Breaking the Code (30 page)

It is 1.00 a.m. We have just finished a string of votes on the Education Bill. The hapless Education Secretary was not with us, but on Thursday he’ll be dragged in from his sickbed. When not voting I’ve been in the Smoking Room, drinking steadily (yes, and fairly heavily) with Lightbown and Chapman. They are both delightful: one is a hippopotamus, the other a bedraggled secretary bird. Lightbown’s loyalty is
fierce
and consequently both impressive and rather moving. Chapman has a real sweetness: he is gentle and funny and frequently tells you the same story twice in the same evening and then realises and apologises most charmingly. His chief task in the Whips’ Office seems to be to write the daily ‘message’ to Her Majesty. He takes this very seriously. Every day, without fail, he writes to the Queen – I think in longhand – a two- or three-page report of our proceedings and it is driven over to the Palace or flown to Balmoral so that the monarch has ‘a proper flavour of what’s happening here.’ Whenever I make a little joke in the Chamber, Sydney comes up afterwards and says, ‘I’ve told the Queen that story of yours. I think she’ll like it.’

I’m just back from the PM’s end-of-term party at No. 10. It was one of those disconcerting occasions where everyone seemed to be muttering about the host behind his back. In fact, he was pretty chirpy, almost bouncy. He says he’s going to win on Thursday. He’s no longer saying that if he loses he goes. That’s the line we were getting over the weekend.
He’s now saying – no, not saying,
implying
– that if he loses on Thursday we all go. ‘Back me – or I’ll call a general election. And then we’ll see who survives.’

This has been an extraordinary day. The PM opened the debate quite brilliantly. He has never been better. He was simple, direct and passionate. We took the decision to join the Community over twenty years ago. It was the right decision. We must make the Community work in Britain’s interests. ‘I believe the ratification of the Maastricht treaty is in the interests of our country. That is why I signed it.’ He built his argument gradually, reasonably, with clarity and conviction. It was a forty-minute tour de force with some happy knockabout along the way. He flattened Ashdown, who was at his most pompous (that’s saying something) and who made the mistake of losing his temper. The PM never lost his. He was wonderfully, amazingly relaxed, and, of course, the better it went the better he got. When he sat down at the finish he looked so happy. And we roared our approval and waved our order papers in the air.

At teatime in the Tea Room the feeling was that we’d win. ‘If the Unionists come on board we’ll be all right.’ At 6.30 I had a rendezvous with Phillip Oppenheim. The Chancellor had gone off to an emergency Cabinet meeting, ready to urge the PM to call a confidence vote in the event that we lose tonight. ‘Ken just can’t believe the party’s tearing itself apart like this.’

I went for dinner with petite and elegant Alan Duncan in his petite and elegant house in Gayfere Street. I was sorry to be going because I wanted to eat at the House and keep tabs on developments, but it turned out to be rather jolly. The guest of honour was Lord King,
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a self-indulgent old monster but good value as these old rogues often are. I asked him what single quality a leader needed most and he twinkled, ‘Luck – and energy. His own and other people’s.’

We got back to the House for the end of the wind-ups. David Hunt was struggling, but it didn’t matter because no one was listening. The place was packed. Everyone was talking at full pitch. You couldn’t hear a word – except in the dying moments of his speech we caught David speaking of ‘the principles that unite us as members of the Conservative and Unionist Party’ – and we thought, ‘
Yess
, the UUs are on board!’

The first vote was on the opposition amendment – don’t ratify the Treaty until we’ve agreed to accept the Social Chapter. This was the one we expected to win. Why on earth should any Conservative vote with the opposition on this?

The lobbies were packed. It was rush hour on the Northern Line. As soon as I’d voted I returned to the Chamber. The PM looked mighty calm. The Chief Whip looked almost relaxed. Other whips wove their way in and out of the throng. Andrew ‘snake hips’ Mackay
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was very funny to watch: tan-coloured suit (not quite a gentleman), tanned face (not quite ringing true), he glided smoothly among us, bringing word from the doors of the lobbies back to the front bench. One thing I’ve learnt: the calmer the whips appear, the more leisurely their stride, the deeper the crisis. And so it proved.

After what seemed an eternity, the result came through, read out by Sydney Chapman (who looked to me as if he hadn’t had a drink all evening in recognition of the importance of the occasion): ‘Ayes to the Right 317, Noes to the Left 317.’ A tie! In accordance with precedent, the Speaker backed the government with her casting vote. Scenting blood – and pints of it – the opposition benches went berserk: cheering, shouting, waving their order papers, slapping one another on the back. There was an eerie silence our side. Immediately we returned to the lobbies for the second vote, this time knowing we were doomed.

Twenty-three of our people voted against us. We lost by eight votes: 316 to 324. The PM was prepared. The moment the result was declared, he was on his feet telling us, quite calmly, that he’s tabling a motion of confidence for tomorrow. We start all over again at 9.30 a.m.

What happens now? The good news is that I don’t have to go to Chester in the morning; the bad news is that we’re really on the ropes. The mood here is mixed. Some (like me perhaps) have secretly rather enjoyed the high drama, can’t quite believe it’s actually happening. Others, decent, civilised old boys (Terence Higgins, Michael Jopling)
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are going round shaking their heads in mournful disbelief. A few (Gummer, Fowler, Soames) are telling the rebels what they think of them in no uncertain terms. But you can’t reach these people – they’re true believers. Cash is demented: he’s a monomaniac. Trevor Skeet
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is a creature from outer space. They believe in what they’ve done. They think we should be
grateful
to them!

At breakfast there was much amusement at the discovery that last night the Wintertons were in different lobbies. Ann voted against the government. Nicholas was with us. How come? ‘Nick is frantic for a knighthood,’ chortled Geoffrey Dickens, ‘and our excellent
whips probably promised him one.’ The two whips at the table studied their grapefruit and said nothing.

Later, during the debate, Winterton intervened with some fawning observation about the PM’s unparalleled commitment to manufacturing and deregulation. I do believe a bauble may indeed have been dangled in front of him. How very funny.

The debate itself was a bit of an anti-climax. It was clear before we started that the rebels were going to come back on side. Norma and James Major [in the gallery] looked on anxiously as the PM set out his stall. He was tired and it showed. The speech was workmanlike, but lacklustre. John Smith, by contrast, sparkled. He was stylish, sarcastic and effective. I intervened on him to no good purpose. (The only point of intervening is either to score a direct hit or to throw the other side off track. I did neither.) Douglas Hurd was good. He did the wind-up: mellow, emollient, patrician, persuasive. ‘This is a turning point. We can put behind us the roughness and misfortune of the past year.’ He was the genial archdeacon bringing balm and solace to a scratchy congregation. ‘The political mood of the country often starts in this House. It takes time to percolate and prevail, but this afternoon we have a chance to change the tone. We have cultivated the land well, despite much rough weather. We have sown good seed. We can now work together to bring in a good harvest.’

With a full turnout on our side, with the lame and the halt on parade, with the rebels back in line and the Unionists sticking with us, we coasted home with a majority of forty. And that’s parliament done and dusted till October.

I don’t see how the Prime Minister can struggle on for four more years like this – lurching from shambles to disaster to catastrophe. If it weren’t so heartbreaking, it would be very funny.

On Friday, in the afternoon, after the vote, the PM gave a series of television interviews at No. 10, drawing a line under the rancour and divisions of the past year, looking forward to a fresh start and united future. Michael Brunson was interviewing him for ITN. When the interview was over, the lights went down, and the PM and Brunson continued to chat. Unfortunately, the tape was still running … Brunson asked Major about the three Cabinet ministers who threatened to resign if we had ratified the Maastricht Treaty incorporating the Social Chapter.

Major: ‘Just think of it from my perspective. You are the Prime Minister with a majority of eighteen, a party that is still harking back to a golden age that never was, and is now invented. You have three right-wing members of the Cabinet who actually resign. What happens in the parliamentary party? … I could bring in replacements, but where
do you think most of this poison is coming from? From the dispossessed and the never-possessed. You can think of all sorts of ex-ministers who are going round causing all sorts of trouble. We don’t want another three more of the bastards out there. What’s Lyndon Johnson’s maxim?’ Better to have them inside the tent pissing out than outside pissing in…’

What is incredible to me is that the PM should talk like this to any journalist. Of course, Brunson didn’t leak it. Brunson’s a gent, but even so, isn’t the rule ‘
never
trust a journalist’? The inevitable has happened. The tape has found its way into the public domain and all hell has broken loose. The truce achieved at such cost on Friday is now shattered. And who are the bastards? Portillo, Lilley and Redwood, I suppose. Except that Redwood has only been in the Cabinet five minutes. Could it be Howard? I hope not. Ken Clarke says Howard supported him 100 per cent in urging Major to take the ‘thermo-nuclear’ option and risk the confidence vote last week.

Anyway, the point is that the only person who can be blamed for this particular gaffe is the PM himself. The nation already knew he led a divided party. Now he has advertised the fact that he heads a divided government. And on Thursday we have a by-election. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

I was at Downing Street at 9.00 a.m. for the photo call for the World Transplant Games. The PM was in cracking form! We took the pictures on the front doorstep – the PM, me, and assorted folk from the north-west who have survived a variety of transplants and gone on to become athletes – and then, just as we were gushing our thanks and making to leave, the PM said, ‘Come on in.’ ‘Have you got time?’ I burbled. ‘Of course. Let’s see if we can’t fix tea or coffee for you all. Would you like to look around?’ He took us on a conducted tour, showed us the Cabinet room and took us upstairs for tea. He was easy and charming and simply wowed them. They couldn’t believe their good fortune (nor could I) and afterwards kept saying, ‘Isn’t he nice?’ Yes, he is very nice – and that makes me all the more ashamed for thinking some of the things I do about him.

On the way out I stopped and chatted with Tony Newton and Norman Fowler who were on the way in.

‘How’s it looking for tonight?’
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‘We’re not holding our breath,’ said Norman with a nervous giggle. Tony lit another cigarette. He manages to laugh and look dreadfully anxious at the same time.

‘The PM’s in great shape,’ I said.

Tony shook his head, ‘He’s going to need to be.’

We have lost Christchurch to the Liberals. Robert Adley’s majority of 23,000 has been transformed into a Lib Dem majority of 16,400 – a swing against us of 35 per cent, the biggest anti-government swing since the war.

I am on the train coming back from Cornwall. I went to Falmouth to speak to Seb [Coe]’s people (the usual crowd in the usual school hall – and the usual jokes from me) and stayed the night in Seb and Nicky’s tumble-down tucked-away constituency cottage. Seb is truly delightful, so decent, so straight and so loyal. I’d forgotten what it was like to have a baby in the house. I dandled their eleventh-month old girl on my knee and, suddenly, felt happier than I have in weeks. She is perfect, sleeps all night, gurgles all day. We struck up an excellent relationship, blowing bubbles and kisses at one another at bath time, and waving our toast fingers at each other over breakfast.

The papers are full of the PM’s woes. The latest MORI poll tells us the public see him as weak, out of touch and poor in a crisis. Teresa Gorman tells us the post-Maastricht truce won’t last the month. An anonymous ‘senior MP on the right of the party’ (Budgen? Tapsell?) is convinced the PM’s on the way out: ‘I have a feeling he will go suddenly. He has not got the stomach for a sustained fight.’

Tomorrow I begin my book.
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Tomorrow evening, we’re with Pat Hodge
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at Pizza on the Park. It’s going to be a good August, a ‘working holiday’, at the word processor all day, lots of treats in the evening: plays, films and friends. Four weeks away from politics; four weeks away from the constituency. Heaven.

A good news day. Benet has secured his place at Cambridge, Magdalene College – Pepys’
college. His parents are very pleased and proud. We celebrated at Tootsies (the young scholar feasted on a double double burger with a fried egg, cheese, bacon and tomato on top) and we’re off to
Les Enfants du Paradis.
(Pepys, 330 years ago today, 20 August 1663: ‘Up betimes and to my office, having first been angry with my brother John and in the heat of my sudden passion called him Asse and coxcomb, for which I am sorry, it being but for leaving the key of his Chamber within-side of the door …’ When we first got the complete diary I began reading it to Michèle in bed. I never got through more than half a page before she was fast asleep.)