The Storytellers by Robert Mercer-Nairne Read Free Book Online Page B

for the gentle way in which it was announced. The editor of The Sentinel , who had recently become a regular guest at the castle, did not need persuading.
    When Frances and the ladies re-entered the grand dining room, along with Toots Malone, who’d been keeping them in irreverent hysterics for the best part of an hour, the sombre mood lifted.
    â€œIt’s almost midnight, darling,” she announced.
    â€œBy heavens, so it is,” muttered old Archibald. “We’ve been in conclave too long.”
    David rose, looked at his watch and started counting. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one…”
    â€œHappy New Year!” everyone shouted.
    Ignoring his scowling wife for once, Malcolm made a grab for Frances, which she easily dodged.
    1979 had begun.

C HAPTER

    â€œC ALLAGHAN SHOULD HAVE gone for it in September, when he had a chance.”
    It was the first Monday morning of the new year and The Sentinel’s editor was firing up his team for the week ahead.
    â€œServes him right for opposing In Place of Strife,” Georgina gloated.
    â€œWilson could see the problem,” Pete interjected. “Labour law needed reform, but the union diehards in the government just couldn’t stomach it. His white paper was DOA.”
    â€œDOA?”
    Porter, the social correspondent, disliked letters.
    â€œDead on arrival,” Pete informed him.
    â€œYou’ve been watching too much American television,” Porter carped.
    â€œThere is a world outwith Her Majesty’s diary you know!”
    â€œChildren!”
    George Gilder quite liked it when his reporters had a go at each other. It showed they were not asleep. But there were limits.
    â€œNow, Mudd,” he said, “what’s on the horizon?”
    â€œBlizzards!” Harvey answered. “At least that’s what the Met Office is forecasting.”
    He’d come to think of his editor’s preference for his surname as a sign of special favour. In part this was the case. But it was also because George Gilder liked saying ‘Mudd’, especially in a loud voice.
    â€œSo not great for the economy,” Georgina concluded, seeing the point immediately.
    â€œNot great for the pickets either,” observed Pete who’d followed the Grunwick dispute in which a film-processing company in North London had been used as a stalking horse to test how far unions, sympathetic to a worker’s plight, could legally obstruct a company’s business, whether the company’s workers were members of a union or not.
    â€œHer Majesty has not missed a day yet,” announced Porter.
    â€œI can’t see her sitting next to a coal-fired brazier in front of Buck House on a cold winter’s day, just to stop Prince Philip attending an engagement,” chortled Pete.
    â€œNo, she’d probably just send all his trousers to the laundry,” quipped Georgina.
    â€œWe’re wandering,” chastened their editor. And then fixing on Harvey asked, “What mischief have the unions in store for us?”
    â€œThe big one is the tanker drivers’ dispute. It’s been rumbling for months. But with the Ford settlement it looks as though they are going for it. All members of the Transport and General Workers’ Union are out, although at the moment it’s unofficial. With fuel supplies drying up, the effects will spread everywhere–”
    â€œEighty percent of the nation’s goods goes by road,” interjected Georgina.
    â€œHospitals, schools, factories, farms, not to mention Joe Public and his blessed automobile.”
    A broad grin spread across George Gilder’s face. “Now let’s watch Callaghan’s opinion poll lead get flushed down the toilet,” he all butrhapsodized. “I want you to get out there and tell the story – no, the stories, as many as you can lay your hands on, about how this is affecting ordinary men and