Breaking the Code (7 page)

We slept well and woke early. It was the lead story in the
Daily Post
: ‘TV STAR IS CHESTER CHOICE’. All day we scurried about, to the constituency office, to the local paper,
to the Conservative club, back to the hotel, back to the office. I took calls, made calls, shook hands, slapped backs, even blew my first kiss at a passing baby. What I didn’t do, couldn’t do, should have done was make time to rewrite my speech, so when we reached the Country Club for the ‘coronation’ I was painfully aware that certainly a third of those in attendance (there were 200 plus) had heard
everything
I had to say only twenty-four hours before. I struggled on regardless, giving it word for word as I’d done on Thursday night, but with much less brio – the oomph had gone out of me somehow – and, apparently, in floods of tears. On the platform I was seated immediately between the Duke and Sir Peter, who both smoked throughout, and, from start to finish, thick plumes of smoke rose vertically (and viciously) straight up from the ends of their cigarettes bang into my eyes. It was a nightmare. My mouth was dry, my palms were wet, my eyes were streaming. But the crowd was kind. They seemed to think it was a triumph all the same.

And now, it’s Saturday afternoon, we’re back in London, and – this is the odd bit, the bit I almost dare not admit – I feel flat already. What I’ve dreamt about for years, what I’ve striven for
ruthlessly
these past six months, I’ve got it. The prize is mine. And already I’m thinking, so what? (Aren’t human beings strange?)

I slipped out of a fairly desultory DoE [Duke of Edinburgh] birthday meeting early to be on parade at the House of Commons for a five o’clock ‘briefing’ from Peter Morrison. Given that I wasn’t his choice, and he’s not really my type (and I’m certainly not his), he was as friendly as I could have wished. He marched me down to his subterranean office which was sparse but surprisingly spacious (‘I share it with a certain person,’ he smirked – I presume he meant Mrs T. – ‘that helps’) and we sat and looked at one another. The conversation didn’t exactly flow, but the gist of it was clear – and helpful: ‘You’ll need to spend about £2,000 a year of your own money on raffle tickets etc. and write an awful lot of notes. The troops like to get handwritten notes. Sometimes I do twenty a night. When the election’s called I’ll come down on day one to give you a send-off, then I’ll keep out of the way. It’s your show. Between now and then if there’s anything I can do, let me know. If you want my advice, never talk politics in the constituency. There’s nothing to be gained by it. On the great national issues, if you like, take the moral highground. You can’t go wrong. But on local issues, keep your head down. There are two sides to every argument. You can’t win, so don’t try. And anything to do with planning, don’t touch.’

He spread his hands out on his desk and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Now I am on my way to Committee Room 14.’ Another smirk. ‘I am proposing to give my colleagues on the 1922 Committee a piece of my mind.’

‘What about?’

‘Loyalty.’

It’s a month to the day since I was selected and of the past thirty days I have spent twenty in Chester and ten on the run – rushing up and down West Coast Mainline like a yoyo, attempting to earn a bit of a living while proving to my would-be constituents that I’m all theirs all hours of the day and night. I’m going everywhere, doing the lot – from the King’s School Lenten Service to the amateurs in
The Gypsy Baron
. Mostly it’s fun – and I am determined to do it well, make it work. The only oppressive part to date is the locals’ obsession with my being local too. Whether you’re good, bad or indifferent seems to be neither here nor there: your local roots are what really count. I’ve had the same conversation a hundred times. ‘Where do you come from?’

‘My father was born in Hoylake.’ Slight reassurance.

‘Where are your children at school?’

‘London.’ Faces fall. ‘But, of course, when I’m elected I’ll have to be in London much of the time and it’s important to keep the family together.’ Lips purse like a bitter walnut.

‘And where are you living now?’

‘In Whitefriars, Number 5 – next door to where Basil Nield and his sister used to live.’

Sir Basil was MP here in the late forties.
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That reassures most of them – but the sharp ones with the angry little faces leave it a beat and then narrow their eyes and go in for the kill: ‘Yes, that’s where you’re renting, but where’s your
real
home?’

In fact, Whitefriars is a great success, but it isn’t cheap. And the fares aren’t cheap. And Sir Peter’s £2,000 pa on raffle tickets turns out to be no exaggeration. And what am I earning at the moment? Not enough. This week: the Radio 2 programme on Monday and the speech in Workington on Thursday night.
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Help!

I’m sitting in the train travelling from Wolverhampton to Euston when I should be in Stratfford-upon-Avon having lunch with the Prince of Wales. What a ridiculous three days. On Saturday I drove from London to Stratford for the Shakespeare Birthday
Celebrations – I did my stuff: it was fine. I drove on to Chester where I spent Sunday morning tramping the fields on a sponsored walk, went on the Dale Barracks to meet the lads in khaki, on to the police station to salute the boys in blue and on to evensong at All Saints Hoole to reassure one of our ageing activists that I am ‘spiritually sound’! This old bird had phoned the office to say that she was concerned that I might not have the right religious values – she’s heard rumours – so Gwyn,
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there and then, volunteered me to go to church with her! In fact she’s quite a sweet old thing in a Miss Marplish way and she’s loyal to the cause (she’s kept every one of the multifarious handwritten notes Sir Peter has sent to her over the past twenty years) and the service itself was a revelation: the church was
packed
, young, old, (many more young than old), families with children, all fresh-faced and bright-eyed with happiness, singing, swinging, praying, swaying, getting the key messages from the deaconess’s sermon flashed up onto a screen above the altar. It may not be what John Betjeman and I think of as evensong but it was impressive all the same. I then went on to the Newton Committee Meeting and finally dinner at Hoole Hall.

Today I was up at the crack of dawn and racing down the motorway to get to Stratford in time for Prince Charles’s lecture when suddenly, alarmingly, thick black smoke began billowing from the engine. I moved straight onto the hard shoulder, jammed on the brakes, switched off the engine and waited for the belching smoke to subside. It did. I then laughed out loud. It’s all so silly – tearing hither and yon, and to what purpose? Anyway, for the first time ever the car phone came into its own. I called Jenny
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and she called the AA and within an hour I was being towed into Wolverhampton – not before the police had stopped to enquire what I was up to. The policeman recognised me and, when I told him where I had been going, he volunteered to get the police to look after the car while he would drive me personally to my royal luncheon engagement. He was quite pressing, and when I said no I think he was quite put out.

I’m back on the train again. This morning the Youth and Sport Conference in WC1. This evening the Younger Women’s Supper Club in Chester. (I’m advised that the Younger Women are all supposed to be under fifty – and indeed they were when the group was formed. Now they are of riper years and several bring their mothers, who are comfortably into their seventies.) In the broadsheets Prince Charles gets plenty of coverage: ‘It’s
almost incredible that in Shakespeare’s land one child in seven leaves primary school functionally illiterate.’ I think the Earl of Chester’s observations can be the springboard for my remarks to the Younger Women … David Owen is getting coverage too. Apparently ministers are ‘pressing for Owen to be given a government role’. Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to swing it on the doorstep.

I had my ‘briefing’ with His Grace [the Duke of Westminster] yesterday. He looks permanently exhausted, but he has a nice manner, an engaging laugh, and he’s courteous, friendly and helpful – though it’s clear our relationship’s not going anywhere. I sit and ask him to tell me what’s what and I take notes while he explains that the government doesn’t understand the importance of hill-farming, the nonsense of set-aside, the dangers of leasehold reform, the plight of the TA. I realise that I’m a natural for the government as I don’t understand these things either! He must wonder why he’s having to bother with me. I know why I’m having to bother with him. He’s our President and he’s local royalty. They love him and all he represents. The activists get a physical thrill from simply saying the words ‘His Grace’. Working the room before last night’s dinner I said to several of them that I’d had a meeting with him during the day and I sensed as they held my hand they were conscious that they were holding the hand that had shaken the hand of the Duke of Westminster only hours before. The dinner – ‘Chester Meets the Brandreths’ – was fine, but my speech was too lightweight. They enjoyed the jokes, but they wanted (and didn’t get) some political punch and a Churchillian flourish.

Today it’s been local election canvassing, plus the Litter Week Photocall, plus the Callin Court coffee morning, plus a couple of mortifying hours standing outside two desolate shopping parades accosting shoppers who don’t want to stop: they want to shop. It’s becoming clear to me that much of what I’m doing I’m doing
not
to woo the electorate and win over wavering votes but to keep our activists sweet, to boost their morale, to reassure them they’ve chosen the right man for the job.

‘Any remaining likelihood of a June general election disappeared in the early hours of this morning.’ In fact, in Chester we didn’t do too badly. We gained one seat from the Lib Dems and the Lib Dems gained one from us and one from Labour. I started the day with a photocall for National Squint Week (no jokes,
please
) and then made my way to
Mold for the Marcher Sound Jobline Launch – a complete waste of time. I went because the Welsh Secretary, David Hunt,
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was going to be on parade and I thought it would be an opportunity to introduce myself and get a pic for the local paper. In the event when I had forced my way through the crowd to shake the great man’s hand he had no idea who I was or why I was there, and the photographers in attendance certainly didn’t want me cluttering up the shots.

Last night we were invited for supper with the Deputy Chief Whip!
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He has a charming house in Lord North Street, a charming wife called Cecilia (birdlike and delightful, with one of those deceptively daffy Kensington manners – don’t be fooled by the tinkly laughter…), and a charming, disarming way with him. Lots of quiet chuckling. They couldn’t have been more friendly or hospitable. He’d invited us because his is the constituency adjacent to ‘mine’ and he wanted to ‘mark my card’. Also at supper was another Cheshire MP, Neil Hamilton.
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Dry and droll. I was on best behaviour: didn’t drink, didn’t talk too much, and didn’t find it as alarming as I’d feared.

I was grateful to the Goodlads too because my current acquaintanceship among MPs is pretty limited – though it does include Edwina [Currie], of course, who is in court this week suing
The Observer
over a film review which apparently likened her to a character who undermines her own marriage, sacrifices her children and resorts to murder to further her career. In the movie the part (a glamorous Euro-MP) is played by Charlotte Rampling and you might have thought that Edwina would be thrilled to be mistaken for Charlotte Rampling in any role – but no.

I’m on the 11.25, reaching Chester 2.07, then it’s BNFL at Capenhurst, the ‘Nursery Education for All’ meeting at Queen’s Park High School, and the Poster Committee Meeting at the office. Vanessa wants the posters in blue and day-glo pink. The traditionalists want blue and white. I want smiles all round. I predict an hour of wrangling – and Vanessa gets her way.

Edwina wins the day. £5,000 plus costs. Quote of the case: ‘I am not interested in personal publicity. Being well-known is an absolute pain.’

I found a Brandreth in the local phone book – and she lives in Blacon.
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In fact, she isn’t a Brandreth any longer, but her ex-husband is and her son is and this afternoon she’s hosting a little tea party in my honour … and, yes, I have invited the press along. I know it’s shaming, but there we are.

Other weekend excitements: the Mill View Primary School May Fayre, the Chester Rugby Club Beer Festival (I’ve had to sponsor a barrel – £80! – and I hate the taste of beer), the Chester Festival of Transport and the Sponsored Walk for the Hospice … and it seems I could face another year of this before polling day. The Prime Minister has ‘let it be known’ that he is prepared to wait until next year before calling the election to reduce the pressure on Norman Lamont for immediate interest rate cuts. Something needs to give. The recession is worsening, not easing, and judging from the doors I’m knocking on the punters are blaming us.

And even our friends don’t like us. Yesterday, doing a walkabout in Boughton, one of our elderly activists sidled up to me and said, ‘May I have a word?’

‘Of course.’ He must be in his seventies, small, stocky, cloth-cap, bent, red nose with a drip at the tip, the crooked man on the crooked gate.

‘I don’t think you’re going to hold the seat, I’m sorry to say.’ He looked
delighted
to be saying it.

‘Oh,’ I murmured, as cheerily as I could, ‘Why not?’ He drew in a long breath. ‘Any particular reason?’

‘Yes,’ he said, shaking his head.

‘Well?’

‘It’s your handshake. It just isn’t firm enough.’ He put out his hand and I stupidly put out mine and he gripped my hand so hard I wanted to scream.