Prologue

Frank was twenty-five when he was first offered a branch manager job.

Offered – not applied for; the Area Manager phoned to say he wanted him to take the role, but as it meant relocating a hundred miles away, he allowed him the whole weekend to talk it over with family before demanding an answer, first-thing-monday-morning. The Area Manager knew what he was doing.

This would be a move to a larger town, which was itself a component of a small city. And according to the Area Manager, the staff in the Burslem branch had specifically said it was Frank they wanted to fill the vacant manager’s position. Frank fell for that one, too.

So, a month later, Frank moved into a little flat in a hundred-year-old terrace that all leaned twelve degrees to the left. Something to do with old mineshafts.

‘I can’t sell ‘em. I’m a landlord by default’ laughed the builder that collected the rent. Frank was next to see his face in a newspaper report of a dodgy gas heater that killed a student, sending his landlord, by default, to prison. Welcome to Stoke on Trent.

As a Branch Manager, Frank took on the responsibility of leading twelve staff, all of them older than Frank, who were putting their faith in him to protect their jobs and livelihoods, £1.5m of sales, and managing relationships with some old men from the industrial revolution; chain smoking, white coated, chief maintenance engineers at huge factories like Michelin, Wedgwood and Royal Doulton.

There was talk of some sort of manager induction, but since he’d been with the firm for seven years now, and though he’d never actually managed people before, they said they’d get to that later.

‘Here we go’ thought Frank confidently, ‘how difficult can it be?’

Later. Much later. 3.15am.

Frank was in the boardroom. No, he was in a boardroom. He was sitting around a large, highly polished and probably very expensive boardroom table. More than twenty older men in suits sat around it, filling all sides. One or two were leaning into their neighbours, discretely chatting about something or other. Others shuffled their papers. The room was quiet, yet there was a nervous tension in the air.

Frank scanned the room and all the expensive suits. This was the top end of a very serious business. What the hell is it? Why the hell was he here?

At that moment, the double doors at the far end of the room crashed open violently. Everyone jumped, sat up to attention, and conversations were dropped mid-sentence. The entrant, striding purposefully into the room followed by an entourage of flustered men with arms of papers, created a dramatic entrance, bellowing with authority ‘COWARDS! THEY ARE ALL COWARDS! NOT ONE IS MY MATCH, AND THEY KNOW IT. LITTLE MEN. PATHETIC, LITTLE MEN!’

The atmosphere felt electrifyingly dangerous. The delegates all passively gave their agreement by staring directly down at the table before them, nodding in agreement, yet simultaneously seeming, somehow, like they were a little bit to blame.

Frank caught sight of the title and crest on the papers in front of him. Below a crest featuring a lion and unicorn, was printed HM Treasury. Frank gulped. Good God, he thought with horror, I think I might be Chancellor of the Exchequer.

Mrs Thatcher circled the table in strong, meaningful strides. She too, was wearing a suit. Just like in Spitting Image on the telly; a double breasted, dark grey suit, shirt and tie that announced she meant business. She halted behind the chair of one of the men who continued to stare straight ahead, with a face on him that suggested he feared an unseen clip around the ear at any moment. She stood with her feet apart, hands on hips, her piercing eyes scanning the room like an eagle scanning her prey.

‘COWARDS!’ she repeated. ’And ANY OF YOU LOT know why?’ Her head turned slowly, but not one of the seated Ministers of State met her eyes. Not a single one of the elected officials to the highest office in the land, managing eye watering budgets, or the power of Her Majesty’s Army, Navy and Air Force, dared lift their head and meet her eyes.

Thatcher scoffed. ‘NO DIFFERENT!’ she laughed at the ceiling. ‘You lot are no different from the rest of them. God help me. Not a single set of balls between you. It takes a grocer's daughter to sort this country out. (They’d heard this one before. Several times before) Well, things are going to CHANGE!’ She spat out the last syllable with a violence that made everyone in the room jump, again. And a deafening silence followed...

…Until it was broken by a loud noise from behind the double doors at the other end of the room, as they opened slightly when an aide slipped in. Only open a couple of feet, and for just a couple of seconds, but it was enough for everyone to see what was on the other side; a large ante room filled with the deafening chaos of the good men and women of The British Press. Preparing to interview, interrogate, and scrutinise a government on the ropes. As they busied themselves with cameras, lights and microphones a sense of foreboding seeped into the Cabinet Room where Frank noticed several of his colleagues wipe sweat from their brows. No quarter would be given by this rabid pack of wolves. They smelled blood. Frank’s heart was beating fast, and the look on some of the ministers’ faces spelled despair at the equal danger from either the PM or The Press.

Once the doors had closed again and she was sure they had some privacy again, Mrs Thatcher looked from the direction of the Press back to her cabinet. Her fury was barely contained. ‘George’ she continued, ‘kindly explain this morning’s headlines.’

After a short silence, a timid voice was heard from the far end of the table, in the opposite direction to where Mrs Thatcher was facing. He cleared his throat,

‘Err, do you mean me, Prime Minister?’

‘Of course I mean you, you dimwit - it's YOUR department plastered all over the front pages. Who else do you think I mean?’ She swivelled on her heels and her formidable stare skewered him from twenty yards. He, the millionaire, former city lawyer who in the hunt for a simple knighthood or even CBE, now presided over the latest, humiliating shitshow from an unpopular government.

‘Well, Prime Minister. I was just as surprised as you. My department was unaware of the, err, we were still taking, err, soundings from the, err, and we were assured by, err, Tom – no, not Tom, I mean Bill, that, err, the funds would be ring fenced, and, err…….’

‘PATHETIC! intervened Mrs Thatcher, crashing both fists onto the polished tabletop She leaned forward, legs apart and with both hands splayed on the surface, drawing deep breaths like a fighting bull, and glowered at the defensive, grovelling Minister with utter contempt.

‘Yet again, your department is responsible for sleeping at the wheel. Total incompetence is what that lot,’ she pointed violently at the closed doors to the press conference, ‘will accuse us of. Accuse me of. And do you know what? They’re right. INCOMPETANCE. Let’s face it minister, you don’t know what you’re doing, do you? You don’t know what you’re doing. Say it with me. I don’t know what I am doing.’

More awkward silence transformed into a painful silence. Everyone in the room wished they were somewhere else. Anywhere else.

‘Come on now, Minister. Say it after me. I do not know what I am doing.’ She taunted him like the school bully and a first former.

Frank had his head down. Like the rest of the rom, he’d sooner not witness this humiliation of a grown man, in front of his peers. But the scene played out, nevertheless...

‘I…. it’s not quite like that Prime Minister. I, err, we…’

‘I DO NOT KNOW WHAT I’M DOING!’ scowled Mrs Thatcher, encouraging the painful admission.

‘Well… might it be better if we pick this up privately...?’

‘I DO NOT KNOW WHAT I’M DOING!’ she persisted.

‘I do know that err…’

‘I DO NOT KNOW WHAT I’M DOING!’

To no ones’ surprise and everyone’s relief, the minister suddenly capitulated:

‘I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t.’ he sobbed, ‘okay, I don’t, okay?’

Mrs Thatcher looked up and down the cabinet table as the beaten Minister blew his nose into a handkerchief.

‘There we have it, gentlemen. Pitiful. We are going to have go out there and stand up to that rabble. Stand up for ourselves. And I shouldn’t have to do it all alone. Again. I need Generals. But I’ve got you lot. Minister..’ she pointed at the cowering, defeated Minister without looking at him, punctuating each word; ‘You. Are Excused. I expect your resignation on my desk by the end of the day.’

She then turned her attention to the rest of them and began slowing pacing around the table again.

‘This is a serious job. For serious people. For skilled professionals. You should ALL know your brief. Know your departments. Know how it works. All of you SHOULD KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING.’

Frank gulped.

‘Look at me’ she demanded of all of them. They obeyed with fear in their eyes, and she scanned the table again, looking from one face to the next, staring into their very souls. ‘You should all know what you are doing. So, tell me...’ and she is all passive aggression at this point, ‘does anyone else. Not. Know. What. They. Are. Doing?’

Frank double gulped. His bum twitched. The Chancellor of the Exchequer’s bum actually twitched.

His hands were shaking, but thankfully out of sight under his thighs where he was sitting on them.

His head was fuzzy, there was no chance of any last-minute plans, of how he was going to get out of this. He was in full fight or flight mode now, and flight looked the odds-on best bet.

The moment lingered impossibly on. Mrs Thatcher stalked the room, peering into faces in turn. Challenging them. In less than thirty seconds she’d be peering straight into Frank’s eyes. Staring at the truth. Seeing the man for what he was; left school at 16. 4 O levels and a cycling proficiency badge. Not really Chancellor of the Exchequer material.

His heart beating like a road drill, Frank tried to work out whether the best course of action would be to join the newly appointed Minister for Spending More Time with his Family, or keep quiet, and risk being exposed publicly.

Frank was quite literally sitting on his hands.

Then he felt his right hand slowly start to raise above the tabletop. His lips dried out instantly. What was he doing? He felt outside of his body. No. Was he really going to do this?

Woooooaaaaah! Frank sat up, sweating. The room was dark. The faintest tinge of daybreak through a bedroom window. His heart was still racing, his PJs damp with sweat. He could still taste the fear.

Over breakfast, Frank shared the tale of meeting Mrs Thatcher with his girlfriend. She listened and smiled.

‘You, Chancelor of the Exchequer? Now that’s a laugh!’

Frank mused over his instant coffee. What could it possibly mean?