These words were delivered like a slap in the face to the room at large.
“Frankly, there has been too much time and energy wasted in the last year,” she continued, her delivery and her tone measured and level, almost unemotional, “on matters which are not critical to our national survival. Gentlemen,” she hesitated, glanced in Margaret Thatcher’s direction, “and lady,” she corrected herself, “while so many of my people are living on the edge of starvation in war damaged houses without adequate sanitation or power, I will not idly stand by while my ministers and their acolytes indulge in politicking for politicking’s sake. Nor will I tolerate place holding passengers in senior posts in My Government. I am informed that two members of Cabinet have elected to remain on their estates in the north, and that there are other absentees.” She turned her disapproving stare on Ian Macleod and the Chairman of the Conservative and Unionist Party visibly flinched. “The absentees are members of your Party, Mr Macleod and I believe, one of them has very recently seen fit to entertain the American Ambassador, presumably in the style to which he is accustomed, at his country house in Scotland?”
“I believe my colleague’s motivation was to promote harmonious bi-lateral relations, you Majesty.”
“Yes, well,” the Queen responded with a quiet snort of scorn. “Frankly, Mr Macleod I am not sympathetic to such ‘motivations’. My realm is not yet and I sincerely hope it will never be a subservient trans-Atlantic adjunct of the Pax Americana.”
She allowed herself a brief moment of reflection.
“I was quite fond of Mr MacMillan and found the company of several of his confidantes in Government entertaining and informing. However, that was before the abject ultimate failure of his Government’s policies condemned My people to the trials and tribulations of the last year. Many of you around this table share no little culpability for the tragedy that has befallen us. I am bound to say that not all of those responsible seem to have come to terms with their culpability, or their duty to do the best for My people in its aftermath.” The Queen sat back and nodded to Edward Heath.
The Prime Minister cleared his throat and in an unhurried, stentorian tone announced: “The following members of Cabinet will remain seated: Mr Callaghan, Mr Thorneycroft, Mr Macleod, and Mrs Thatcher. All other members of Cabinet will remove themselves from this gathering and surrender themselves to the Queen’s Guard pending a decision as to your further disposition.” In the horrified silence, the Prime Minister rubbed his chin and added: “those members of Cabinet who failed to attend this day have already been arrested for dereliction of duty in a time of national emergency under the provision of Section 9(b) of the War Emergency Powers Act as amended in Council on the 12th day of our Lord, February 1963.”
Henry Tomlinson had risen to his feet and opened the double doors.
He beckoned two Sten Gun armed Marines into the room.
The three Chiefs of Staff and Julian Christopher sat like statues as the drama played out. The Queen viewed the dismissal of the sacked Cabinet ministers with placid indifference. As her Premier had remarked to her the previous day ‘this was a thing best done expeditiously’.
“May I say something, Prime Minister?” Ian Macleod said when it was over. His face had turned an unhealthy shade of purple-red and the veins stood out in his temples. He was trembling with rage.
“Say it and be done with it, Ian.” Edward Heath hadn’t liked conducting the affair with such brutality but he hadn’t seen any alternative. The deposed ministers weren’t going to be sent to die in a labour battalion or fester in a Gulag-style concentration camp; they were merely going to be fed and watered in the relative comfort of the Cheltenham complex until more pressing matters were resolved.
“Most of those people are our friends, Ted!”
“Neither I nor the country can afford friends who live in the past, Ian,” the big man retorted bluntly. “This isn’t about Party loyalties, or our class and their class, or any of that nonsense. If any of them have the guts, if you have the guts for the fight, you can stand against me at the next general election. You won’t have long to wait. May next year. It is my duty to ensure that our people survive the winter and that if they do, that they have a chance of surviving the next one.”
“Here! Here!” Margaret Thatcher murmured.
The Prime Minister glanced to the Queen.
“With your permission, ma’am, I shall proceed with the other matters we discussed.”
The small woman at the top of the table nodded.
“Today’s agenda is fairly short,” Edward Heath informed his much reduced audience. “There will be new appointments to departments currently without ministers. The majority will be announced in the coming hours but I want to announce the first changes now so that the decisions we take can be acted upon immediately.”
Distantly, the roar of an aircraft taking off from the nearby airfield carved out of what had previously been Cheltenham Race Course rattled the leaded windows.
“Firstly, Mrs Thatcher will become Home Secretary. The Ministry of Supply will move over to the Home Office for an interim period of not less than six months. I propose to ask Airey Neave to take on that department under Mrs Thatcher’s overview. Next, Mr Callaghan, whilst retaining his portfolio for Defence will subsume all military-related research and development work related to war fighting into his remit. How he organises that will be for him to sort out and report back to Cabinet in due course. Ian,” he said, fixing the Chairman of the Conservative and Unionist Party in his sights, “there is no position in my revamped War Cabinet for a Minister without Portfolio, or for full time Party hack, of any political persuasion. Members of the Labour Party will be invited the fill several of the vacant posts; I have been advised as to suitable candidates by Mr Callaghan. However, if you should wish to remain in the Cabinet I am prepared to offer you a real job.”
Ian Macleod didn’t look to his Party leader, he looked to the Queen.
“I am proud to serve at Her Majesty’s pleasure, Prime Minister. In whatever capacity you think fit.”
Edward Heath was in too much of a hurry to linger overlong on this small snub: “Very well. I want you to take over the Ministry of Information and turn it into a cross between an organ disseminating essential and useful public information and the old Office for Political Warfare we had during the 1945 war.”
The Prime Minister didn’t wait for an acknowledgement.
“Gibraltar,” he growled. “Cannot be allowed to fall.” He eyed the Chiefs of Staff. “We must do whatever we have to do to hold onto it.”
Sir David Luce, the First Sea Lord asked the question that even now most brave men would blanch to ask.
“In the event that I come to you with a request to activate Arc Light what would be your response, sir?”
Edward Heath contemplated this for several seconds.
“Negative,” he replied. “At this time my response would be negative.”
The Queen coughed demurely.
“Arc Light?”
“The atomic first strike option, ma’am,” the Prime Minister said tersely. He re-focused on the First Sea Lord. “Can we hold Gibraltar?”
Sir David Luce nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
“Next item,” Edward Heath continued. “Vice-Admiral Staveley-Pope?”
“I can confirm that the C-in-C Mediterranean has activated the preparatory phase of Operation Homeward Bound on his own initiative, sir,” the First Sea Lord announced. “He has been sent a direct order — by me — to immediately rescind his orders to this effect. It is my understanding that he has ignored my order on grounds that he is the man on the spot and that he knows best.”