Read Online A Very British Coup by Chris Mullin - Free Book Online

private apartments and handed him into the custody of a man in the full uniform of the middle rank civil service. A blue striped shirt, pin-striped trousersand a dark jacket. The bowler hat and umbrella were visible on a shelf through the rear window of the car.
    â€œPrime Minister,” said the man, proffering a manicured hand, “my name is Horace Tweed. I am your principal private secretary.”
    And with that he opened the rear door of the car, a blue Mercedes driven by a woman in a green uniform (since the Leyland collapse Mercedes had replaced Rovers in the government car pool). Perkins scrambled inside. Tweed closed the door after him, walked round the back of the car and climbed in through the door on the other side. The car slid out of the courtyard. As they passed, the sentries in their lofty bearskins presented arms.
    â€œWhen I was a kid,” said Perkins, “I wanted to be a soldier with one of those hats.”
    Tweed looked at him blankly. When he was a kid he probably never wanted to be anything but private secretary to the Prime Minister, thought Perkins.
    Leaving the Palace they ran a gauntlet of photographers, some of them running out into the road alongside the car. A police car materialised, as if from nowhere, and preceded them down the Mall, its headlights on full beam, despite the daylight.
    Tweed was saying something about sterling and the Governor of the Bank of England wanted an appointment, but Perkins was reflecting on his audience with the King. It had gone well. With apparent sincerity the King had congratulated him on his party’s victory and charged him with forming a government. After formalities they had indulged in a few minutes of small talk, mainly about football and gardens. Perkins said he had never lived in a house with a garden. The King said he would show him his and Perkins had departed saying he would take up his offer some day.
    By the time they reached Downing Street, Tweed was saying something about a phone call from the President of the United States. But Perkins could see only the crowds which spilled out into Whitehall and along the pavement outside the Cabinet Office. As the car turned into Downing Street heglimpsed a young woman in a white raincoat pressed against the barrier. Her long blonde hair was tucked into the collar of the raincoat; her cheeks were lightly freckled and as he passed she smiled a small, discreet smile. Perkins had scarcely time to think that she reminded him of Molly Spence before the thought was lost amid the cheering of the crowd.
    A stone’s throw from Downing Street, by a quiet terrace of Queen Anne houses overlooking the south-west corner of St James’s Park, a Rolls-Royce was disgorging the portly frame of Sir George Fison. Waiting at an open doorway to greet him was a languid figure swathed in a red corduroy smoking jacket – Sir Peregrine Craddock.
    â€œSo good of you to come, George.”
    â€œLeast I could do in the circumstances, old boy.”
    In the oak-panelled dining room a maid was clearing away the remains of Sir Peregrine’s late breakfast. A pile of newspapers had been cast unread into an armchair; the morning sun streamed in through a bay window overlooking the park; through the plane trees the Treasury edifice was just visible.
    Sir Peregrine poured two black coffees from a silver pot, waited until the maid had gone and then spoke quietly. “No doubt you’ve guessed why I asked you in. At a time like this it’s important that those of us who care about civilised values stick together.”
    â€œCouldn’t agree more,” nodded Fison, who had flopped into an armchair by the window. The daylight from behind illuminated his bald crown, creating a kind of halo effect. Sir Peregrine, who was seated facing into the light, was obliged to squint to catch the expression on Fison’s face.
    The clock on the mantelpiece registered a quarter past the hour in unison with Big Ben,