welfare state

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Prime Minister Attlee sat in his club, drink in hand, contemplating the election. With a bare and falling majority he had called the election mainly because the King was worried about a change of government whilst he was away on his Commonwealth tour: which is a very negative motivation for an election. He still mourned the loss of Bevin, who would have put some backbone into the manifesto, without a doubt. His death had left him feeling depressed and alone as he watched his party descend into factionalism. The problem was they had little new to offer except more nationalisation, and the Tories had planted their tanks on Labour's lawn, promising to keep the NHS and the welfare state. Blood sweat and tears was all very well in war time, but now? War debts were still enormous and people were getting fed up of the continuing regime of rations: in fact the election last year had been all about rationing and the Tories were making impossible promises once again. Runners from Transport House occasionally brought him encouraging messages from local parties all around the country, but would that translate to seats? Well, any election is a gamble: we shall see what happens in two days' time.

A few hundred yards away, Churchill sat in his own club, harrumphing at the headlines in the Times. More soldiers killed in Malaya, and only a few weeks since Gurney, the High Commisssioner had been ambushed. Farouk threatening to kick the British governor out of Sudan, and more troops sent off to Suez to deal with the natives' strike. The Socialists were allowing the Empire to go to pot. They'd already lost India and Palestine. What next? The canvassing returns were looking good: he couldn't wait to get back in Government, though it would be nothing like the glory days of the War. However the bright new intake of MPs last year, most of whom had had a very successful war, gave him some hope that those traditional values that had made Britain great could be returned, and sanity restored, with a rolling back of some of the socialist excesses of the last few years.
Across London, housewives tuned in as they eked out the sugar and butter for today's evening meal. On the wireless that morning, the Home Service joined the Light Programme as usual for Music While You Work, then went its own way. Later, Listen with Mother was broadcast before mums could put their infants down for an afternoon nap as they tuned in to Woman's Hour. Desert Island Discs that evening featured Gerald Moore, who rivalled Benjamin Britten himself as an accomplished lieder accompanist.

One woman who wouldn't be listening in to the BBC's schedule that day was Pat, who was lying in, having successfully given birth to a bouncing boy at the New Row Maternity Hospital, Hampstead Heath. Ironically, the Heath would become a favorite playground for that baby many years later, in youth for nefarious, and later for perfectly innocent reasons. Husband Reg came to see the newborn after he finished work at the Coal Board offices, bringing the baby's older brother whom he'd picked up from his grandparents. The mysteries of chidbirth were a women's issue: he was glad it was all over before he arrived.

I wonder if Pat and Reg understood how they had benefited from the postwar Labour Government? This free hospital time and follow up care from the district nurses. A smart apartment in De La Warr Mansions in Little Venice, requisitioned by the council and allocated to demobbed service personnel. And a secure job in a newly nationalised industry. I wonder how they voted two days later? Did they vote Labour, contributing to the biggest vote for any party in history; or Conservative, who despite getting fewer votes, took 17 more seats and put Churchill and his successors back in power for thirteen years? If they voted at all, of course, with all the excitement.