As Time Goes By - December 1984

It was a mess right from the start. Cock-up City. I didn't want to go to Chequers, in the first place, but bloody Jim bloody Dooge stuck his greasy finger in the pie and stirred things up. "Offer to go to Chequers, Garret," he said, "For security reasons, Garret," he said. "Put her under an obligation, Garret," he said, "Get you off on the right foot, Garret," he said. A real deep-dyed, spit in the cup, God I must be dreaming, cock-up.

Put her under a compliment, I ask you. A real expert on human nature, is our Jim.

I had a row with Garret on the plane. What's the point, I asked him, of employing me as a National Handler if he won't take my advice? Staying overnight at Chequers was out, I told him. Out, out, out. They'll be bossing us around, tapping our phone calls to Dublin. "Who do you think she is," asked Garret, "Sean Doherty?" I wannted us to bunk down in a little B&B a couple of miles away in Fretley,

where we'd have some privacy, and motor back and forth to the summit. But these people are amateurs. "That would be discourteous," he said.

Discourteous, I ask you. We're going to visit Britain's answer to General J aruzelski and Garret's worrried about minding his manners.

When we got to Chequers, Garret, Peter Barry and myself went inside for a confab, while Dick Spring brought the bags in from the car. We were shown into a side room. I was first into the room and a foot hooked my shin, a hand pushed my back and I went down on my face. I looked up and there were eight SAS men, in blackface and carrying machineepistols. Dick Spring came in with the bags, whistling, and took a fist in the stomach. "Paddy bastards!" The four of us were pushed and kicked up against the wall and searched. "Facking fenian bombing Paddy bastards!"

Douglas Hurd came into the room and waited until the soldiers had finished. "Thank you, lads," he said. "Sorry about that, chaps, can't be too careful." The SAS left and Hurd gesstured to the sofa. "Please do sit down, Dr Fitzpatrick. And what was it you wanted to see the PM about?"

* * *

It was a miserable evening. Garret asked Hurd if perhaps we might have a con sid ered response to the Forum Report, Chapter 5 in particular. Hurd looked puzzled for a moment and then said, "Oh , jolly good, see what I can do, old chap. Meanwhile, do please make yourselves comfortable." As he left he turned and asked, "By the way, old chap, wouldn't happen to have a spare copy of that Report in your pocket? Seem to have mislaid my copy." "Dick," said Garret, and Spring had a root around in his briefcase and gave Hurd a copy.

We spent the rest of that Sunday evening moping about the room.

Garret switched on the TV and settled down in front of a Benny Hill repeat. Peter Barry sulked in an armchair. This made a change from seeing Peter sulk on the plane, sulk in the car, sulk on the sofa, sulk pacing up and down the carpet. Dick sat at the piano in the corner, puffed away on his pipe, and gave a one-finger reciital, a medley of socialist songs. He had just finished "The Watchword of Labour" and was on the first bar of "The Workers' Flag is Deepest Red" when Garret looked up from the telly and said, "Stop it." Dick stopped it. He began humming softly. ". . . it shrouded oft our martyred dead ... "

I was poking around the room.

Outside I could see the SAS dressing up in police uniforms and practicing their baton charges with screams of "NUM bastards!"

I opened a drawer and found a thick book. About two-thirds of the lined pages were covered in handdwriting. The first page said, "Helmssman's Log, HMS Conqueror". I flicked through it and near the end of the written-on pages noticed a notaation, "Change course, 32 degrees west, engines full ahead, message ex London imperative sink Belgrano forthwith before reaches home port, scupper dago peace plan, God save queen."

"I'm hungry," said Dick. "Garret, I'm hungry." Garret said nothing. "I'd give anything for a Big Mac," said Dick. "Bugger it," said Garret. He got up and went to the door. It was locked.

A couple of hours later Hurd brought us some marmite sandwiches and some tea. He apologised for the Pxf 's delay, said she was "plumb tuckered out, old boy, decided to have an early night. Been working jolly hard lately, you know." Garret said he quire understood. "Been reading your Forum thingy ," said Hurd. "Jolly, jolly good. Very impressive. Quite !iLe.Tare in parts. How long did it take you to pur together?" Garret looked ill. He said, "Actually, this all began ... "

"My God," said Hurd, "Is that the time? Must rush, old chap. Do make yourselves comfortable."

We settled down with the tea and sandwiches. Garret poured. "My," he said, "Isn't that a nice Georgian silver teapot? "

* * *

Dick was late coming down to breakfast next morning. Seems he had got up during the night to answer a call of nature and he had gone just two yards down the corridor when he was pounced on by the SAS and beaten senseless.

It was late that Monday morning when Mrs Thatcher breezed in. "How are you, how are you," she said as she accelerated past us, "It's very very nice to see you again, Mr Fitzpatrick."

She went to her room. We stood around for an hour or two. I tried one last time with Garret. "Boots," I said, "Boots flying. That's the only way to go into this meeting. She won't budge on sovereignty - fine. You tell her she wants to keep things as they are that's fine with you. The six counties are British, she says, you say fine. Then the IRA is a British terrorist' organisaation and it's her problem, let her sort it out. Our troops come off the border, our cops stop beating up suspects, our courts get juries, we save hundreds of millions of pounds ... "

"We must shoulder our responsiibilities," said Garret.

We had a nice lunch. Peter Barry had to stop Dick buttering his bread roll with the fish knife, but apart from that it was most enjoyable.

At around 3pm Douglas Hurd called Garret in to see Mrs Thatcher. Peter, Dick and I were joined by some more of the National Handlers and

Dick produced a deck of cards. We were on the second game, I'd just drawn two nines to triple aces, when Garret came back in, furious. "That woman," he said, "is gratuitously offensive." Turned out he'd been in there seven minutes and she produced an agreed communique she wanted him to sign.

Sighs and whispers, gnashing of teeth. I fought a lone battle but the rest of them agreed that the best thing to do would be to sign the commuunique and keep shtumm, better luck next time. It was agreed that the 11have - vision - the -rest - of -the wears-bifocals gimmick would be emmployed. This was pioneered by Charlie Haughey after he first met Maggie in 1980. Charlie came out nodding and winking about his Special Relationship and kept telling us great things were afoot and about the visions he could see on the horizon. It worked until the H Block hunger strikes showed that Charlie's relationship to Maggie was something like my relationship to Jim Dooge.

After that it was all downhill.

Maggie had a press conference and quite innocently let everyone know how she felt about things. Garret did the "progress towards progress" bit. Break your heart, it would. Peter Barry flew off, sulking, to Brussels, and Garret, Dick and I left for the airrport. We were arrested under the Prevention of Terrorism Act and held overnight, but Peter Prendergast manaaged to keep the wraps on that and put the delay down to bad weather.

We were hardly back on the oul sad when the excreta hit the fan. Even Bruce Arnold was pissed off. It's not all peaches and cream, folks, it's not all peaches and cream. Anyone for a game of chequers? •