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(Friday, 12 September, 1969)
The story so far...
It had been a jolly interesting trip, thought Jimmy, or to give him his
fully title - Anthony, Viscount Stansgate, the Foreign Secretary in Her
Majesty's Government, yet it was still good to be back at Number 10. It had
long been Jimmy's ambition to reside at Number 10 but as a result of his
inheriting the viscountcy it had been his wife Peggy who had inherited his
constituency of Bristol South East and had gone on to become Prime Minister
of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Of course Mrs
Wedgwood Benn as she was styling herself now had been doing a brilliant job
so far, no question of that, overcoming the handicaps of her lower-middle
class bourgeoisie background, but Jimmy couldn't help wondering what-if?
What if Father hadn't accepted the title from Churchill? What if Michael
had lived and he had inherited from Father? What if Father had only lived a
decade longer? Sadly for Britain, she had been denied one who could have
been the greatest Prime Minister of this and every earlier century.
Jimmy was feeling a little overwhelmed by the women in his life. First a
mother who headed a major world religion[1] and now a wife who was PM.
Still, he was Foreign Secretary. A man of distinction, position and power.
It was then Peggy swept into the room. "Jimmy, what are you doing about
MI6?"
"Military intelligence?" asked Jimmy, "I thought that was Denis'
responsibility." Denis Healey, the former Army major and revolutionary
socialist, was the Minister of Defence.
"No, Jimmy," Peggy explained, "It's real name is the Secret Intelligence
Service only you must never call it that. It's been part of the Foreign and
Commonwealth Office since the war, intelligence being too important to leave
to the military. Besides, you can't have an Army officer posing as a
diplomat, it just doesn't work. It's the same with MI5 - that's really the
Special Branch and it falls under Jennie Lee at the Home Office."
"Oh," said Jimmy.
"It's about the Americans," said Peggy.
Jimmy would have liked to have mentioned the Americans at this point too,
especially his surprise meeting with their President Johnson. But it didn't
look safe to interrupt Peggy at this point.
"The Americans," expanded Peggy, "Don't you think there was something rum
about the way Peter Taafe was blown up?"
"And Thatcher and Constable Parkin," agreed Jimmy with his politician's
memory for names, "But what's that got to go with the Americans?"
"Who did Enoch blame for the explosion?" asked Peggy.
"Us. Me, specifically," recalled Jimmy. "Not that I did it," he added
hastily before realising with relief that the look on Peggy's face, while
not pleasant, was far from one of suspicion. "Oh, I know the Guardian
blamed the Americans but they always do that. I always thought it was just
some devious Powell plot. In fact, when I was in Washington, that nice Dr
Kissinger went out his way to assure me that the CIA was not involved."
"Did he now?" asked Peggy, using a tone that told Jimmy she was moving on
but would return to that subject later. "But bombing himself to discredit
us is a bit indirect even for a clever man like Enoch. When all is said and
done he is a fairly direct, even blunt, man. No, Jimmy, with the election
of Labour there is a new dispensation. I want MI6 to make it very clear to
their opposite numbers in Washington that there are no longer to be bombings
of British Prime Ministers. And MI6 are to keep an eye out for any foreign
power engaged in subversion."
Jimmy thought looking out for foreign subversion was rather MI6's job.
Still it wouldn't hurt to have a chat with the chaps and emphasise the
point. "Yes, dear," he said.
Peggy made to leave, then turned. "One more thing, Jimmy. Private Eye."
Jimmy frowned. He prided himself on his sense of humour but the magazine
seemed quite flat since the election. Without the ridiculous things the
Tories had done in office the magazine had taken to lampooning the new
government. It wasn't funny and it didn't work.
"They've a new column that appeared while you were away," explained Peggy,
"which they call 'Dear Bob'."
"Oh," said Jimmy.
"I suggest that if you need to contact your old RAF friend from now on that
you use the telephone. And refrain from discussing current affairs."
"Yes, dear," said Jimmy.
Bother, he thought. Jimmy had enjoyed his correspondence with Bob, not just
for its own sake but as a way to organise his thoughts about the great
issues of the day. Maybe he should keep a diary.
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