Breaking the Code (34 page)

Back with a vengeance! The 7.25 a.m. train from Euston. This morning: the Unicef photocall, followed by a session at Birch Cullimore, local solicitors, to be told how we’ve got it all wrong – we’re alienating the lawyers, Mackay’s a disaster (and, worse, a Scot),
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the Crown Prosecution Service is packed with second-raters and the country is being asphyxiated by pettifogging regulation. This afternoon: a briefing from the Chester Greens (I am their friend), a visit to the British Heart Foundation shop in Frodsham Street (I am their friend too), a session with the Chief Executive at County Hall – I am even ready to be his friend. (He’s an easier ride than his counterpart at the Town Hall. He’s a smoother, more effective operator. Of course, they both know that at Westminster no one is interested in local government, no one at all.) This evening: the ‘Younger Women’s Supper Club at the Chester Rows. They are adamant: ‘Tim Yeo must go. Pass it on.’

Sometimes I feel I lead a double life. Not quite like Mr Yeo. I have no secret love child. But a double life in the sense that who I am in Chester, what I am, where I go, who I meet, how I spend my time, is so different there from here. I don’t have the contempt for my constituents and party activists Alan Clark
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clearly had for his. On the whole, I rather like them, and I want them to like me, but the truth is, while Tuesday evening with the Younger Women was fine, it wasn’t very
interesting
. And we only pass this way once. Let’s face it, last night was more my idea of a good time. We went to
She Stoops to Conquer
. Donald Sinden was
magnificent: outrageous but still real (just) with a fantastic bit of business that had him forever glancing back at his heel because he’d caught something unpleasant on his shoe. It was a joy. We went on to supper at the Ivy: Donald, Diana [Mrs Sinden], Simon, Beckie [Cadell], Joanna [Lumley]. We were joined by Richard Gere who walked across the tables – on top of the tables – to reach us. Simon looked so happy and Don was so funny, saying:

The news is that Tim Yeo has gone. His wife was ready to stand by him, but his officers weren’t. Of course, if he’d gone on Boxing Day we’d have been spared a fortnight of nonsense.

From the PM’s viewpoint the sadder news, I imagine, will be the death of Brian Johnston – who was indeed quite as delightful as everyone says and who epitomised everything that the PM holds dear – cricket, warm beer, old English values,
Conservative
values.

Little Alan Duncan has fallen on his sword.
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He did it swiftly and with a good grace. He is in Switzerland on the parliamentary skiing trip. I’ve just been watching him on the box and he couldn’t have handled it better. We all know that a Parliamentary Private Secretary is a nobody, a nothing, just an ambitious little tyke with a tentative toe-hold on the very bottom rung of the ladder – but the media know better. This is another ‘government resignation’ set to ‘rock Westminster’. The nature of Alan’s offence is not entirely clear to me. The gist of it seems to be that he ‘exploited’ the right-to-buy scheme by coming to an arrangement with his neighbour in Gayfere Street, whereby his neighbour, a council tenant, acquired the property he was living in with a £50,000 discount, on the understanding that Alan would fund the acquisition and eventually have the property. There’s no suggestion that Alan’s done anything in any way illegal, but who cares about that? The feeling seems to be that he’s done something a bit fly and those of our colleagues who have always regarded him as a spiv (too well-dressed, with an untrustworthy tan) will be pleased to feel their suspicions have been confirmed.

Another resignation – but this is horrific. Malcolm Caithness,
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our aviation and shipping minister, has resigned following his wife’s suicide last night, the eve of their nineteenth wedding anniversary. According to John MacGregor, Caithness is more substantial than the goggle-eyed chinless wonder he appears to be. He is ‘a good man and this is a real loss to the government’. According to Stephen [Milligan], the word is that, in the true tradition of the rutting aristo, Caithness has been having an affair with Mrs Jan Fitzalan-Howard, sometime confidante of the Princess Royal.

Either way, it’s a tragedy. But happily we’ve had farce on the menu too today. It turns out that Tim Yeo has a
second
love child! (So it was a lifetime ago, when Yeo was at Cambridge, and the baby was put up for adoption – but who cares about the small print? This is the Back to Basics roadshow and we’re going to have some
fun
.) And, yes, there’s more. And if it weren’t so pathetic this would be funny. Mrs David Ashby has denounced her husband – the mild-mannered member for Leicestershire NW – because of his unnatural friendship with ‘another man’.

The Press Association have just called. They want my reaction to a story in tomorrow’s
Guardian
.

‘What story?’

‘About the government loan to your business being written off.’

I stayed calm. ‘There can’t be any story.’

‘Shall I read it to you?’

‘No, no. I’ll see it in the morning. I’ll comment then. Thanks.’

I can’t believe what’s happening.

I am so angry.

‘The government has written off a £200,000 debt to the taxpayer owed by a company set up by the Conservative MP Gyles Brandreth, who is Parliamentary Private Secretary to Stephen Dorrell, Financial Secretary to the Treasury. Peter Brooke, the
National Heritage Secretary, has instructed recovery agents at the English Tourist Board to stop pursuing Mr Brandreth, the broadcaster and MP for Chester, and his fellow directors for the return of a venture capital grant.’

Yes, when we set up Royal Britain we applied for a grant and got it. When, two years later, we had to close because we weren’t attracting the numbers we needed, everyone lost their investment – me, the shareholders, the ETB, everybody. I assumed the grant was written off then – and had every reason to do so. From that day to this, I have had no communication of any kind from either the ETB or the DNH or the Treasury or anybody. It is so fucking annoying. I am so angry.

I have spent the whole day on it. It has been an unadulterated nightmare.

My stomach already churning, I went out to buy the paper at about seven. I tried to stay calm and, as soon as I got back, began to draft a rebuttal statement. By eight the phone was ringing. It rang all day. I called the whips. I called Stephen [Dorrell]. I called all the Chester papers. I got Jenny to do letters to all the activists on the mailing list and she brought them over for me to top and tail. I am not going to be beaten by this.

When IRN [Independent Radio News] called and said Mo Mowlam
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was calling for my resignation I went berserk. I still cannot believe it. God, how naive I am. I thought she was my friend. Aren’t I pathetic? Because we chat, because we’re friendly, because we’ve had a drink and a laugh, I thought I could trust her. She is the enemy. Of course she is.

Anyway, I thought, ‘What do I do? I’m not going to take this. It is so fucking unfair!’

I called her. I got through. I said, ‘Mo, I can’t believe this. We’re friends, aren’t we?’ She said, ‘But the story in
The Guardian
… Shouldn’t you be considering your position.’ ‘But
The Guardian
’s got it wrong. I haven’t been pursued by anybody for anything. You must believe me. Yes, the ETB put money into the exhibition. It ran for two years and then it folded. It’s like the Arts Council investing in a production at the National. If the audiences don’t show up, the money’s lost. It’s a bad investment, that’s all. There is nothing underhand in any of this. You must believe me.’

I think she was taken aback. I’ve a feeling she won’t do anything more now. But she’s done enough.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Michèle, ‘you’ll get your revenge. You always do. She’s a fat bitch and Peter Preston
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is a deformed dwarf and I think we can take it for granted that David Hencke
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is as ugly as sin. God will not be mocked.’

She is so wonderful. She has been fantastic today. She’s handled all the press calls and kept a log – who I’ve spoken to personally, who has been faxed with what. She’s masterminded it quite brilliantly. I’ve done no on-the-record interviews and we decided that I shouldn’t be on the sofa at GMTV tomorrow to ‘look at the whole back-to-basics issue’. Michèle put them onto Stephen Milligan – who’s been wonderful. All the colleagues I’ve talked to have been wonderful. I’m utterly drained.

Fuck you,
Guardian
. Fuck you, Mo Mowlam.

Thank you and goodnight.

‘Scandals have Tories reeling – Major faces worst week of premiership.’ ‘John Major was fighting a desperate battle tonight to keep his battered government on course…’ ‘Tory MPs and ministers were in a state of stupor…’ ‘Minister’s wife shot herself with husband’s gun…’ ‘I shared a bed with a man just to save money, says MP’. It’s all too fantastic. I’m there too, but only a paragraph or so tagged onto the end. There are no quotes from Mo Mowlam.

I want to survive. Yesterday I thought I couldn’t. Today I think,
perhaps
, I can. Today’s calls have all been from local press. I’m doing an article for the
Chronicle
setting out my side of the story. I agreed to have my picture taken for
The Independent
– I thought better to let them do it properly than have a shot of me on the run looking furtive.

Tony Newton was standing in for the PM at Questions. Skinner got in with the last question. Because I’m always in the Chamber, because I use the Chamber, he tends to treat me fairly gently, but this was too good to resist. He got it in – with that nasty sneer of his, ‘How can the government justify bailing out the Honourable Member for Chester at £200,000 when thousands of firms have gone to the wall and millions been made redundant?’ – and I sat there, trying so hard to look so cool, and thinking this is the worst moment of my life – and then Tony came back, easy, matter of fact,
fabulous:
‘Neither the company nor my Honourable Friend has been treated differently from any other company or any other individual in similar circumstances.’

I brave the Tea Room and one or two mutter something sympathetic, but most haven’t noticed my story – or, at any rate, don’t let on. There’s much sympathy for Malcolm
Caithness, who it seems is a person of real quality (and a close friend of Douglas Hurd), but not a lot for the PM. ‘Of course, Yeo’s a fool and Norris is an idiot, but the boss should have seen this coming.’ Sir Richard Body
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is quoted with approval: ‘John Major has no great philosophy of his own and is surrounded by people of the same calibre … They merely present views they think will go down well with the public.’

Back-to-basics is going down like a lead balloon at Westminster – but Graham Bright says the PM’s determined to stick with it. Yes, I suppose it is a little difficult to ditch it now…

I had a cup of tea and the consolation of a teacake with the comic hero of the hour, the hapless David Ashby.

‘Haven’t you ever shared a bed with a bloke?’

‘Well, er –’

‘It happens all the time. I’ve shared a bed with a man on any number of occasions. It makes sense. There’s nothing in it. Of course, my wife’s mad.’

‘I’ve met her. She seemed very nice.’

‘Oh yes. I love her very much. It’s just that we can’t stand living with each other.’ He suddenly burst out laughing and laughed so much his whole body shook, his tea sloshed out of his cup into his saucer. ‘It’s so bloody ridiculous.’

There is a vast picture of yours truly on the front page of
The Independent
. The story that goes with it could be worse. It shows that the decision to write-off the ETB grant was taken by a Treasury official. It never reached any minister.
The Times
says ‘Brandreth backed by Minister’. Bless you, Mr Newton. I will not forget. The
Telegraph
headline reads: ‘Gyles Brandreth is cleared of blame by whips’. I pray it may be over. I want it to go away. Absurdly, I toured the Library and the Tea Room and the Smoking Room removing copies of
The Independent
– not only so that others mightn’t see it, but so that I didn’t have to see it either. I couldn’t bear to see the picture staring up at me – though, Michèle says, as a picture it’s not bad!

I have had the most wonderful telemessage from Paul and Betty Le Rougetel. I’m not sure who they are, but I love them: ‘Take no notice of the envy, spite and malice of inferior red shadow. You and your wife are the most able and well-liked representation we have had for many years. The whole country could do with people of your quality in Parliament.’

Andrew Mackay (who has been wonderful in all this) sought me out and took me in to dinner. We sat with Peter Tapsell who was in heroic anecdotal form – stories of kings and princes, premiers and potentates, of empires lost and fortunes won. From Haile Selassie to Benazir Bhutto he’s known them all – intimately! It was fantastic. And fun. This is a good place to be when you’re on the ropes.

There is kindness here.

I met up with Stephen [Dorrell] for our usual pre-prayers pow-wow. I apologised once more. He was sweet. ‘It was nothing and it’s over.’ He really doesn’t read the papers. Every minister’s office gets every daily newspaper every day. They are laid out on a side table. I have only ever seen Stephen looking at the
Financial Times
. I glanced up at his portrait of Oliver Cromwell. ‘What do you think he’d have made of all this?’ ‘I don’t think he’d have got us into this mess in the first place.’