Breaking the Code (64 page)

Every morning at 8.45 a.m. we are to meet in the Poole Room. There really isn’t anything to be done here: the MPs who come to the conference come on flying visits. Caballing in corners is not taking place. Where there is some action, however, is on the box. On Sky they’re running and rerunning an amazing video of Princess Di and James Hewitt. It is extraordinary, a monstrous invasion of their privacy but gripping. She’s in a leotard riding around on his back. I think this must be what Richard Spring’s father would have called ‘a bit of horseplay’. It’s in fuzzy long shot, but it’s certainly them.
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I went along to Stephen [Dorrell]’s room to collect him to go over to the hall. When I arrived, I thought he had someone with him. I waited outside the door. It turned out he was rehearsing his speech. We do lead funny lives … middle-aged men in solitary rooms in seaside hotels mouthing clichés and platitudes hoping to wow a crowd we need but secretly disparage.

Last night, without seeking clearance (for fear I wouldn’t get it) I snuck up to London by train to speak at the Ernst & Young dinner at 1 Whitehall Place.
Inevitably
as the train pulled out of Southampton, my pager went. (I hate the pager. I hate the sensation. I’m convinced it’s giving me liver cancer. I wear it on my belt because if I have it in my pocket I can’t feel it when it vibrates.) It was Shana. ‘Call at once.’ I ranged up and down the train looking for a friendly face with a mobile phone. I found one, called, heart thumping, thinking I was about to be summoned back. It turned out to be nothing.

After the speech, I went home, picked up the car and drove back to Bournemouth.
I got in by 2.00 a.m. Not bad. This morning’s meeting was only enlivened by the news that poor Nick Scott was found flat on his face in the street outside the hotel. ‘According to the police,’ said the Chief (chuckling, but not unkindly), ‘Sir Nicholas was found “kissing the pavement”.’

The PM’s had a good press for his shirtsleeves question-and-answer session. This is what he does so well. And today is ‘unity day’. Portillo has called for ‘unity, unity, unity’. The Chancellor has wooed and won the faithful. And Hezza was at his ridiculous barnstorming best. It all feels quite good again. But it always does by the end of the conference. And then we go back into the real world and discover out there it’s as bleak as ever.

Thurnham has gone over to the Liberals. This isn’t a total surprise, but it’s still nasty. He’s claiming Mawhinney offered him a knighthood which is just not credible. Ashdown is looking suitably smug. Heseltine has been leading our response: ‘I thought he’d gone months ago…’

We returned for the ‘overspill’
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at 2.30 p.m. Madam Speaker got us off to a nice start by declaring that she wants
The Guardian
’s range of allegations investigated as soon as possible. She’s looking for an enquiry that’s broad, speedy and ‘as transparent as possible’. That means it will include the Willetts memorandum. In the office we’ve been instructed to say nothing about it to anyone. This will not be a problem as there’s nowt to say.

At 4.30 p.m. I descended into the bowels of the building to find Canon Donald Gray.
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The Speaker’s Chaplain has a shoe-box of an office deep underground at the far, far end of a series of ever-narrowing subterranean corridors. He is a good and kindly man, twinkly, friendly, always happy to chat. It was Andrew’s idea that I seek his advice. (Andrew got to value him in the aftermath of Stephen [Milligan]’s death. That’s also, I imagine, when Andrew got to value Julie. They are now definitely an item.
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What happened to that nice Mrs Mackay I met when I went to speak in his constituency? Well, there you go. Julie is certainly younger and prettier. Distant echoes from Michèle: ‘Men …
bastards
.’)

Anyway, the point is: a couple of our charges are in a bad way, one especially so – bit of a breakdown – nowhere to go – what to do? Donald thinks there may be a monastery that could take him – provide space, solace, peace, a chance to recuperate, and he’d be within reach for critical votes. He has given me numbers and I’m to investigate.

This is good. This is part and parcel of the whips’ service. We do care. We do try to
help. We do say, ‘Here’s a doctor who can help,’ ‘Have you thought of AA?’ ‘Here’s a lawyer/accountant/shrink who can sort you out.’ When bankruptcy looms, we do look for ways to help bail them out. I’m going to see one of our friendly solicitors on Thursday on this very score. Yes, we’re doing it to safeguard the majority, secure the government’s business, but we’re also doing it because it’s good man-management. I don’t know why we can’t be more open about our role, our function, how we operate. We’re not freemasons. We’re Members of Parliament trying to make the system work in the best interests of party, government and country. It’s all the hush-hush hugger-mugger secrecy nonsense that gets us into the sort of mess we’re landed in with the wretched Willetts memo.

The F. E. Smith dinner. Another damn fool little ‘project’ in which I should not have got myself involved. It seemed a good idea at the time … Sproat, who had once known/gone out with (?) F. E.’s daughter (granddaughter?), had the idea that the great man deserved a memorial of some kind within the precincts – not a full-length statue (reserved for former premiers) but a bust or a painting … Excellent idea … Greg Knight comes on board … Let’s set the ball rolling with a dinner … and who volunteers to ‘organise’ the dinner? Yes. First we plan it for the spring, then some crisis vote forces postponement. Then we go for the summer. Another crisis. Then we realise that we’d better get on with it because if we don’t the election will be upon us and it’s too late. So we opt for tonight, the ninetieth anniversary of F. E.’s celebrated maiden speech.

We (
I
) secure the guests of honour – the only three living parliamentarians who remember F. E.: Lords Longford, Boyd-Carpenter
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and Hailsham. Hailsham is the key catch. Greg is adamant we must have Hailsham. Hailsham knew F. E., Hailsham was also Lord Chancellor, Hailsham is an orator, Hailsham will give it the sense of ‘occasion’. But Hailsham, as I discover, plays hard to catch. I approach him in the Dining Room one lunchtime. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I knew F. E., knew him well as a matter of fact. But I don’t get out much in the evenings.’ I ask Douglas if he’ll work on his dad. He says ‘No, I am not my father’s keeper, and if you get him I’d rather not come.’ I decide to write. I write at length, persuasively. ‘This is to be a memorable night – we need you.’ No reply. I write again, at greater length, more seductively still. ‘We need you. No one else will do.’ Eventually, the letter comes: ‘Yes, I knew F. E., knew him well. Weather permitting, I’ll come. I’ll need a car.’

The cast complete, we set about choosing the guests. The dinner is taking place at
No. 12 so space is limited, around forty. We opt for whips, former whips, lawyers, chums. The Chief agrees to say a word of welcome – and, indeed, his introduction turns out to be a little gem: droll, carefully researched, hitting the right note precisely. Shana, bless her, sorts out the caterers, hiring of the silver, waitresses, wine, the diplomatic niceties of the
placements
. (Michael Howard calls me yesterday, ‘
Please
don’t seat me next to Frank Longford. I don’t think I could face a whole evening talking about Myra Hindley.’)

6.30 p.m.: I arrive at No. 12. Everything is under control. 7.00 p.m. The guests begin to arrive. We’re dining early so there’ll be plenty of time for the speeches before the ten o’clock vote.

7.15 p.m.: Lord Longford arrives, John Boyd-Carpenter arrives, F. E.’s son-in-law arrives.

7.30 p.m.: Lord Hailsham arrives. Hooray! (I had sent Jenny in a taxi to Putney to fetch him. I told her to bring him whether he’d remembered or not, whether he was willing or not. In fact, he was ready and waiting.) The dinner was fine (rather tasty), I didn’t drink, and when I have responsibility for an event I never really enjoy it. I don’t relax, I can’t concentrate on the conversation I’m having.

At last, we reached the speeches – in good time, it was around 9.00 p.m.

I’d asked Sproat to set the scene and introduce the guests of honour. I thought he’d be rather good. He can be very good. In the event, he didn’t appear to have prepared anything, simply chuntered briefly and said ‘Here they are.’ Longford was up first. He didn’t tell us much, but he burbled with a certain eccentric charm. He was followed by John Boyd-Carpenter who didn’t tell us much either, but was commendably concise. He told us we wouldn’t want to hear a lot of old men rambling so he’d written what he had to say on a postcard. He read it out – with energy – and sat down. Then came F. E.’s son-in-law who explained that though he was indeed the son-in-law he’d never known his father-in-law who, of course, had died in 1930, so he really couldn’t tell us anything and was here under false pretences, but thank you very much for such a nice meal in such elegant surroundings.

We passed the port and, at long last, Sproat introduced Lord Hailsham. Greg handed me a note written on the back of his place card: ‘And now for the vintage stuff …’ Hailsham was looking at his most twinkly and cherubic. He stood. We banged the table. He began: ‘Gentlemen, I
knew
F. E., knew him well as a matter of fact. Let me take you back to the Oxford Union. Pause. There were these three Liberals…’ Pause. ‘There were these three Liberals…’ FURTHER pause. Then he sat down. We gazed at our glasses and wondered, ‘What next?’ Suddenly, he was on his feet again. ‘I knew F. E., knew him well. At the Oxford Union.’ pause. ‘There were these three Liberals…’ He looked around, he chuckled, he sat down. He got up. ‘Gentlemen, I knew F. E., knew him well, as a matter of fact. Have I told you? … There were these three Liberals …’ pause. And he sat down once more.

It was 9.15 p.m. Sproat looked frantically around him. And a knight of the garter
came to the rescue. The Earl of Longford slowly got to his feet and said, ‘Let me tell you some of the other things I remember about F. E. …’ And for five minutes or more that great and good man burbled. When he sat, how gratefully we banged the table. But, suddenly, spurred by Frank, Hailsham was on his feet again. ‘Gentlemen. There were these three Liberals …’ But still that was as far as he got. Dorrell to my right was stifling a fit of giggles. The Home Secretary to my left had left the room to take an urgent call. Sproat looked towards Boyd-Carpenter who waved his postcard triumphantly in the air and sat smugly in his seat. For the third time, Frank Longford struggled to his feet. He did well and we were grateful and by the time he sat down it was almost 9.25 p.m.

Silence fell, we looked into our glasses, a gentle murmuring began. I looked towards Lord Hailsham. He was getting to his feet. ‘There were these three Liberals …’

As he sat down, I called out to Sproat, ‘Iain, I wonder if we don’t each have a favourite F. E. story.’

There was a small chorus of ‘Yes, yes’ erupting round the room. ‘Michael,’ I said (but I was desperate), ‘what was that one you were telling me over dinner?’

The Home Secretary (now cursing the fact that he’d returned from taking his phone call) gallantly struggled through the anecdote (Judge: What do you suppose I’m on the bench for, Mr Smith? F. E.: It is not for me, your honour, to attempt to fathom the inscrutable workings of Providence); John Taylor (bless him) got to his feet and did one (Judge: I have read your case, Mr Smith, and I am no wiser now than when I started. F. E.: Possibly not m’lud, but far better informed.’)

Then someone said, ‘Let’s hear from Gyles,’ and there was a gentle banging on the table. My heart, already at my knees, sank to the floor. Last night I had photocopied three pages of good F. E. material, the old chestnuts, plus a couple of other bits, but today I decided
deliberately
not to bring them. I thought ‘If I don’t take the notes, if I don’t have a drink’ I won’t make a fool of myself. If only… Anyway, lamely, I struggled to paraphrase Churchill’s marvellous description of F. E. from
Great Contemporaries
and, as I finished, or rather as my burbling dribbled to a standstill, I looked desperately towards Sproat and the Chief who did nothing (what could they do?) as Lord Hailsham emphatically rose to his feet once more: ‘Gentlemen. I knew F. E.’ pause. ‘Knew him well.’ pause. ‘There was an occasion at the Oxford Union.’ pause. ‘These three Liberals…’

The Home Secretary leant towards me, ‘It’s a cracking good start to a story.’

Stephen spluttered, ‘Yes, and one we’re not likely to forget.’

When his lordship resumed his seat, we banged the table one last time, the Chief got up and thanked our guests for giving us such a memorable evening. ‘A division is expected in ten minutes’ time. Your continuing support for Her Majesty’s government is much appreciated.’

We scuttled off to vote, leaving their lordships to await their cars. I thanked Boyd-Carpenter who seemed to have had a happy evening. I embraced Lord Longford.

‘It’s been marvellous,’ he said, ‘I hope I didn’t say too much.’

‘Not at all, not at all.’

‘The best part for me has been meeting the Home Secretary. I believe he is a good man, compassionate, much misunderstood. I am sorry it’s not more widely known. He is a truly
good
man. I shall have to write to the newspapers.’

I said goodbye to Lord Hailsham. He winked at me, ‘Went rather well, don’t you think?’

It is 7.00 a.m. I am sitting up in bed with a mug of tea gazing at myself in the cupboard mirror opposite. At this distance I think I look quite boyish. (In a moment I shall put in my lenses and then, suddenly, the full horror will be revealed. The jowls, the bags under the eyes, the thinning, receding hairline … Bah.) I have got an hour to sit in bed. My first appointment is at 8.30 a.m.: ‘The Safer Chester Breakfast’. This is a Brandreth initiative: get a range of people – police, the crime prevention groups, retailers, residents associations etc. – to pool ideas. What can be done, in a practical way, by us as a community? What are our priorities for government, national and local? Yes, of course, there’s a photo call at the end of it, but it’s not entirely cynical. And yesterday wasn’t entirely cynical either.