POLITICS

Mr Major wrestles with the problem of retirement cut,

SIMON HEFFER

Fletcher, Stewart, Constable, May, Barrington, Bedser, McIntyre, Lock, Laker, Loader . . . no, Lock, Gibson, Laker, Load- er.' The Prime Minister always forgot Gib- son, even though he took five wickets, and Surrey drew the match to win the Champi- onship for the seventh year running. Mrs Hogg had heard it so often that she could now name the XI, in batting order, herself. Indeed, she could even — had she wanted — have recited their averages for the 1958 season, which was more than he could.

But she had no desire to tease. She always knew, when he talked of afternoons at the Oval, that he needed cheering up. `Oh yes, sunshine, cricket and warm beer,' he mused. 'Mind you, it was warm shandy in those days. I was too young for beer.'

`We've got the gift ready,' Mrs Hogg con- tinued. For Mr O'Donnell, the faithful press secretary who had denied so vigor- ously a few months back that he was leav- ing, was leaving. The old gang was breaking up. The Prime Minister's gaze switched to the photograph on the mantelpiece: he, Gus and Sarah partying the night after Maastricht; that was a triumph, oh yes.

`I didn't have time to get him something myself. But I know I can depend on you to do the right thing, Sarah. I hope it's some- thing that reflects my personality.' She had resisted the suggestion, from a press officer now awaiting a transfer, that Gus should have a copy of Joe Haines's life of Robert Maxwell. 'I found something in the duty-free at Brussels. I think he'll like it.'

She stepped briskly out of the room, leaving the Prime Minister in an armchair by the fire. He looked into the brief she had brought him, marked 'Policy Ideas for Year 3'. He had to admit that the policy ideas for Year 1 and Year 2 had consider- ably disappointed him: all that time, all that taxpayers' money, and all they had come up with was 'Back to Basics'. Still, if Sarah said that was the best they could do, who was he to disagree? Inside the file were two documents. One was marked 'medium-risk strategy', the sec- ond 'high-risk strategy'. 'They've left the low-risk one out by accident,' he thought, only to be perplexed by a label on the out- side: 'Enclosed: two items. Highly Secret.' He steeled himself, and opened the high- risk one first. It was a few lines on a sheet of paper: 'Back to Basics 2. Continue as at present. Hope no one finds out.'

He opened the medium-risk document. 'Ali, they've clearly been put in the wrong envelopes,' he said to himself as he read the prescriptions: 'Back to Basics 2(a). Reintroduce hanging, not necessarily just for murder. Reintroduce birching. Reintro- duce National Service. Withdraw from European Community. Abolish decimal currency.' He swallowed hard. 'Abolish dec- imal currency? No, I can't believe our peo- ple would stand for any of that .

There was a knock. A grotesque atten- dant, whose physical appearance still quite startled the Prime Minister though he had known him for years, put his head round the door. 'Chancellor to see you,' growled the attendant. Without further ceremony Mr Clarke walked in and, slapping the Prime Minister on the shoulder, slumped in the opposite chair.

`Just thought I'd look in, wish you happy Christmas and all that,' said Mr Clarke. The Prime Minister was glad to see his visi- tor, so smiled more sincerely than usual. 'I wouldn't mind a drink. Mind if I light up?'

`Er, no, no!' said the Prime Minister, hes- itantly; but then he remembered Virginia was out of London. 'I'll ring for a cuppa.'

`Oh, look, if you're short I can send my driver round to the office. Thirsty old day. Absolutely gasping for one — ah, this'll do.' He spotted, poking out from behind the Wincarnis, some of the Cyprus sherry Asil had sent in the old days. 'Better than noth- ing,' said Mr Clarke, filling a half-pint mug with the sickly concoction.

`Well, I suppose we can allow ourselves a little indulgence, Ken. After all, it is Christ- mas. And, well, I don't want to sound too racy but, you know, we've got away with it for another year.'

`You mean, I've got away with it for another year,' said Mr Clarke, jovially. 'I don't know how much longer they'll swal- low all this balls about how well we're cut- ting public spending and how we have to whack up petrol prices because of environ- mental promises made at the Rio summit. It's a pity we didn't make environmental promises on population control. If we could tax sex we'd clear the deficit overnight, eh?'

`Speak for yourself, Ken,' said the Prime Minister, tartly.

`Oh, I do. You can't have seen your per- sonal opinion polllatings lately. No wonder O'Donnell's getting out. I just hope there's some room in the lifeboat.'

Good old Ken: always one for the self- deprecating jest, even if most of the time it was someone else's self he was deprecating.

`But, Ken, things are so much better than this time last year. Inflation down, interest rates down, unemployment down . .

`Popularity down. Yes, I know, it doesn't add up, does it? It reminds me of some- thing I learned at Cambridge: "Propaganda is that branch of the art of lying which con- sists in very nearly deceiving your friends without quite deceiving your enemies."' Ken was, though, a little short in the tact department. There was nothing the Prime Minister liked less than being told what chaps learnt at Cambridge. 'Some people have no gratitude, Ken.'

`No, they don't, John,' the Chancellor looked unnaturally awkward. 'John, have you ever thought about retirement?'

`Oh yes, Ken. You forget, I was a minis- ter at Social Security before Margaret put me in the Cabinet. And we've just equalised the pension age — you were in Cabinet when we did that, weren't you, Ken?'

He laughed nervously. 'No, John, I don't mean retirement, I mean your retirement.'

`Oh, well, you know, Tristan said we can do a timeshare on his place on the Costa, and Marcus Fox said he'd fix me up with a few non-execs.' Touched by this concern for his future, the Prime Minister smiled warmly, and could not understand why Mr Clarke did not smile back. He seemed in some discomfort.

`John, it's like this. Me and the lads went round to Tristan's the other night and . . The attendant opened the door again. `They're waiting for you in the Jack Hobbs suite, sir. Mrs Hogg has got the cigarillos. And Roger Levitt returned your call.'

`Thank you, Anderson. Come on, Ken. You're so good at parties. You can do your Norman Lamont impersonation again. Clare thought it was so funny when you did it at Norma's 50th that she almost sat on the vol-au-vents.'

As they went out, Mr Clarke's eye was caught by a card on the bookshelves. 'Wish- ing us all peace, Gerry Adams,' said the mes- sage inside. It was bad enough having to send Christmas cards to all your friends, thought Ken, but when it gets to the stage where you have to start sending them to your 'con- tacts' as well, it just gets impossible.