Part 29 - Say a Little Prayer (Thursday, 18 December, 1969) "Dearly beloved, let us pray," the Dean of St Paul's recited sonorously. Just before bowing his head, the Transport Secretary glanced at the rest of the congregation. Everyone who was anyone in politics was at the funeral, along with the Queen herself. As the prayers were intoned a thought struck Roy. What if a fully laden Collaboration crashed into the cathedral at super-sonic speeds? It was a ridiculous thought. Until the transit agreement was thrashed out with West Germany and France there would be no Collaborations flying over the United Kingdom. Not that the constituencies were grateful. People only notice the absence of sonic booms when it is gone. It was interesting to speculate who might succeed Iain, thought Roy. Peter Walker had been making his mark in opposition and had even been with Macleod when he died. But the lack of experience would surely count against him. The right of the party were said to favour Sir Keith Joseph, the last Chancellor, albeit with some qualms. The obvious choice seemed Heath, another former Chancellor, whose centrist politics would be more likely to appeal to voters-at large. Ted was experienced, personable and very, very available. The wild card was Enoch. He'd resolutely stayed behind in the Commons after we won the last election, Roy thought. But for a defeated PM to bounce back, it hadn't happened since Churchill in 1951. And Powell was no Churchill.

(Friday, 19 December, 1969)     "The moment I wake up,      Before I put on my makeup, Jimmy peered into the mirror as he shaved, humming to himself.      I say a little prayer for you." It was nearly Christmas again. Last day at work and then off to Chequers until early in the New Year. It wouldn't be a complete break, they had to host the new Australian PM and his wife. But it would be a different Christmas, particularly for Peggy, thought Jimmy. Being PM and the first Christmas since her father had died. Alfred had been a crusty old coot and a Tory to boot but seemed genuinely pleased when his daughter had become PM. From his hospital bed he'd said, "You're better than any of the others. You may not always do what's right but at least you know right from wrong." While combing my hair now, And wondering what dress to wear now, Jimmy tied his Old Oxonian in a double Windsor. Sorting out NATO could wait until next month. The only urgent item was Fiji. The colony was about to be given her independence but she didn't really have a liberation movement. You couldn't just hand out democracy on a plate to a people who hadn't fought for it, there was a risk they might elect undemocratic forces. There was a very real danger power could devolve back to the chiefs. He needed to talk to Sir Denis to see if there was some way to entrench worker control in the new constitution. He wondered if he should have discussed Fiji with Peggy first. No, dash it! He was Foreign Secretary. It was his prerogative. She'd find out in the New Year when he raised it in Cabinet. I say a little prayer for you.[1]

Arthur Scargill was still not a happy man. The 20% pay rise for his members was not a victory, it was an attempt to bribe the miners. Their hard fought rights to organise as they saw fit being traded away for a mess of pottage! The trouble was, not all the men saw it that way. Those Nottinghamshire miners were too fat and happy, they didn't see the dangers in Benn's proposals to centralise and amalgamate the unions. But Benn had to be defeated, and a true Socialist government brought in. All it needed was a General Election and the workers being offered a proper alternative. But how to bring the government to its knees and force an election, when not even all the miners could be relied upon to make a proper democratic choice about striking? Northumberland were reliable, they would strike. But how to make this a strike across the industry? Perhaps he thinking too small. Organised properly, could this be snowballed into a - dare he dream it - a general strike?

Friday, 19 December, 1969 Dear Diary, Went with Peggy to see the new Bond film. Appalling imperialistic fantasy, of course. Still Peggy has to be seen to be supporting the British film industry. And as the protagonist is from a section of one's own department, one had to show the flag too. Sean Connery was apparently getting a bit long in the tooth. So On Her Majesty's Secret Service was filmed in something called Supermarionation[2], to recapture the Bond of Dr No. While the walking was a little implausible the Swiss skiing sequences were superb. The audience roared with laughter in the closing sequence when Bond received a call of congratulations from the PM. I could see that Peggy was not amused but really, the marionette was her spitting image. She's probably worried what Private Eye will make of the whole thing. "Puppet government," I suppose.

(Tuesday, 6 January, 1970) Whatever internal satisfaction he was feeling, Ross McWhirter did not sound a happy man as he addressed the Unison executive. "The nation teeters on the brink of chaos due to the ineptitude and evil of the Benn Bolshevik government. The disgrace of our withdrawal from Ireland and Vietnam. The shaming of our womenhood with equal pay. The subversion of our young with drunken 18-year-olds. The capitulation to the miners with the outlandish and outrageous pay rises. The collapse of industry and commerce with ever rising interest rates. The homosexual filth permitted on our television and cinema screens. And the infiltration of our armed and police forces by the fifth column of so-called 'democratic' officers. "Yet we have a fresh hope. The passing of the do-nothing Macleod has seen the Tory party return to their senses and Enoch returned to party leadership. The people of Great Britain now have a choice, not an echo. And we can trust the British people to make the right choice at the next election. What we must ensure is that we have the salvation of the General Election as soon as possible."

Ted Heath, it goes without saying, was not a happy man. Passed over for the leadership again! And for who? Enoch! Enoch was a yesterday's man. He'd lost the last election, he should accept the judgement of the electorate, retire to a well-earned obscurity in the House of Lords and let the younger and more gifted get on with leading the party to victory. Clearly, Powell was going to lose the next election just as he had lost the last. He wouldn't have a prayer. Well, roll on the next General Election, the sooner the better.

Thursday 8 January, 1970 Dear Diary, Australian Prime Minister and spouse staying at Chequers with Peggy and self. Tall folk, Australians. He has a face like an avocado and a little coxcomb of greying hair. She looks more horsy. I dare say we look odd enough to them. They're fellow socialists so it's all first names. We're Jimmy and Peggy and they're Eddie and Maggie. It's good to have this informality with world leaders, even Lyn who is a leftist in name only. Nevertheless Australians have some funny ideas about socialism, Eddie seems to run hot and cold even worse than old Harold did. While Peggy and I are all for the property-sharing democracy Eddie says his idea of socialism is a desk and study lamp in every child's bedroom. He thinks equality is simply a matter equality of opportunity. But how does this help the six children of a steelworker who must share the same bedroom or indeed the steelworker himself? Still, there are some gestures Eddie feels able to make. He didn't have to go to church this Christmas. He's able to be quite up front about not being a Christian. "I'm a fellow traveller with Christianity." He made it quite clear that as far as marxism goes he is also, at best, a fellow traveller. Peggy was quite diplomatic about it. "I don't believe in 'isms' either," she said when Eddie raised the topic of 'Bennism', "just in practical action and Leninist common sense." I notice both Eddie and Maggie's eyes glazing when Peggy started speaking messianically about freeing Britain from the dead hand of the market-place and establishing a culture of co-operation so I asked if they would be staying in Britain long. It turned out not. Eddie was just popping in to the mother country as one new socialist PM greeting another, and then off to Italy and Greece to look at antiquities. How lucky for you, I said, that when you travel to the other side of the world from where you live there are so many interesting things. This turned the conversation to foreign affairs and Eddie wanted to ask about Fiji. There being a few things I am still to iron out with Cabinet I turned the topic around to the Australian colony nearby, New Guinea. What was the timetable for independence? Eddie said something airily about three or four years. I was shocked. They only had one colony to liberate, what could take so long? Eddie was shocked at my use of the word 'long'. To hear him tell it the New Guineans were delighted to be an Australian colony and wished to remain so for as long as possible. "But mother decides when to wean from the teat," Eddie said firmly, "not baby." It seemed a bit patronising to me and, well, colonialist. If the Australian teat was distributing such largess where was the infrastructure, the railroads, the hospitals and the universities? Where was the heavy industries? Where was, heavens help us, the professional class? Again Eddie was dismissive. These things were very costly to build on such a rugged, tropical island. But they would come with independence. How so, Peggy asked, would Australia be even more generous post-independence? No, Eddie said frankly, but once New Guinea was no longer a colony it could receive foreign aid from wealthy countries. Wasn't Australian a wealth country, Peggy wanted to know. Only on a per capita basis, Eddie explained, overall their GNP was less than a third that of Britain's. Peggy began speaking very slowly, as if to a child. This is often a bad sign, in my experience. She asked Eddie if he was hoping that once New Guinea was independent that countries like Britain would pay for the infrastructure Australia had failed to build during her occupation of the island on her doorstep. Eddie quibbled about the word 'occupation' but said that, yes, if countries like Britain could pay that would be a beautiful thing. I felt that a change in conversational topic might raise the room temperature on what was a deep winter's night. I mentioned Opposition leaders. As I expected, this was just the ticket. Maggie noted how humorous it was that we had Enoch back again. Their last PM, a Mr Holt, had been washed away in Eddie's watershed election. She seemed genuinely disappointed that a gentleman with a Scottish name hadn't been chosen in his place, as he is apparently v. amusing with respect to appearance, voice and personal habits. But instead they are facing a Mr Sneddon, who represents the Conservatives' "new generation of Victorian super troopers" whoever they might be. It was quite late. Maggie and I were ready to turn in. It was still some hours before Peggy's bed time. She asked Eddie is he wanted another drink. "Well, maybe just one," he said, "I'm not Mr Hawke, you know." He and Maggie laughed uproariously while Peggy and I just stared at each other. I don't think it's possible to fully understand the Australian sense of humour. [If you'll just let me continue.]

[1] In this timeline, the definitive version of Burt Bacharach and Hal David's song is sung not by Aretha Franklin or The Nissan Cedrics but by Vera Lynn. It is Dame Vera's version on the wireless to which Jimmy is singing along. [2] Supermarionation, for the benefit of my younger readers, is a film technique that uses marionettes and scale models to substitute for live actors and real locations. A marionette James Bond would look something like this: [click] only with a tuxedo instead of an air stewardess' uniform. In our timeline James Bond was portrayed in On Her Majesty's Secret Service not by a wooden dummy but by George Lazenby.