What If Gordon Banks Had Played, Part 15

“Past the pub that wrecks your body, And the church — all they want is your money, The Queen is dead boys, You can trust me boys...”

7th June 1977 3.12pm

Cardinal Hume shuddered as another broken bottle clattered off the windows of Westminster cathedral. “The doors are all locked?” he said calmly to Father Michael, the Cathedral Administrator. The priest nodded.

From outside the brick edifice of the Cathedral Hume could hear the yells of the mob, “Fenian bastards!”, “Catholic scum!” and the constant dirge of “No surrender to the IRA”. There was a thud, and the heavy wooden doors of the Cathedral shook upon their hinges once again.

“Have the police arrived yet?” the Cardinal said quietly.

“I can hear sirens outside, I'll go up the tower and have a look.”

Father Michael climbed quickly up the bell tower, and stepped nervously into the viewing gallery. London had never looked so alien. The air was filled with the sound of wailing sirens, and with the shouts and screams from the mob below. A plume of smoke rose from the North-West, which Father Michael correctly assumed was coming from the now abandoned Irish Embassy in Grosvenor Place. The mob was gathered upon the piazza in front of the Cathedral, draped in Union Flags, clutching cans and bottles and bricks. Around a dozen were using a bench as a battering ram against the Cathedral doors.

More people running wild upon Victoria Street, smashing windows and looting shops. A few vehicles attempted to move through the chaos, avoiding the missiles and burning tyres. Father Michael could see two or three people levering televisions and stereos from the window of Dixon's opposite. To the West troops were deploying around Victoria Station, while looking East Michael could see lines of mounted riot police standing off against the mob in the street outside New Scotland Yard.

There was a thud and a cheer as the mob below charged at the Cathedral doors with the bench. The doors were solid oak — Father Michael wondered how long they would hold...

From the Evening Standard, 7th June, West End Final edition, p.1

THE QUEEN IS DEAD

IRA Assassin shot by Police marksmen

Charles to Address Nation Tonight

London in Chaos

Buckingham Palace has officially announced the death of Her Majesty the Queen. The Queen was shot by an IRA assassin while returning from her Jubilee Celebrations. The assassin, a white male who has yet to be identified, was shot by police marksmen while carrying out the atrocity, but the police action came to late to prevent to save her Majesty's life. A statement from the IRA has claimed responsibility for the murder.

The assassin struck using a nail bomb, hidden in the crowds around the Mall, as a distraction, allowing him to approach the Queen's car and shoot through the side window. The Queen was reportedly hit by at least one bullet and died shortly afterwards at Buckingham Palace. The Duke of Edinburgh, who was also in the vehicle is reported to be in deep shock, but otherwise unharmed. The new King is reportedly safe at Buckingham Palace and will address the nation on television later tonight.

Across the country people have reacted with shock, sadness at anger at the atrocity. Several hundred thousand people had gathered in the centre of London to watch the Jubilee parade, and crowds have remained gathered peacefully around Buckingham Palace, however there have been violent outbreaks across the rest of London. The Irish Embassy in Grosvenor Place and the Catholic cathedral in Westminster have both been attacked and set alight, and there have been similar attacks upon Irish pubs and social clubs and Catholic churches across London. Angry crowds have been protesting in Victoria Street, Trafalgar Square and Whitehall and there have been violent confrontations with the police, and some instances of looting. Army units are reportedly being deployed around key points in central London to maintain services should the situation deteriorate further.

Prime Minister Powell is reportedly meeting cabinet colleagues at Downing Street but has yet to make any public comment about the tragedy. Tributes from other world leaders have been pouring in, President Reagan has said...

7th June 1977 — 4.13pm — 10 Downing Street

Enoch Powell looked shaken, almost tearful as Jim Molyneaux faced him across the desk.

“Prime Minister... Enoch, I have no option. The royal family's security was my responsibility and I have failed, I have no choice but to resign immediately. It would be unthinkable for me to stay on.”

“There is no point, James. It would be a futile gesture,” the Prime Minister was subdued, gazing down at his desk. “Go if you must.”

“I have no choice. You will need an immediate replacement of course. I have no wish to presume your decision, but I would recommend Margaret. You may not see eye to eye on occasion, but you need a firm hand on the tiller, and you need it now. More to the point, we need to bolster the public's faith in the Government's ability to keep order. Margaret has all over the papers calling for increased security — it will send the right message out if you make her the new Home Secretary.” Molyneaux finished and waited for Powell to reply, but the Prime Minister was silent, staring blanking forward at his desk, his eyes dark and empty. “Prime Minister?”

“It is too late, James. It is good advice, but you are giving counsel to the wrong man. Such a mistake requires a more senior head than your own to roll. I intend to seek an audience with the King as soon as possible in order to tender my own resignation.I am almost sixty-five, James, I have had my time, and I have failed. Acta est fabula. Acta est fabula.” Powell stared out of the window into the Downing Street garden, tears in his eyes. Above the top of the Cabinet Office buildings there was an ominous plume of smoke rising from elsewhere in London.

7th June 1977 4.30pm — Buckingham Palace

“The Prime Minister, sir.”

“Your Majesty,” Powell said with a deep bow. The King stood at the far end of the drawing room, gazing out of the window. The Palace Gardens were calm, but the whine of emergency sirens could be heard echoing across the city, while the horizon was dotted with plumes of smoke. “My deepest condolences, sir.”

The twenty-nine year old King turned to his Prime Minister. His eyes were red with tears and he chewed his lower lip as the older man addressed him. “It was my duty to protect your late mother, sir, and I have failed in my duty. I have come to offer my resignation.”

Charles paused, wringing his hands fretfully. “Thank you, Mr Powell. I, erm..., do appreciate your words, but, erm... I am afraid I cannot accept your resignation. This is not a time for trying to find a new Prime Minister, no time at all. I should be grateful if you could, er...see your way clear to, er...staying on?”

“As your Majesty wishes.”

From “An Unhappy Juncture: The Powell Government” by Anthony Selsdon (HarperCollins, 1988)

Powell's first three years in Government had been a study in confidence to the point of arrogance. Be it through design, or perverse fortune, Powell had successively obliterated all possible threats to his hold upon power. The creation of the National Conservative party had fatally weakened moderate voices within the Conservative Party itself, the formal split in the Labour Party, their decimation at the 1977 election and the loss of their most talented and charismatic leaders in the Westminster bombing had destroyed the party as both an effective opposition and an alternate government, while the Liberal Party had been almost obliterated after Thorpe's disgrace. The Unions had been hamstrung by tabloid smears and draconian legislation, the media cowed by the real threat of censorship and any grassroots anti-Powellite movement would be stymied by police powers to prevent protests, marches and meetings. Despite domestic problems the crackdown on unions, continuing reductions in tax rates and the repeal of business regulations ensured that Powell maintained vocal support from big business. Powell's position seemed unassailable.

However, the assassination of the Queen for the first time saw Powell's confidence stumble. Many of Powell's friends tell of his deep feelings of guilt and responsibility over the assassination and in his memoirs Jim Molyneaux records Powell informing him immediately after the assassination of his intention to resign as Prime Minister. In the event Powell remained, though it has never been made clear what drove him to do so, since in private he subsequently spoke of his regret at not having “fallen upon his sword”. Undoubtedly though the assassination resulted in a marked change in Powell's premiership, in the short term at least, as Powell himself became more introspected, and more power was delegated to senior cabinet figures such as Joseph and Thatcher.

From “A Woman's Place: An Autobiography”, by Margaret Thatcher (HarperCollins, 1989)

In the hours after the assassination the Government seemed paralysed by shock. I immediately returned to Westminster and was shocked by the reaction of people in London. While many seemed to be wandering the streets aimlessly, trying to take in the enormity of the news, and many more were gathered around Buckingham Palace waiting for developments, some took it upon themselves to attack Irish or catholic buildings and institutions, in many areas rioting and looting took place, and there were reportedly more outbreaks of violence in other cities across Britain. Such behaviour was utterly reprehensible.

Buckingham Palace officially announced the Queen's death at three o'clock. Despite the shock around Westminster there was immediate speculation that Enoch, or Jim Molyneaux at the very least, would have to resign. In the event Jim resigned, and to my surprise I was summoned to Downing Street at around quarter to five. The short journey from the Department of Social Security to Downing Street was enlightening, rioting on the streets were smashing windows and looting stores and, while the police and army had been able to prevent the chaos spreading into Parliament Square and Whitelaw they were having little success in controlling it. It was quite clear that the situation needed taking under control.

I was shown into the cabinet room as soon as I arrived in Downing Street. Enoch was subdued and seemed almost tearful. There were few superfluous words, Enoch told me of Jim's resignation and asked me to take on the role of Home Secretary. I was informed that following the full meeting of the Privy Council at seven to issue the proclamation notice, there would be a small Privy Council meeting at eight to pass any necessary Orders in Council. Enoch gave me permission to take whatever action I deemed necessary to bring the situation under control and I took my leave, leaving Enoch sitting quietly at the empty cabinet table.

7th June 1977 — 9.00pm, Flood Street, Chelsea.

“His Majesty King George VII,” intoned a BBC voice.

The face of Charles Philip Arthur George Mountbatten-Windsor flickered onto the television screen. “Needle-nardle noo,” he said. Denis Thatcher thumped the side of his television and the sound and picture jerked into proper focus. “...Northern Ireland and across the Commonwealth. Today is a day of great tragedy. My mother, the Queen, dedicated twenty five years of her life to serving her country, a duty which she carried out flawlessly, setting an example which...”

“Dull, dull, dull,” Denis said, pouring himself another gin. The King's statement ended with the strains of God Save the King before a black tied Richard Whitmore appeared to read the days news. There was the predictable coverage of the day's horrors, and the necessary formal announcements of the 10 o'clock curfew and the threat to shoot looters on sight. “You're on dear!” Denis shouted to his wife.

“Thank you dear,” Margaret Thatcher said. She was sat in her study, opposite Airey Neave and Alan Clark.

“We do need to take some sort of immediate action,” Neave was saying. “We need to demonstrate, to our people as well as to the terrorists, that we mean business.”

“We most certainly do, Airey,” Mrs Thatcher said, filling her guests' glasses.

“There's no reason,” said Clark, lounging back with his feet on Thatcher's tidy desk. “No reason, why we cannot send in the SAS tonight and take out four or five of their leaders. Show them they are not the only ones who can take decisive measures.”

“I am deadly serious Alan,” Neave said. “The security forces have identified a handful of key figures within the IRA who it would be to our advantage to eliminate and who we have reliable information on their exact whereabouts.”

“Then why aren't these people in prison, Airey?” Thatcher trilled.

“Two are in internment camps — though that naturally does not stop them issues orders or acting as figureheads. Three are in the Republic of Ireland, and as you know, since the break in diplomatic relations there are no provisions for extradition.”

“This is illegal of course,” Thatcher said sternly.

Clark shrugged dismissively, “What's illegal, Margaret? The IRA think they are fighting a war, it isn't illegal to shoot enemy soldiers is it?”

“You know this is not a war, Alan, it is crime. Purely and simply, these people are criminals of the very worst sort. We should not give them the satisfaction of treating them like an army.”

“Of course not — not least because we'd have to obey the Geneva convention! Morally though it is a perfectly reasonable reaction,” said Clark.

Neave flapped his hands dismissively, “Yes, yes, yes. Looking at the practicalities, the situation is as regards the two targets on British soil; the secret services are essentially above the law on this matter. There will be no evidence, and no investigation. As for the targets in the Irish Republic, everyone will guess what has happened, but what are the Irish going to do about it? They have already withdrawn their ambassador. They might well go whining to the United Nations, but so what? The families will go running to the European Court of Human Rights, but again, so what? Public opinion is not going to side with the terrorists; people are angry, the vast majority of people will think they had it coming. What's the worst Ireland can do? Declare war? Hardly! They aren't going to die in a ditch for a couple of terrorists. At the end of the day they'll be as glad to see the buggers dead as we will be.”

“You are serious about this?” Thatcher asked.

“Why not?” drawled Clark.

“You are killing people,” said Thatcher. “What about Enoch?”

“The Prime Minister has offered me a free hand in this matter,” Neave said. “Naturally I will seek his permission, but it would essentially be a rubber stamp.”

Thatcher blinked as she took the situation in. “I suppose that this conversation never happened then.”

“Of course not, Margaret,” Neave said with a smile.

“Good!” Thatcher said. “Then I shall make us all something to eat.”