So by the time the new leader was elected just a week before the Party's annual conference in early October, the Opposition had dominated the news for several weeks and the conference turned into a united salute to the new leader. Under an enormous slogan of 'Victory', the conference was unrecognisable as the assembly of a party which had lost the election only a few months before.
By contrast, just a week later the representatives gathered for the Government Party's conference in a spirit of trepidation and complaint The conference centre at Bournemouth could be uplifting if filled with 4,000 enthusiastic supporters, but now its bare brick walls and chromium-plated fitments served only to emphasise the sullenness of those who gathered.
As Publicity Director, it was Roger O'Neill's task to present and package the conference, but as the task of raising spirits became increasingly daunting, so he could be seen talking more and more feverishly to journalists -apologising, justifying, explaining, and blaming. And particularly he blamed Lord Williams. The Chairman had cut the budget, he explained, delayed making decisions, not got a grip on things. There were rumours circulating within party headquarters that he deliberately wanted the conference to be low key because he thought the Prime Minister was likely to get a rough ride from the faithful. Party doubts about Collingridge leadership' was the first Guardian report to come out of Bournemouth.
In the conference hall, the debates proceeded according to the rigid pre-set schedule. An enormous sign hung above the platform - 'Finding The Right Way'. The speeches struggled to obey its command beneath glaring television lights and an annoying buzz from the hall which the stewards were quite incapable of quelling. On the fringes of the hall the representatives, journalists and politicians gathered in little huddles to exchange views, a regular part of any political garnering, and a fertile breeding ground for idle gossip.
The 'buzz' around the conference was one of discontent. Everywhere they listened, the men from the media were able to hear criticism. Former MPs who had recently lost their seats were critical, but asked not to be quoted for fear of endangering their chances of being selected for safer seats at the next election. Their constituency chairmen showed no such reticence. They had not only lost their MP, but also faced several years of the Opposition Party ruling their local councils, nominating the mayor and committee chairmen, and disposing of the fruits of local office.
There was also growing concern that the parliamentary by-election, due on Thursday, would give a poor result. The Member for Dorset East, Sir Anthony Jenkins, had suffered a stroke four days before the general election. Elected while in intensive care, he had died only three weeks later.
His seat, just a few miles from Bournemouth, was a safe one with a majority of nearly 20,000, so the Prime Minister had decided tohold the by-election during conference week. He had been advised strongly against it, but he argued that on balance it was worth the risk. The conference publicity would provide good campaigning material for the by-election, there would still be a strong sympathy vote for the fallen MP, conference representatives could take a few hours off to undertake some much-needed canvassing, and the Prime Minister would be able to welcome the victorious candidate during his own conference speech—a good publicity stunt.
Now the busloads of conference-goers returning from a morning's canvassing were reporting a lack of sympathy on the doorstep. The seat would be held, of course, it had been in the Party since the War, but the thumping victory which Collingridge had demanded was beginning to look more distant with every day's canvass returns.
It was going to be a difficult week, not quite the victory celebration the party managers had planned.
A cold wet wind was blowing off the sea when Mattie Storin was woken by a pounding headache early on Wednesday morning. As the representative of a major national newspaper she was one of the fortunate few journalists offered accommodation in the headquarters hotel where she could mix freely with the key politicians and party officials. She had mixed a little too freely the previous evening, and she began her regular morning calisthenics with heavy limbs and a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Her whole body shouted at her that this was a rotten way to cure a hangover, so she quickly changed her mind and opted for an open window- a move which she immediately recognised as the second bad decision of the day. The small hotel was perched high on the cliff tops, ideal for catching the summer sun but exposed and unprotected on such grey and swirling autumn mornings. Her overheated hotel room turned into an icebox in seconds, and Mattie decided that she would make no more decisions until after a gentle breakfast.
She heard the scuffling of something being delivered outside in the corridor and pulled the blanket protectively around her shoulders, stumping her way across to the door. Work, in the form of the morning newspapers, was piled outside on the hallway carpet. She picked them up and threw them carelessly towards the bed. As they spread chaotically over the rumpled bedclothes, a sheet of paper fluttered from between the pages and fell to the floor. With a tired grunt she bent down to retrieve it, and through the morning mist which seemed completely to have enveloped her head read the words:
'Opinion Research Survey
No. 40, 6 October - secret',
emblazoned across the top.
She rubbed her eyes to open them properly. They've surely not started giving them away with the Mirror, she thought. Mattie knew the Party conducted weekly surveys to track the nationwide movement of public opinion on political issues, but these had a highly restricted distribution to Cabinet Ministers and only a handful of top Party officials. She had been shown copies rarely and only when they had good news to convey which the Party wished to publicise; otherwise they were kept under strictest security. She wondered what good news could possibly have been found in the latest survey, and why it had been delivered wrapped up like fried fish and chips.
The contents of the note made her rub her eyes once more. The Party, which had won the election with 41 per cent of the vote, now had only 31 per cent support, 14 per cent behind the main Opposition Party. Even more damaging were the figures on the Prime Minister's popularity. Less than one in four now preferred him while the new Leader of the Opposition stood at well over 50 per cent. It made Collingridge more disliked than any Prime Minister she could remember.
Mattie squatted on her bed. She no longer needed to ask why she had been sent the information. It was dynamite, and she felt the paper almost burning in her hand. 'Government crashes in opinion polls', it seemed to say as she composed her own introduction. And someone wanted her to throw this explosive news right into the middle of the party conference. It was a deliberate act of sabotage which would be an excellent story-her story, as long as she got it in first.
She grabbed for the telephone. 'Hello, Mrs Preston? It's Mattie Storin. Is Grev there, please?'
There was a short pause before her editor came on the phone, and his husky tones announced that he had just been woken up.
'Who's died?' 'What?'
'Who's bloody died? Why else would you call me at such a bloody stupid time?'
'Oh, nobody. I mean... I'm sorry. I forgot what time it was.'
'Shit.'
'Sorry, Grev.'
'Well, something must have happened, for pity's sake.'
'Yes, it came with my morning newspapers.' 'Well, that's a relief. We're now only a day behind the rest.'
'No, Grev. Listen will you? I've got hold of the Party's latest polling figures. They're sensational!'
‘How did you get them?'
They were left outside my door.'
'Gift wrapped, were they?' The editor was clearly having great difficulty controlling his sarcasm.
'But they're really sensational, Grev.'
'And who left them outside the door, Santa Claus?'
‘Er, I don't know.' For the first time a hint of doubt crept into the young journalist's voice. She was waking up very rapidly now.
'Well, I don't suppose Henry Collingridge left them there. So who do you think wanted to leak them to you?'
Mattie's silence could not hide her confusion.
'Were you out on the town with any of your colleagues last night?'
'Grev, what the hell's that got to do with it?'
'Have you never heard of being set up by your so-called friends?' The editor sounded almost despairing.
'But how do you know?'
‘I don't bloody know. But the point is, Wonder Girl, neither do bloody you!' There was another embarrassed silence from Mattie before she decided to have a last, despairing attempt to restore her confidence and persuade her editor. ‘Don't you even want to know what they say?'
'No. Not if you don't know where they come from or can't be certain they are not a stupid hoax. And remember, the more sensational they look, the more certain it is that you're being set up.'
The crash of the telephone being slammed down exploded in her ear. It would have hurt even had she not been hung over. What a mug. As her headline dissolved back into the grey morning mists of her mind, her headache returned, more insistent and painful than ever. She needed a cup of black coffee badly.
Twenty minutes later Mattie eased gently down the broad stairs of the hotel and slipped into the breakfast room. It was still early and there was only a handful of early morning enthusiasts yet about. She sat down at a table on her own and prayed she would not be disturbed. She hid herself in a copy of the Express and hoped people would conclude that she was working rather than fixing a hangover.
The first cup of coffee made no impact, but the second helped a little. Slowly her headache began to loosen its grip and she began to take some interest in the rest of the world. Perhaps she could even stand an early morning