Breaking the Code (4 page)

‘Here are the forms. If you care to fill them in and let me have them back, we’ll take it from there.’ He opened his diary. ‘Let’s meet again on, say, 19 December at 6.30 p.m. Will that suit?’

It won’t suit at all, but I said, ‘Yes, yes, of course, thank you, thank you so much.’

I was out by three-thirty, the conversation was brief and straightforward, but the combination of Sir Tom’s manner – the hushed tone, a certain urgency of delivery, a face with a touch of sadness in repose transformed by sudden brilliant smiles – and the smallness of the room itself gave the meeting an oddly conspiratorial quality. At Oxford I always felt a little hurt that no one had approached me about the possibility of joining MI6. I imagine the initial interview would have felt something like this afternoon’s encounter.

At noon I was at Buckingham Palace, standing outside the Chinese Drawing Room (or is it the Yellow Drawing Room and I think it’s Chinese because of the vases and the
chinoiserie
on the walls?), awaiting the arrival of HRH. As the clock struck he emerged from a door at the far, far end of the long corridor and I watched him walk towards me. He was alone and came quite slowly. It’s an odd thing to say, but he seemed almost vulnerable and for the first time made me think of my father. Anyway, we went through the ceremony – handing over certificates to worthies in the playing fields movement – and he laughed because I had arranged the group differently from the last couple
of times – ‘Can’t leave anything alone, can you?’ – and he did his stuff with the usual aplomb and then wandered off to the next engagement (horologists I think he said).

I went on to meet up with Peter Marsh.
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From Greek prince to Greek god. Peter is decking himself out as a portly Adonis these days: gold at the wrist, gold around the neck, I swear there’s a gold rinse in the hair – and why not? He’s being fantastic with the appeal and he said something that struck home: ‘If you can’t convey the essence of your message in fewer than eight words, you’re not clear about your message. Slogans and catchphrases shouldn’t be glib; they should go to the heart of the matter.’ He’s certainly delivered for us. HRH and I burble on about playing fields and playgrounds, and the value of sport and recreation, and the threats and the dangers and the needs and whatnot, and Peter has summed it up in seven words: ‘Every child deserves a place to play.’

‘Hurd says Heseltine is “glamour without substance”.’

‘Heseltine says he won’t stand against Thatcher this month.’

Just as I need the Conservative Party to start thinking about
me
the buggers seem to have other things on their minds … Undaunted (quite daunted actually) I have now written to my three potential sponsors. The form requires ‘Names and addresses of three responsible persons who will support your candidature. These should include, if possible, one MP and a constituency chairman. At least one of your referees should have known you for ten years or more.’ I don’t know any constituency chairmen, so I’ve gone for my local MP (Jeremy Hanley)
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and two Cabinet ministers: one a former party chairman, John Gummer (whom I first met twenty years ago at one of Johnnie and Fanny Cradock’s parties when he was squiring Arianna Stassinopoulos) and William Waldegrave,
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since Saturday the Secretary of State for Health.

‘By-election disasters in Bradford and Bootle.’ ‘Heseltine steps up the challenge.’ ‘The recession will last until Spring.’ Very cheery. Yet there is better news in Barnes: I’ve signed
to do my first commercial (should total £20,000) and I’ve told Michèle what I’m up to on the political front. Sweetened by the former, she seems
fairly
relaxed about the latter. I think she thinks it won’t happen. I think she’s right.

My back has gone again. I cannot move at all. At all. I can’t get to the osteopath and until the spasm subsides apparently there’s nothing she can do here. I hate this when it happens, not just because I hate being trapped like this, but also because I know it happens when I’m tired and tense and anxious – and I don’t like to admit I’m ever tired or tense or anxious! Michèle says, ‘Oh God, not another mid-life crisis – spare us’, but in fact she’s being wonderful (as ever) and she’s cancelled everything for the next three days. I need to be up by Thursday for the Coopers Lybrand speech in Sutton Coldfield.

‘Howe attack leaves MPs gasping.’ I watched it on the box and it didn’t seem that devastating. Damaging certainly, but fatal? I wonder.

‘Heseltine flings down gauntlet for leadership’ – and proposes an early Poll Tax review, which has to make sense.

I’m on my feet again and off to see the osteopath at ten. I’ve used the three days in bed to draft and redraft my application form. ‘Why do you wish to become a Member of Parliament?’ ‘What makes you think you would be a good candidate?’ ‘What aspects of campaigning do you most favour?’ ‘What do you feel are your major strengths and attributes?’ The easiest page was the last one: ‘Is there any serious incident in your life or aspect of your character, either personal or business, which might cause you and the party embarrassment if they were disclosed subsequent to your selection?’ No. ‘Have you ever been convicted of a criminal offence?’ No. ‘In a typical year, how many days do you have off work because of illness?’ None. 1990 just isn’t typical…

William Waldegrave’s reply is in: ‘Thank you so much for your kind words about my new appointment. It was very thoughtful of you to write. I need all the encouragement and support I can get in what is obviously an enormous job – though a very interesting
and challenging one. I would be delighted to be one of your sponsors. Please use my name freely.’ Hooray.

Gummer says yes. Two down, one to go. Meanwhile, on the main stage the Thatcher camp say they expect her to win on the first ballot, but one of the opinion polls says Heseltine as leader would give us a 10 point lead.

On the train to Sutton Coldfield I read the Muggeridge
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obituaries. He was a desiccated old tortoise, self-opinionated, self-righteous and when I fell out with the rest of the Longford Committee and published that diary of our antics in Copenhagen he tore me off a strip (‘and to think you have enjoyed nut rissoles at my table’). As a performer he had a certain style, but for all his professional piety and late avowal of the ascetic life, he was a dirty old man. I’m trying to remember who told us about having to break his thumb when he tried to jump her when she was making a phone call in the bedroom at somebody’s party. It wasn’t that long ago.

Letter from Jeremy Hanley:

Last night’s vote: Thatcher 204; Heseltine 132. She was four short of the 56-vote lead she needed to secure an outright win. I watched it live and the way she swept towards the
camera – ‘I fight on, I fight to win’ – was wonderful to behold. But the feeling seems to be it’s all over.

There’s a magnificent lead letter in
The Times
today. It runs to five words. Peter Marsh would approve. ‘Donkeys led by a lion.’

Apparently she began yesterday’s Cabinet meeting with tears in her eyes and a written statement in her hand: ‘I have concluded that the unity of the party and the prospects of victory would be better served if I stood down to enable Cabinet colleagues to enter the ballot.’ I watched her bravura performance later in the Commons. She was quite magnificent. ‘I’m enjoying this! I’m enjoying this!’ It was so impressive – whatever you thought of her – and rather moving, ditto.

A pleasantly late and liquid night with Jo and Stevie and Simon followed by an unpleasantly early start to get to King’s Cross by 8.50. I’m touring the New for Knitting shops.
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Yesterday, Ilkeston. Today, York. Another train journey, another good obituary. Roald Dahl
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has died. He was a genius, but odd to look at and really quite creepy to be with.

I spent a long day at Shepperton making the Birdseye Waffle commercial: eight hours to shoot thirty seconds. In the real world Mrs Thatcher is now backing John Major. I’m backing Douglas Hurd. In the world of Birdseye Waffles no one seems the least bit interested in who our next Prime Minister is going to be.

The result is in. Major, 185; Heseltine, 131; Hurd, 56. John Major becomes the youngest
Prime Minister since Lord Rosebery in 1894 and Michèle tells me that my man coming in last is a useful indication of the reliability of my political instincts.

There are now no women in the Cabinet (a mistake I would not have made) but Ann Widdecombe
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joins the government for the first time. The paper describes her as ‘a doughty fighter’. At Oxford she was a funny little thing. But mock not, Brandreth. She’s in the government. You aren’t.

This weekend we went to see Benet’s
Twelfth Night
(I love that play), put up the Christmas tree (our best ever – I know I always say that, but I think this time it’s true) and, with champagne from Ros and Mart,
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toasted the house of Thatcher. The Queen has given Mrs T. the Order of Merit and Denis gets a baronetcy. (In due course it’ll be ‘Arise Sir Mark…’ That’s the irony.) Tomorrow at 10 a.m. I’ll be at the Dance Attic in Putney Bridge Road with a lordly title of mine own. It’s Day One of the
Cinderella
rehearsals and I’m reviving my Baron Hardup. Bonnie Langford is Cinders, Brian Conley (whom I don’t know at all) is Buttons, and Barbara Windsor (whom I know and like a lot) is the Fairy Queen. I’ve got third billing, above Barbara, which is all wrong, of course, shaming really, but there we are.
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Tonight we are not going to Jeffrey [Archer]’s party. I wanted to go, but Michèle can’t face it. ‘All that nonsense of “Krug and shepherd’s pie”, and there are always too many people, and nobody wants to talk to the wives – ever. It’s just self-regarding men preening themselves, looking over your shoulder all the time for someone more interesting, more famous, more like them. Ghastly. Never again.’

We didn’t cry off from drinks with the Queen last night however. Perhaps it would
have been better if we had. Neither of us was in tiptop form. When Her Majesty arrived, Michèle forgot to curtsey – and then remembered forty seconds into the small talk and suddenly, unexpectedly, without warning, bobbed right down and semi-toppled into the royal bosom. My performance was hardly more impressive. As the canapés came round I found myself in an isolated corner, stranded with Her Majesty, frantic for food (I hadn’t eaten since breakfast) but obliged to pass up on every tasty morsel that came past because the Queen wasn’t partaking and I somehow felt it would be
lèse-majesté
for me to be eating when she wasn’t. All I could think about was how hungry I was. My desultory attempt at conversation can best be described as jejune.

GB: Had a busy day, Ma’am?

HM: Yes. Very.

GB: At the Palace?

HM: Yes.

GB: A lot of visitors?

HM: Yes.

(Pause)

GB: The Prime Minister?

HM: Yes.

(Pause)

GB: He’s very nice.

HM: Yes. Very.

GB: The recession’s bad.

HM (looking grave): Yes.

GB: Set to get worse, apparently.

HM (slight sigh): Yes.

GB (trying to jolly it along): I think this must be my third. Recession, that is.

HM: Yes. We do seem to get them every few years – (tinkly laugh) and none of my governments seems to know what to do about them!

GB (uproarious laughter): Yes. Absolutely. Very good.

(Long pause. Trays of canapés come and go.)

GB: I’ve been to Wimbledon today.

HM (brightening): Oh, yes?

GB (brightening too): Yes.

HM (We’re both trying hard now): I’ve been to Wimbledon too.

GB (Exhilarated): Today?

HM: No.

GB (Well, we tried): No, of course not. (Pause) I wasn’t at the tennis.

HM: No?

GB: No. I was at the theatre. (Long pause) Have you been to the theatre in Wimbledon?

(Pause)

HM: I imagine so.

(Interminable pause)

GB: You know, Ma’am, my wife’s a vegetarian.

HM: That must be very dull.

GB: And my daughter’s a vegetarian too.

HM: Oh dear.

Well, I had had a long day, and she has had a long reign.

I had my second encounter with Tom Arnold last night. I had been worrying about the logistics of it since he first proposed the date. I think it may well have been what brought on the bad back. Seriously. I knew I had to be –
had to be
– in two places at the same time: on the stage of the Wimbledon Theatre for the technical run-through of
Cinderella
and in Sir Tom’s office at 32 Smith Square, SW1. Happily the gods smiled on me and a moment or two before six, as my stomach churned and my back twinged, Michael Hurll (our director), bless him, announced the supper-break: ‘Back at seven, sharp.’ I had warned him that I had to ‘slip out for half an hour’ and I’d booked a black cab and had it waiting at the stage-door. I tore off my Baron Hardup costume, threw on my charcoal-grey suit, leapt into the cab and reached Smith Square at just gone 6.20.