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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.
WEDNESDAY 13th OCTOBER
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:
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