CAST
TREVOR - Late
thirties
STATION ANNOUNCER
22:25, Friday 23 July
1993: Waterloo Station. A bench. A split-flat departure board flaps.
TREVOR peers up at the departure board. He might wear a lightweight
suit with a white cotton shirt and royal blue silk tie, black Oxford shoes, and
hold the handle of a cabin-sized wheeled suitcase. Suddenly the flapping stops. Note:
The constituency of
Southampton Northam is fictitious.
TREVOR
Damn!
Delayed!
He turns
around, walks to the bench and sits down.
John
Major played a blinder today. He finally passed the Maastricht Bill by linking
it to a vote of confidence. He knew the rebels were going to cave in, with
Labour eighteen points ahead in the polls. Even they valued their MP’s salary
and pension over their opposition to Maastricht. But when they see the European
single market boosting our economy they’ll surely change their tune. You see, we’ll
make sure it works for us, as old Major craftily negotiated opt-outs for a
single currency and common social policies, effectively throwing away the
chance for the UK to become fully involved in the EU. You might call it ‘pick
and mix’. With any luck the rancour over Europe has been settled for good and
we can all fight Labour instead.
Once
upon a time I would have been gutted about the opt outs, particularly the
social chapter. You see, I grew up as a fully paid up Europhile. It was mainly
down to Mum and Dad, of course, but growing up I really liked and admired Ted
Heath. He came to our school once and conducted The Twelve Days of Christmas.
He got us to us sing a really complicated bit at Five Gold Rings. It was great
fun. With a baton in his hand he could had the miners singing to his tune. But
without it he just lacked the magic touch. He was doomed to lose two elections
in 1974 and the leadership to Margaret Thatcher in 1975.
But
at least he managed to sign the Treaty of Accession. Dad and I stood on the White Cliffs early in the morning of 1st January 1973 when we joined
the Common Market. We looked across the English Channel and I shouted out “Vive l’entente cordiale!” I think I embarrassed Dad and frightened off the rest of my meagre audience: a pair of adonis blue butterflies and a prowling peregrine falcon.
Of
course the local association in Southampton Northam would detest all that. At their
genteel garden parties they still see us as a Great Power hand in hand with the
USA. “We only joined a common market,” they say. “We didn’t vote to give up our
sovereignty or bring in socialism by the back door.”
That’s
rubbish, but I nod and smile all the same. And then the chairman taps his glass
of Hunter Valley chardonnay and makes a speech. I force myself not to laugh as
he winds up. “But the great thing is that in Trevor we’re lucky to have a such
a loyal M.P. He agrees that we should be in Europe, but not ruled
by Europe.”
And
they raise their glasses to toast my name, and I stand there with a painted grin. After all, I’m on-message. I’m a whip. An enforcer. You see, in politics the party always comes first, as I tell rebels.
Sometimes we need to be – well, persuasive.
I might
say: “You were elected on a Conservative manifesto. Not for your
ideals. OK, we all came into politics to
make the world a better place. But that’s harder if you lose the whip. Impossible
if you get de-selected. Or if Fleet Street finds about that certain something.”
That sort of thing. Yes, it stinks and I hate myself for it. It wasn’t supposed
to be like that.
As dawn broke on 3rd
May 1979 I had just been elected as the new M.P. for Southampton Northam. I
thought I was going to change the world.
Twenty-four. Just married. House
beside the River Itchen. Fired up to help Margaret put the Great back in
Britain. To bring back individual freedom, prosperity and better opportunities
for all and revitalize our relationship with the EEC.
Oh, yes. How easy it was to
parrot the manifesto in my acceptance speech. “We will restore Britain's
influence in Europe by committing to play a leading and constructive role in
tackling the Community’s problems.” Deep down I knew what this really
meant. Europe was the substitute Empire, which we would lead and
transform. Yet I thought we Europhiles could help to make us good Europeans.
By Summer 1980 we were
alarmed by the government’s hard-line policies, such as higher interest rates
and slashing public spending. But Margaret tore into us. We were
"wets", she said. (Imitating her.) “Too soft and too willing
to compromise with the unions. And with the EEC. We have not rolled back the
frontiers of the state, only for a European super-state to re-impose them from
Brussels. You turn if you want to: the lady's not for turning!'”
And I did turn. I decided to
conform. Become “dry”. Be faithful lobby fodder. After all, principles couldn’t
pay the bills.
STATION ANNOUNCER
Your attention please. We are
sorry that the 22:35 service to Poole is delayed by up to 30 minutes. This is
due to signalling problems at Basingstoke. Network South East apologises for
the inconvenience this may cause you.
End of this
extract.
