witness a race record that could be recounted to grandchildren. For Ted Heath was no longer racing any other yacht to be first into Hobart. Barring an act of God, that was a foregone conclusion. No, the race was against the handicapper. Koomooloo, a smaller yacht, was nearly 60 miles astern. Morning Cloud needed to finish as early as possible to win the double - line honors and the handicap prize. Sleeping suburbs were slipping past, their names unknown to Heath. Taroona, Sandy Bay, Battery Point. In any minute now Morning Cloud would cross the line and the signal cannon would 'Boom!' to register her finish.

(Sunday, 29 December 1968, 1605 GMT) Sir William Whitelaw MP PC was to Conservative frontbenchers what Denis Thatcher was to backbenchers. He typified the bluff, amiable, no-nonsense Tory. He and Cecelia had returned yesterday from Christmas in Cumbria. At Home with the Stansgates the moment he was dressed in guernsey and moleskin trousers as he stepped back into the flat carrying an armful of firewood. "There was a phone call," Cecelia said, "from Wilfred, I think. Enoch wants to see you urgently." "Bother," said Willie. "If you like I can call up Trevor while you change into something suitable," suggested his wife. "I'm not going to call him out on the Sunday after Christmas, I can drive myself, dear," said Willie, "Besides if it's urgent I should go now." Cecelia wrinkled her nose, "Dressed like that, Willie?" "Celia, it's Enoch. All he's interested in is getting my advice, not what I'm wearing." Mrs Whitelaw nearly said something about the likelihood of the PM wanting advice from anyone but checked herself. Instead she said, "Try not to take too long. There's turkey soup for dinner." "Don't worry, dear. If Enoch starts babbling on, I'll tell him just that." Willie gave her a peck on the cheek, picked up his keys and left through the front door. As he was unlocking the garage door, he pondered the purpose of the summons. The Bloody Friday report, almost certainly. Powell had wanted him to put pressure on Lord Denning to get the report bundled up and out of the way ASAP. But Whitelaw was hesitant. True, the soldiers' evidence was much more consistent than the civil rights rioters. But it was still at complete variance with the overall picture presented by the civilian witnesses. And there was something about that General Farrar-Hockley. Willie couldn't put his finger on it but he had a feeling of unease about the General's testimony. He unlocked the car door and eased himself into the driver's seat. He would just have to be firm with Enoch and insist on Denning having more time. As Secretary of State for Northern Ireland it was his portfolio, his decision. Enoch might be PM but he was still just primus inter pares, first among equals. Closing the door behind him Willie put the key into the ignition.

(Sunday, 29 December 1968, 2000 GMT) The crew had drunk the boat dry. The celebratory champagne had been drunk quickly. Well-wishers had thrust cans of the local ale on the sailors. With the warm summer night it had not taken long for the beer to become drinkable. The rest of the crew had left Morning Cloud moored at Constitution Dock while they scoured the harbour for more such things as would slake their thirsts. Ted had stayed on board to catch some sleep and make himself presentable for Sir Edric Bastyan. Sir Edric, the Governor of Tasmania, had by prior arrangement offered to put Ted up for a couple of nights at the end of the race. But one thing was niggling Ted. He had read or heard no world news during the four days of the race. He resolved to purchase a paper, just to make sure the Third World War hadn't broken out or anything. Hobart was not a very prepossessing city, looking nothing so much as a smaller version of Manchester. If it wasn't for the majestic, brooding Mount Wellington overlooking the town, the place would have nothing to recommend it. Ted found a newsagent open at 6am and made back for Morning Cloud. The Mercury was almost a broadsheet in size. In ordinary circumstances Ted would have noted the thinness of the newspaper - perhaps reasoning that Tasmanians did not have a 'silly season' so much as a 'stupid season' - or even questioning the wisdom of his investing A$0.06 in the paper. But any such sulky thoughts were thrust from his mind as he read the headline, "BOMB HORROR, BRITISH MINISTER SLAIN!' He quickly scanned the story. Enoch would have to have a cabinet reshuffle. The country would need fresh talent. He, Heath, could no longer be overlooked for the high office he had already demonstrated he could occupy with aplomb. He must get on a plane to London immediately. Perhaps Sir Edric could arrange something. [If you'll just let me continue.]