The Downing Street Years (143 page)

My problem was the lack of a successor whom I could trust both to keep my legacy secure and to build on it. I liked John Major and
thought that he genuinely shared my approach. But he was relatively untested and his tendency to accept the conventional wisdom had given me pause for thought. For reasons I have explained, however, no other candidate found greater favour with me.
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Given time, John might grow in stature, or someone else might emerge. So, both because of the scale of the challenges and my uncertainty over the succession, I did not wish to step down before the next election.

Nor, however, did I seriously intend to go ‘on and on’. I thought that about two years into the next Parliament would be the right time to leave. Of course, even then it would be a wrench. I felt as full of energy as ever. But I accepted that one day it would be my duty to leave No. 10, whether the electorate had demanded it or not.

What would not persuade me to depart, however, was the kind of argument put to me by Peter Carrington over dinner at his house one Sunday evening in April 1990. Denis was not there: he was away for the weekend. Peter argued that the Party wanted me to leave office both with dignity and at a time of my own choosing. I took this to be a coded message: dignity might suggest a rather earlier departure than I would otherwise choose. Peter was, I suspect, speaking on behalf of at least a section of the Tory establishment. My own feeling was that I would go ‘when the time was ripe’. I reflected that if the great and the good of the Tory Party had had their way, I would never have become Party leader, let alone Prime Minister. Nor had I the slightest interest in appearances nor in the trappings of office. I would fight — and, if necessary, go down fighting — for my beliefs as long as I could. ‘Dignity’ did not come into it.

The restiveness of Tory back-benchers was transformed into open panic by the Eastbourne by-election later in October. Ian Gow’s old seat went to the Liberals with a swing of 20 per cent. The opinion polls also looked bad. Labour had a substantial lead. This was not a happy background to the Rome summit which I attended over the weekend of 27–28 October.
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Yet even as I was fighting a lone battle in Rome, Geoffrey Howe went on television and told Brian Waiden that we did not in fact oppose the principle of a single currency,
implying that I would probably be won round. This was either disloyal or remarkably stupid. At the first Prime Minister’s Questions on my return, I was inevitably asked about his remarks. I countered Opposition taunts by saying that Geoffrey was ‘too big a man to need a little man like [Neil Kinnock] to stand up for him’. But I could not endorse what he had said.

And my difficulties were just beginning. I now had to stand up in the House and make my statement on the outcome of the Rome summit. I duly stressed that ‘a single currency is not the policy of this Government’. But this assertion — which I considered essential — had two important qualifications. The first was that our own proposal for a parallel or ‘common’ currency in the form of the hard ecu might evolve
towards
a single currency. The second was a form of words, which ministers had come to use, that we would not have a single currency ‘imposed upon us’. And, inevitably, there were differing interpretations of precisely what that delphic expression meant. Such hypothetical qualifications could be used by someone like Geoffrey to keep open the possibility that we would at some point end up with a single currency. That was not our intention, and I felt there was a basic dishonesty in this interpretation. It was the removal of this camouflage which — if any single policy difference mattered — probably provided the reason for Geoffrey’s resignation.

I said in reply to questions that ‘in my view [the hard ecu] would not become widely used throughout the Community — possibly most widely used for commercial transactions. Many people would continue to prefer their own currency.’ I also expressed firm agreement with Norman Tebbit when he made the vital point that ‘the mark of a single currency is not only that all other currencies must be extinguished but that the capacity of other institutions to issue currencies must also be extinguished.’ My reply was: ‘This Government believes in the pound sterling.’ And I vigorously rejected the Delors concept of a federal Europe in which the European Parliament would be the Community’s House of Representatives, the Commission its Executive, and the Council of Ministers its Senate. ‘No, no, no,’ I said.

This performance set Geoffrey on the road to resignation. Exactly why is still unclear, perhaps to him, certainly to me. I do not know whether he actually wanted a single currency. Neither now or later, as far as I am aware, did he ever say where he stood — only where I should not stand. Perhaps the enthusiastic — indeed uproarious — support I received from the back-benchers convinced him that he had to strike at once, or I would win round the Parliamentary Party to the platform I earlier set out in Bruges.

No matter what I had said, however, Geoffrey would sooner or later have objected and gone. By this time the gap between us, unlike the rows I had with Nigel Lawson, was as much a matter of personal antipathy as of policy difference. I have explained how Geoffrey reacted when I asked him to leave the Foreign Office.
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He never put his heart into the Leadership of the House. In the Cabinet he was now a force for obstruction, in the Party a focus of resentment, in the country a source of division. On top of all that, we found each other’s company almost intolerable. I was surprised at the immediate grounds of his resignation. But in some ways it is more surprising that he remained so long in a position which he clearly disliked and resented.

I heard nothing of Geoffrey on Wednesday (31 October). On Thursday morning at Cabinet I took him to task, probably too sharply, about the preparation of the legislative programme. I was slightly curious at the time that he had so little to say for himself. Afterwards, I had lunch in the flat, worked on my speech for the debate on the Loyal Address, had a short meeting with Douglas Hurd about the situation in the Gulf, and then went off to Marsham Street where, in the cellars beneath the DoE/Department of Transport complex, the Gulf Embargo Surveillance unit was operating. I had not been there long when a message came through that Geoffrey wanted urgently to see me back at No. 10. He intended to resign.

I was back there at 5.50 p.m. for what turned out to be almost a rerun of Nigel Lawson’s resignation. I asked Geoffrey to postpone his decision till the following morning: I already had so much to think about — surely a little more time was possible. But he insisted. He said that he had already cancelled the speech he was due to give that evening at the Royal Overseas League, and the news was bound to get out. So the letters were prepared and his resignation was announced.

In a sense it was a relief he had gone. But I had no doubt of the political damage it would do. All the talk of a leadership bid by Michael Heseltine would start again. Apart from myself, Geoffrey was the last survivor of the 1979 Cabinet. The press were bound to draw disparaging attention to my longevity. It was impossible to know what Geoffrey himself planned to do. But presumably he would not remain silent. It was vital that the Cabinet reshuffle, made necessary by his departure, should reassert my authority and unite the Party. That would not be easy, and indeed the two objectives might by now be in conflict.

I could not discuss all this with my advisers immediately, however,
because I had to host a reception at No. 10 for the Lord’s Taverners, the charitable organization with which Denis was involved. But, as soon as I could, I broke away and went to my study where Ken Baker, John Wakeham and Alastair Goodlad, the Deputy Chief Whip, who was standing in for Tim Renton, got down to discussing what must be done.

I already knew my ideal solution: Norman Tebbit back in the Cabinet as Education Secretary. Norman shared my views on Europe — as on so much else; he was tough, articulate and trustworthy. He would have made a superb Education Secretary who could sell his programme to the country and wrong-foot the Labour Party. We could not reach him that night but made contact the following morning (Friday 2 November), and he agreed to come in and discuss it. As I feared, he would not be persuaded. He had left the Cabinet to look after his wife and that duty took precedence over all else. He would give me all the support he could from outside, but he could not come back into Government.

When Norman left, Tim Renton, the Chief Whip, now back in London, came in. He had undoubtedly breathed a sigh of relief that Norman was not coming back. He now argued strongly that William Waldegrave — who was on the left of the Party — should join the Cabinet. William was slim, cerebral and aloof — a sort of Norman St John Stevas without jokes — and he seemed likely to be even less of an ally. But I had never kept talented people out of my Cabinets just because they were not of my way of thinking, and I was not going to start even now. I asked him to take on the Department of Health.

But I still wanted a new face at Education, where John MacGregor’s limitations as a public spokesman were costing us dear in an area of great importance. So I appointed Ken Clarke — again not someone on my wing of the Party, but an energetic and persuasive bruiser, very useful in a brawl or an election. John MacGregor I moved to Geoffrey’s old post as Leader of the House. The appointments were well received. Although my preferred strategy of bringing back Norman had failed, my objective of uniting the Party seemed to be succeeding.

Any prospect of a return to business as usual, however, was quickly dispelled. I spent Saturday 3 November at Chequers working with my advisers on my speech on the Address, which had, of course, now assumed a new importance in the light of Geoffrey’s resignation. That evening Bernard Ingham rang through to read me an open letter Michael Heseltine had written to his constituency chairman. It was ostensibly about the need for the Government to chart a new course on Europe. In fact, it was the first tentative public step in the Heseltine
leadership bid. Sunday’s papers (4 November) were accordingly full of stories about the leadership. They also contained the first opinion poll findings taken after Geoffrey’s departure. Unsurprisingly, they were very bad. Labour was shown in one to be 21 per cent ahead. I spent the day working on another speech — on the environment — which I was to deliver on Tuesday in Geneva.

On as many Monday mornings as possible I used to meet Ken Baker and the Central Office team to look through the diary for the week ahead. Over lunch I would also discuss the political situation with Ken, the business managers and some other Cabinet colleagues. That Monday we talked about almost everything except what was on everyone’s mind — whether or not there would be a leadership contest.

This was still far from certain. A feeling was now evident in the British press that Michael had perhaps overplayed his hand in his open letter. If he did not now stand, he would be accused of cowardice. If he did stand, he would probably lose — despite the tremors over Geoffrey’s departure. Most people felt that he would have been better chancing his luck after a general election, which my enemies hoped and expected I would lose.

This was the background to the discussion I had with Peter Morrison, my PPS, and Cranley Onslow, Chairman of the ‘22, on Tuesday afternoon (6 November) after a short visit to Geneva to address the World Climate Conference. We were all concerned that the speculation about the leadership was doing the Party and the Government great harm. It seemed best to try to bring matters to a head and get the leadership campaign — if there was to be one — out of the way quickly. The contest had to take place within twenty-eight days of the opening of the new parliamentary session, but it was up to the leader of the Party in consultation with the Chairman of the ‘22 to name the precise date. Accordingly, we agreed to bring forward the date for the closing of nominations to Thursday 15 November, with the first ballot on Tuesday 20 November. This meant that I would be away in Paris for the CSCE summit when the first ballot — if there was one — occurred. The disadvantage, of course, would be that I would not be at Westminster to rally support. But Peter Morrison and I did not in any case envisage that I would canvass on my own behalf. As things turned out, this may have been a wrong judgement. But it is important to understand why it was made.

First, it would have been absurd for a prime minister of eleven and a half years’ standing — leader of the Party for over fifteen years — to behave as if she were entering the lists for the first time. Tory MPs knew me, my record and my beliefs. If they were not already persuaded,
there was not much left for me to persuade them with. Prime ministers can seek to charm and be sure to listen: I had been listening week after week to MPs’ grumbles; but I could not now credibly tell an MP worried about the community charge that I had been convinced by what he said and intended to scrap the whole scheme. Nor would I have dreamt of doing so. Thus there were strict limits on any canvassing I could usefully do to maximize my vote. A challenger like Michael, however, could promise promotion to those out of office as well as security for those already in it; he would be the beneficiary of all the resentments of the back-benchers.

Second, I felt that, as in 1989, the most effective campaign would be carried out by others on my behalf. In Peter Morrison I considered that I had an experienced House of Commons man who could put together a good team to work for me. Peter and I had been friends ever since he entered the House. He had been one of the first back-benchers to urge me to stand in 1975. I knew that I could rely on his loyalty. Unfortunately, the same quality of serene optimism which made Peter so effective at cheering us all up was not necessarily so suitable for calculating the intentions of that most slippery of electorates — Conservative MPs. I also envisaged, of course, that Peter would have other heavyweights in my team, including George Younger who had done such a good job in 1989.