Westmmster Corridors
At present I am sitting with a Heap of Letters before me which I have received in the character of Puzzle. There are Complaints from Lovers. Schemes from Projectors, Scandal from Ladies, and Advice in abundance. Above all, though, are many anxious missives relating loosely to what many Members at the Club have come to call the "coalition conundrum". Many Correspondents claim that I have treated them too uncivilly in stringing them all together on a File and letting them lie so long unregarded. I am therefore resolved, for the future, to take some regular notice of such Letters as I receive. The Publick is not to expect, however, that I should let them into all my Secrets. So if I should appear abstruse to most People, it will be sufficient that I am understood by my particular Correspondents. First, it would seem, many of my Readers have been much heartened by the Commonsense of some senior Members who have been heard to say of late that above all National Unity must be preserved and that therefore a National Government must not be discounted. In the effulgent gloom of the Smoke Room the other day, my friend Sir Simon d'Audley (who thanks his wellwishers for their solicitude during his confinement at Brighton) saw Sir Alec Douglas-Home presiding over a meeting of some very Tories. Mr Reginald Mauldling from Barnet had come down specially from the City. There too were Mr Maurice Macmillan from Farnham, Mr Julian Amery from Brighton and someone who looked remarkably like Mr Enoch Powell (late of Wolverhampton). Sir Simon admits that the light played tricks on him and it turned out not to be Mr Powell at all but someone called Mr Michael English, a Ruffian from Nottingham, who is a congenital eavesdropper who learnt his trade in the bushes of Sherwood. Mr Macmillan, who is related to Mr Amery by marriage and to Mr Maudling by an offshore fund, said that his Father had said that Alec was their man. Mr English nudged Sir Alec out of a fitful sleep and observed that that was all very well but his Principal, one Mr Secretary Callaghan, would want a share of the action as well. The Tory Gentlemen (being used to this sort of interruption) disdainfully ignored the Ruffian but admitted later that he had a point. Accordingly, they went to the Tea Room where (surprise) another meeting was taking place.
Mr Callaghan was engrossed in conversation with Mr Secretary Crosland, Mr Secretary Jenkins, a Mr Dick Taverne from Lincoln (Lincoln, Sherwood, Nottingham — the pattern, my Readers will divine, begins to emerge) and a wildlooking Mr William Rodgers from Stockton. Now Mr Callaghan, who is related to almost everyone in one way or another, announced rather loudly that it was a private meeting of the Free Foresters and Sir Alec and his party began to withdraw in embarrassment.
"No, no," hissed Mr Taverne, "that is for the benefit of 'SS' Haines." The Tories then noticed the Prime Minister's press secretary standing in the corner of the Room cleverly disguised as a newspaper rack. The two groups got together for what was later described as a "frank and full exchange of views." What no one had noticed was that the Lady behind the counter who had served them tea was no lady, but the Duchess of Faulkender who had recorded all that they had said on her Bennimatic Cassette Machine and even then was on her way to Downing Street with "the evidence." Crises, as my Readers well know, bring out the best in Mr Wilson. "I have cherished a nest of hornets in my bosom," said he, with little theatrical effect and even less accuracy. He then picked up a ship-to-shore radio telephone receiver and asked for Morningcloud. I cannot. of course, reveal my spurces, but I am reliably informed that Mr Wilson and Mr Heath are in total agreement. They are to form their own coalition, each taking a turn at being Prime Minister. I have also seen the provisional Cabinet list — no Jenkins, no Maudling, no Callaghan, no Home. But Lord Feather is on it. So is Lord Robens, Lord Whitelaw and Lady Williams. Oh, and of course, Master Berm,
Tom Puzzle
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