Breaking the Code (53 page)

I’ve just come from a long session with Stephen at the DoH [Department of Health]. I advised him that he could probably get away with having Oliver Cromwell on the wall, but it would be a mistake to get rid of the drawing of Florence Nightingale. He is so glad to be where he is doing what he’s doing. And, of course, he’s another one with the ‘longer-term ambition’. And I’m backing him. (Michèle: ‘God, poor man, he’s doomed. You’re the kiss of death. You know it.’)

Stephen asked, ‘What are you going to do in the summer?’

I said, ‘Write a novel.’

He looked alarmed, ‘What – like Edwina?’

I said, ‘No – why write about your own life with added sex? My novel is going to be a romantic mystery set in America, nothing to do with politics.’
518

And that’s what I’m going to do, starting tomorrow. ‘Beginning. You’re never finished if you forever keep beginning.’
519

Chapter Five completed – despite interruptions. At 9.15 a.m. Gillian Shephard telephoned. Would I call Trevor McDonald, reassure him that the Better English Campaign is above party politics, keep him happy? I said ‘Yes, of course’. But who are we kidding? Yes, the campaign is in the national interest, but it’s a political exercise as well. Gillian wants to announce it in her speech at the party conference! Trevor is very good to come on board. I hope he gets a K. He deserves it.

We’re just in from seeing Joanna [Lumley] and Tim Pigott-Smith in
The Letter.
The piece is dated, but Jo and Tim are good and the house was full. Simon [Cadell] came. He’s so gaunt and frail and brave – but he loved seeing Jo and Tim. We managed lots of
laughs
– that’s all we want.

Alan Howarth has defected to Labour. On the eve of our conference. The man is a traitor and a shit. Yes, I liked him, he was a sort of friend I suppose, but changing your views is one thing, timing your betrayal to maximise the damage to your erstwhile friends quite another. When Stephen and I had supper with him in the summer we knew he was unhappy, but he gave no hint of this. I’m not wholly unsympathetic to some of his gripes, but he’s so bloody prissy and precious and high-minded. Derek Conway
520
called. I said I thought we should take the line that Alan’s an eccentric loner, a disappointed man with bees in his bonnet and a mid-life crisis (how’s his marriage, eh?). Derek wanted to know if I felt there might be others similarly inclined. Peter Temple-Morris?
521
Ray Whitney?
522
Andrew Rowe? They may not be happy with the rightward lurch, but I can’t see them kicking the colleagues of a lifetime in the teeth.

This means our majority is down to seven – five if you count another of the oddballs, the pointy-headed Sir Richard Body who has ‘freed’ himself from the Conservative whip but still seems to vote with us … except, of course, when there’s a full moon.

I’m sitting in bed, a rather comfy fold-me-down, in Nick Hawkins’ front room. It’s gone midnight. It has been a long day. I reached Blackpool in time to hear Hezza’s end-of-the-pier knockabout (all the old tricks, it creaks but it works) and sat on the platform for Stephen’s speech. Stephen did well, but he probably lacks the vulgarity required to make a truly acclaimed conference speech. The talk of the town is Portillo’s effort yesterday. It was clearly as crude as they come – awful mock heroics, cheap Brussels-bashing, wrapping himself in the Union Jack – but the activists stood and cheered and roared for more. He was shameless. Dishonest really. He conjured up the spectre of a European army only so he could say it would only happen over his dead body. He made us believe Brussels are about to launch a EU foreign and defence policy simply so he could reassure us that he’d have none of it. Don’t mess with Britain – don’t mess with Portillo. Having paraded Nelson, Wellington and Churchill as his heroes/role models, he coasted to his climax on the coat-tails of the SAS. ‘Who dares wins!’ The PM was on the platform so had no alternative but to lead the ovation – and I presume No. 10 cleared the speech in advance. Rifkind was not impressed. I think Hurd wouldn’t have let it happen. I saw Michael at the Imperial. I said, ‘How about you then!’ He gave a wan smile. He knows he went too far. He’s had a good summer, been taken seriously, impressed and surprised the brass hats. This devalues the currency.

Highlight of the conference to date: lunchtime with the ladies of Blackpool South. In return for my room for the night I went along to speak to Nick Hawkins’ Association Ladies. As Nick’s car swept us into the car park, we were suddenly confronted by a little demonstration, a couple of ugly women holding placards and a seven-foot tall chicken.

‘What’s that?’ I squeaked.

‘It’s the chicken,’ said Nick as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. ‘Ignore it.’

‘The chicken?’

‘Yes,’ he said, without a flicker, ‘It follows me everywhere. Ignore it.’

He jumped out of the car and, together, Nick and I, dutiful wives in tow, marched briskly into the Conservative Club pursued to the door by the giant chicken squawking and flapping its wings. As we went in, Nick waved a dismissive and rather lordly hand towards the local hack who was covering the visit, ‘No comment, no comment, it’s just the chicken.’

Inside the club, Nick made no reference to the man-sized fowl, and, sensing it was a sensitive topic, I made no further enquiries. But when I came to make my speech it was agony. Michèle was biting her fist to suppress the giggles. As I stood there singing the Prime Minister’s and the local member’s praises, Nick standing po-faced and statesmanlike at my side, I kept catching sight of the wretched chicken, bobbing up and down outside.

The explanation? Nick has told Blackpool South, where he has a majority of 1,600 and boundary changes that will make him even more vulnerable, that he is looking for a safer seat.
523
The Labour party are accusing him of being on the ‘chicken run’ and they’ve hired this costume to provide him with regular, and seemingly effective, embarrassment.

We’ve only been back twenty-four hours and it’s all going wrong again. Michael Howard is in real trouble over his sacking of Derek Lewis.
524
The PM put up a so-so defence at PMQs, but Lewis is very plausible and there’s the scent of blood in the air. David Lidington (who is devoted to his man) says MH considered resignation, but ‘was persuaded it would be the wrong course to take’. The way it feels tonight he may find he has no choice in the matter … I don’t sense that his junior ministers are as supportive as they might be.

So, Howard’s on the ropes and Portillo’s digging in. Michael P is standing by his conference speech – ‘
Je ne regrette rien
’ – saying that he and the PM are singing from the same sheet while conceding he’s singing
fortissimo
. Meanwhile the PM, poor bugger, has to backtrack: he knew the general line the speech would take, he hadn’t seen the wording.
With noises off from Geoffrey Howe and Jacques Santer [President of the European Commission], with Hugh Dykes hopping up and down in the Tea Room and on Palace Green denouncing the defence secretary’s ‘grotesque and foolish antics’, we’re back to the same old story.
O-bli-vion
here we come!

But there’s good news for someone: Douglas Hurd is to get £250,000 a year working a two-day week as deputy chairman of NatWest Markets.

I’m just in from St James’s Palace, the Chester Cathedral fund-raising reception. My chat with the Prince of Wales consisted largely of manic barking laughter on both sides. Evidently we both felt that was the best way to get through it.

A unique day. It began with the Home Secretary on the ropes, probably a goner. It’s ended with him triumphant, as good as unassailable. This is the first time since I arrived here that I have seen a performance in the Chamber – by itself – transform a situation.

It was an opposition motion – ‘That this House deplores the unwillingness of the Secretary of State for the Home Department to accept responsibility for serious operational failures of the Prison Service’ – and Jack Straw led the charge. He had a powerful case to deploy, but right from the outset he was woolly and plodding, easily confused, thrown by the interventions and virtually sunk only five minutes in by a beautifully judged question from Bernard Jenkin: ‘Under the circumstances, would
he
have dismissed the Director General of the Prison Service?’ It was a little hand-grenade lightly lobbed, but its effect was devastating. Straw hesitated. For a second the wretched creature couldn’t think what to say. He didn’t have an answer. And as he began to flannel we began to jeer. He never recovered and, as soon as Howard started intervening on him – urgent, attacking, determined, but not for a moment losing his cool – we knew we’d won. Straw was a mangy old sheepdog, and toothless, our man a thoroughbred panther, fangs bared.

By the time Michael got to his feet Straw was already in retreat and Michael pushed home his advantage mercilessly. He had wonderful venomous fun at Alan Howarth’s expense – how we loved it! – and he scored again and again both because he was so unrelenting – chillingly so – and because his mastery of the brief was absolute.

Blair sat next to Straw looking increasingly grumpy and uncomfortable. He was hating the hash Straw was making of it. He kept nudging him, telling him what to say. Howard saw what was happening – the despatch boxes are only six feet apart – and began goading Blair, taunting him – so that eventually Blair made the fatal mistake of getting to his feet, humiliating his man in the process, but completely failing to deliver
any kind of blinding strike. It was an electric ninety minutes and when Michael finished and sat back, triumphant, the roar from our side was incredible. We cheered and cheered, we waved our order papers, those of us sitting right behind him leant forward to pat him – to touch his garb. At lunchtime in the Tea Room there was a general acceptance that Michael’s number was almost certainly up. Thanks to Straw’s ineptitude and Michael’s nerveless bravura performance, whatever the rights and wrongs of the case, Michael has set himself free. Amazing.

Walking along the corridor between Members’ Lobby and the Tea Room I came face to face with Alan Howarth. He said, ‘I feel bad about you and Stephen.’

I said, ‘But you let the Labour Party use you. They’ve simply exploited you.’

‘It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.’

I said, ‘Never mind. It’s done now.’ I think I was trying to sound scornful, dismissive, but it came out wrong. I just walked away. It’s probably childish, but I really don’t want to talk to him any more.

A happy day, much of it (about eight hours) spent in the Chamber. This morning I initiated a ninety-minute debate on community service – raised an issue that I care about, even put forward a couple of practical ideas. This afternoon, from 3.30 p.m., we’ve been debating the national lottery. I chipped in merrily here and there and, for once, I was called to speak at a relatively civilised hour – 7.00 p.m. I spoke for about half an hour, easily and well. At least, I made myself laugh.

I’ve had an excellent dinner with congenial coves and I’m on my way to a nightcap with Willetts and Coe – intelligent, attractive, interesting achievers. It’s not a bad life. I can see how easily one could turn into a Tufton Bufton – a settled backbencher, making the odd speech, writing the occasional article, opening fetes and bazaars and hostels for single mothers in the constituency at the weekend (bit of a bore, but there we are), being wined and dined by all and sundry, having access to anyone – the life of Patrick Cormack or Geoffrey Johnson-Smith, or Gerald Kaufman, comfortable, complacent, not entirely without achievement (a useful campaign now and again, a constituent’s intractable problem actually solved once in a while) … but it’s not what I want, is it?

8.00 a.m.: Breakfast with Stephen, followed by DoH prayers at 9.00. Stephen’s in his
element. He knows his way around the department,
525
he rates the officials, he’s happy with his ministers – especially Gerry. The others I think he doesn’t notice. Tom
526
loves to be ignored. ‘God, you should have seen Virginia!’ Clearly Virginia was busy-busy-busy morning, noon, and night, on the line all the time – daybreak and weekends a speciality. Stephen doesn’t refer to the ministers unless he needs them. Julia finds this disconcerting. I said to Stephen, ‘She hasn’t had one proper conversation with you since you arrived.’ He said, not unkindly, ‘That’s the junior minister’s lot. What does she want to say anyway?’ He sounded genuinely puzzled. Because he is self-contained and certain of what he’s doing, he doesn’t realise that others may want the occasional pat on the back. ‘You can tell her how wonderful she is.’ ‘I do. Actually, I tell her how wonderful
you
think she is.’

10.30 a.m.: Coffee in the Pugin Room
527
with Ned Cavendish. It’s one of the good places here, the one room we share with the Lords, hence their red carpet underfoot but our green leather to sit upon, Mr and Mrs Pugin gazing down at us, the friendly Filipino waitress (who is always so sweet to Michèle) who always arrives with the coffee before she’s even asked. Ned is some sort of descendant of the Marquis of Hartington
528
– Harty-Tarty – my favourite nineteenth century politician since I heard the story of how, invariably, he would dismiss the bright new schemes and bold initiatives brought to him by ambitious eager-beavers with the same refrain, ‘Far better not!’ Ned is droll, foppish and has hopes for the candidates list. He is destined to be disappointed. I think he knows it.

11.30 a.m.: As instructed, I presented myself at 12 Downing Street. I arrived with Michael Jopling. We were ushered into the Chief Whip’s little study. We have been singled out for a signal honour: next Wednesday, when the Queen opens Parliament, we are to propose and second the Loyal Address. Alastair mumbled that he was sure we knew the form, Murdo Maclean
529
crept forward like Uriah Heep with photocopies of the choicest speeches of recent years, I said ‘Thank you very much, I’ll do my best’, and Jopling sighed and shook his head and snorted and whinnied like an old cart-horse. ‘I’m not sure, Alastair, that I’m the right man, I’m really not. With all the stuff about
my outside interests, there’ll be barracking. Could spoil what should be a special occasion.’ Alastair protested that thanks to his reforms Michael is admired across the House. True. Still, the old Eeyore hemmed and hawed. He’d think about it. All the way back to the House, he chuntered to me about how he really didn’t think he could, it would backfire, it would prove embarrassing. He’s going to bottle out. I’m sure of it. I’m not unsympathetic, but if anyone’s going to be barracked it’s me. (It is awful to admit it, but it’s a relief to feel my tormentor-in-chief
530
won’t be here. I didn’t want him to die. I just wanted him to go away.)