Breaking the Code

by Gyles Brandreth

  The junior ministers are Iain Sproat, whom I like enormously (but I’m told is ‘impossible’), and William Astor,418 whom I don’t know at all, who was very charming but in whose manner there was something that made us (Stephen and me) think (doubtless irrationally) ‘Is he lightweight and lazy?’

  Photographs were taken, coffee was had, we agreed that the ministerial team should meet up on Monday to decide ‘who does what’.

  It’s an extraordinary system. Twenty-four hours ago Stephen was Financial Secretary, doing a job he understood, for which he had a feeling, where he felt he could make a difference. He is summoned by the PM and, without discussion, without briefing, without even a line about why he’s been given the new job or what the PM hopes he may achieve, he’s translated from one end of Whitehall to the other, or as Stephen sees it, from one world to another, from the centre of the universe to the realms of outer darkness. The moment you get promotion, the moment you get the sack, that’s it. You don’t sign the letter you were about to sign, you don’t complete the paper you were reading, you clear your desk and you go.

  LATER

  We’re just in from dinner at Quaglino’s, crowded, clattery, like eating on the refurbished concourse at Waterloo Station, so noisy we just shouted at one another. Stephen generously took us to celebrate his elevation to the Cabinet: he is very generous, very sweet, but his dismay at his predicament is rather disconcerting. It was us, Annette [Dorrell], the Luffs, Tom and Jane Strathclyde (Tom419 is the newly appointed roly-poly Captain of the Gentleman-at-Arms, aka as Chief Whip in the Lords. He’s about fourteen but I guess will be rather effective.) We’d come on from the Buckingham Palace garden party (the usual form, two hours going round in circles nodding at bishops) and the PM’s reception at No. 10 – a peculiar affair: the promoted trying not to look smug, the demoted looking brave (I thought John MacGregor, though, looked bruised – he can’t have been sacked, can he?), the regularly overlooked looking resigned (and drinking steadily), the freshly ignored (moi) attempting to appear devil-may-care and perky. The PM was relaxed, friendly. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Looks good. Jeremy’s going to be excellent.’

  ‘Yes. And Stephen?’

  I didn’t say, ‘You tosser – Stephen’s in the wrong job – and what about me mate?’ I said, ‘I think Stephen sees the DNH as the department that can help deliver a nation at ease with itself.’ The PM grinned and patted me on the shoulder.

  Tony Blair is the new leader of the Labour Party.

  THURSDAY 28 JULY 1994

  A week in and Stephen is no happier. He can’t see what it’s ‘about’. I’ve suggested he leaves sport entirely to Sproat, let’s Astor (a Viscount, a proper lord, a chap with a castle) look after ‘the heritage’ in all its glory, so that Stephen can concentrate on three or four areas where there’s ‘profile’ and where he can make an impact: tourism, the arts, the lottery, broadcasting. He just doesn’t see it. And because the whole vocabulary of this world is foreign to him he feels insecure. That’s why he’s frantic to get John K. over here – even though he knows, if John comes (and he will), he’s sacrificing the certainty of life in the fast-track at the Treasury for the uncertainty of life in a cul-de-sac here.

  But there’s good news too: Stephen has taken his first decision – he’s going to save [Canova’s sculpture] The Three Graces for the nation (or at least delay the export licence for three months more while Mr Getty junior coughs up) and Jeffrey [Archer] has been cleared of ‘insider dealing’. The DTI will take no further action.

  TUESDAY 2 AUGUST 1994

  Benet has set off for China, Saethryd is in Venice (en route for Florence, Sienna and Pisa), we have just seen Aphra off for her holiday on Cape Cod, Rhode Island and Manhattan.420 It certainly beats a week in Broadstairs. (Michèle claims she only had one holiday as a child. I say, ‘The world has changed’. She says, ‘That’s the one thing to be said for money. It keeps you in touch with your children.’)

  Long letter from Portillo: ‘I loved the work at the Treasury. But already I feel few regrets other than for missed colleagues and staff. It does make a difference having your own command and the interest of leading a team will compensate for a loss of influence which does undoubtedly result from leaving the Treasury. My new department is very welcoming and they welcome being told what I want. That is quite demanding but I shall try always to know it!’ Even longer letter from the Chancellor (a good and kind man): ‘If I was starting with a clean slate I would invite you to be my PPS, but Stephen is a friend of mine! I have no doubt you are disappointed not to be a minister and I think he is a little unhappy with National Heritage. Both of you are rather impatient but your time will come! … Let us both ensure that we keep Stephen an ally in our duty of cheering the country up! He has every other talent and he needs to be good at that.’

  Given that in my experience the Chancellor’s PPS sweeps into government (Hague, Oppenheim), I recommended Seb, Garnier, Hendry421 or Trend to Ken – but, on advice from the whips, he’s gone for Angela Knight. (‘I hope that you do not now produce some killing reasons against A. Knight – you will be too late!’)

  These handwritten letters make a difference. I’ve said this to Stephen time and again. He knows I’m right, but because he thinks it’s fundamentally absurd he can’t bring himself to do it. I replayed to him a story he’d told me about Helmut Kohl. Apparently, the German Chancellor has a list of the thousand most influential people in the country, and whenever he has an idle moment, being driven from A to B, he picks up the telephone and speaks to one of them, just touching base, just letting them know that the Chancellor knows who they are and values them. I suggested to Stephen that he might try the same trick with some of the DNH constituents – call the director of Opera North, introduce yourself, say you’re new to the job, ask his advice … Stephen agrees with the theory, but I know it won’t happen. He’s conceded that I can organise some sandwich lunches so he can meet ‘key players’ in assorted fields. ‘Oh God,’ he shook his head despairingly, ‘lunch with the luvvies!’

  SUNDAY 7 AUGUST 1994

  We’re on our way to Toulouse. We’re meeting up with Simon and Beckie and going on to Jill [Simon Cadell’s mother] at Le Vigan. Fatty Mowlam has put her pudgy foot in it. She is suggesting the royal family move out of Buck House and that we build an ultra-modern ‘People’s Palace’ for them, with a ‘designer kitchen’. I trust Stephen will have some fun with that – though I’m not sure he’ll want to make the effort. He’s still sulking. Michèle is not impressed. We had lunch yesterday with the Hanleys. Jeremy, by contrast, is exultant! ‘I blame you entirely,’ he boomed happily, ‘and I’m having my revenge. At the party conference, I want you to do the financial appeal and speak on the Friday, just before the PM. Okay?’ Okay, of course – but I’m not going to think about that now, I’m forgetting Westminster, I’m forgetting Whitehall, I’m forgetting Chester. I am going to drink some fine French wine and read Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont.

  THURSDAY 1 SEPTEMBER 1994

  We are going for a strawberry tea at Strawberry Hill House, the home of Horace Walpole. The news is that the IRA has declared a ‘ceasefire’. If this can be made to last, if we can inch our way towards some sort of constitutional settlement, this will be the PM’s great achievement. For over a quarter of a century, there has been bloodshed and terror within the United Kingdom. Over 3,000 have died, tens of thousands have been wounded … and now it’s stopping.

  I am returning to the Chester fray at the weekend (it’s the Pimm’s party on Sunday!) and pulling together my new stump speech: with the PM in Northern Ireland, with Douglas Hurd ‘a uniquely respected figure on the world stage’, with a Chancellor who is delivering sustained growth with low inflation, with a Home Secretary whose instincts go with the grain of our supporters … I am even convincing myself we’re getting it right!

  MONDAY 12 SEPTEMBER 1994

  Suddenly it’s all going wrong again. ‘Hanley gaffe knocks Tory fightback bi
d’. Last week the PM told us he wants to root out Britain’s ‘yob culture’. Shown a clip of it in action on Frost on Sunday – film of a near-riot at a boxing match in Birmingham on Saturday night – poor Jeremy dismissed the scenes as mere ‘exuberance’. Within the hour he realised his mistake and started frantically backtracking and in the process made matters worse, a) by overdoing the apology (‘I’m new in this game. I was caught on the hop. I’ve made a mistake. I apologise. It’s entirely my fault.’) and b) by describing his answer as ‘incompetent’. Now it’s Jeremy ‘by his own admission “incompetent”’ Hanley.

  We had our first weekly planning meeting at the DNH. I tried not to chip in too often – but when I think I know all the answers and the Secretary of State knows none it is a little bit difficile!!

  TUESDAY 13 SEPTEMBER 1994

  Breakfast with Stephen at the Ritz. He is in much happier form. He likes Hayden [Phillips, the Permanent Secretary] (entirely trusting Hayden of course is quite another matter – the Treasury was never quite Yes, Minister: the DNH under Hayden in Yes, Minister in spades), he likes his private office, he’s got John K., he’s got me. We are going to do without a Special Adviser. I’m going to have his office.

  Over properly poached eggs and mushrooms and brilliantly grilled bacon, we agreed that the summer hadn’t been too bad – ‘But’ – Stephen grinned from ear to ear – ‘your friend Mr Hanley…’

  It’s got worse for Jeremy. The papers are producing full fat features listing the litany of gaffes – being in Scotland and muddling up which party thinks what on devolution; inviting Jeffrey [Archer] to make a full statement on the Anglia shares business just when we’d all forgotten about it; telling the Chancellor he’s had his last interest rate hike; telling the PM that’s he’s got the job as party chairman for at least two and a half years … They’re all tiny, trivial trip-ups – exactly the kind I know I’d make (admittedly the kind Ken Clarke wouldn’t) – but coming like this, one on top of another, and what do you end up with?

  Headline: ‘Hanley fulfils deep foreboding.’

  LATER

  When I got to the department, John K. handed me a letter: ‘Hayden Phillips mentioned that there were rules set out in Questions of Procedure for Ministers governing the activities of Parliamentary Private Secretaries. He thought you might want to see them, and they are attached.’ It’s three pages of closely typed blah. I am clearly to be kept in my place.

  WEDNESDAY 12 OCTOBER 1994

  I am commuting to Bournemouth for the party conference. I saw Margaret Thatcher. She looks quite terrible: gaunt, pale, shrunken. She’s lost at least a stone, and the mad glint in her eye had gone. She just looked sad. I saw Norman Lamont who has never looked happier! He’s been making mischief on the fringe, telling us to reject a European superstate, and dismissing the PM’s approach as ‘simplistic’. Douglas Hurd is being magisterial, Geoffrey Howe is huffing and puffing in the wings, Norman Tebbit (now looking like a moth-eaten polecat) is adding his own touch of bile to the brew.

  The news from the conference platform is that the Michaels did well – Heseltine did his usual stuff and they stood and cheered; Portillo wrapped himself in the Union Jack, denounced Europe’s ‘crackpot schemes’ and demanded ‘clear blue water’ between us and the opposition, and they stood and they stamped and they roared. And Stephen’s debut passed off well enough. Rousing the conference crowd at the fag-end of the day when National Heritage is your brief isn’t easy – isn’t possible, actually – but Stephen’s speech was sensible, thoughtful, and well-received. The really good news is that Jeremy’s speech was a triumph – all is forgiven, gaffe-man is forgotten. Verna [Hanley] is beaming and Jeremy is greeting and gladhanding and backslapping to the manner born. They took us to their ‘suite’: they’ve got a pair of tiny interconnecting bedrooms. We went in and closed the door and hugged them long and hard. ‘It’s been one hell of a summer.’ They’re shattered. They both had tears in their eyes.

  FRIDAY 14 OCTOBER 1994

  The speech is behind me. I was going to say it was a triumph, but now I’m wondering. It certainly felt like a triumph at the time.

  After our drinks ‘do’ for the activists last night (the usual: us, the Goodlads, the Sackvilles,422 Jonathan Aitken) we murmured something about ‘getting on to the next “do”,’ climbed into the car under cover of darkness and raced home. (For sentimental reasons I was almost tempted to stay: we were at the Palace Court Hotel where, aged twenty-one, I treated Michèle – more than once – to a slap-up dinner of lobster Thermidor and chilled Sauternes!) This morning I drove back down again – alone. Sometimes, on a difficult day, I prefer to go it alone – I can concentrate on the task in hand, not worry about M – and then, if it’s a success, I can report back, and, if it’s a disaster, I can pretend it never happened.

  I found my way to the makeshift greenroom behind the stage. The Cabinet was gathering, lots of bonhomous banter, Gummer giggling, clanking of coffee cups, genuine pleasure – and relief – that Jeremy has survived the week and come out on top. I huddled in a corner with the PM. They were fiddling with his tie, which was fine, but what was absurd was they were still fiddling with his speech. (The essence of a conference speech is that it is full of bravura banality and uplifting clichés – you could write it several years in advance! But, no…) Anyway, at 2.00 p.m. the moment was upon us. The party apparatchiks lined us up behind the stage, the martial music played and on we trooped – the party hierarchy, me, the Cabinet: only the PM stayed behind. I was introduced, nice applause, full house, over the top. I did my stuff: a couple of jokes; praise for the activists (laid on with a trowel); knock the opposition (compare/contrast our team with theirs: mocking Prescott, Cook,423 Beckett – looking at Hezza, ‘Who needs Bambi when we’ve got the Lion King?’ – line kindly provided by Peter Shepherd424 who I bumped into on my way to the platform – it worked a treat); encapsulate the policies they love best in three sentences; throw in a touch of sentiment (‘You do this not just for love of party, but for love of country’); then rack up the pace and the emotional charge for the peroration: ‘Ours is the only party that believes, that truly believes, in the United Kingdom. Ours is the only party that understands … Ours is the only party etc. etc. … Onward and upward!’ Cue: sustained standing ovation – which, let’s face it, is very nice.

  Thinking of Michèle, I tried not to milk it and after a wave or two (well, three – possibly four) I returned modestly to my place. Lots of back-slapping from all round and then, as we were settling down for the PM’s entrance, a party man (I don’t know who he was) leant over and said, ‘Brilliant, well done.’ I nodded gratefully. ‘Of course, you know what W. G. Grace said to the young fellow who bowled him out with his first ball?’ (I raised an eyebrow.) ‘“I think you’ll find, lad, that the crowd came to see me bat, not to see you bowl.”’

  In fact, both the PM and I did exactly what was required of us. I offered fifteen minutes of rousing knockabout and he gave us an hour of what he is – intelligent, thoughtful, middle-of-the-road, determined, honest. He has no oratorical flourishes to offer, but there is always something quite moving about his manner. The crowd loved him – they want to love their leader.

  Afterwards we returned to the green room for tea. I congratulated him on a triumph. He said, ‘I hope yours went well. I’m afraid I didn’t catch it.’

  I drove straight back to London. The traffic getting onto the motorway was impossible. I realised there was a car next to mine with its horn honking. I looked across. It was Portillo, leaning forward, with both thumbs up, mouthing, ‘You were brilliant, you were brilliant.’

  TUESDAY 18 OCTOBER 1994

  7.45 a.m.: Breakfast with Stephen at the Ritz.

  9.00 a.m.: DNH prayers. Timothy Kirkhope425 is our whip. Droll.

  9.30 a.m.: Lottery planning meeting. Who will buy the first lottery ticket? Stephen? The PM? What happens to the money if they win?

  11.00 a.m–1.00 p.m.: Good catch-up session with Di. Lunc
h in the Tea Room: smoked mackerel, salad, lots of tomato and grated carrot, no dressing, cup of tea. Much chuntering about the royals: Sir Marcus and co. think Charles and Diana should divorce – ‘otherwise she’ll end up on the throne – God, can you imagine!’ I point out that the Queen Mother is set to live to a hundred and the Queen will probably do the same which means that Prince Charles will be about eighty if and when he becomes king. Do we really need to worry about this now? James Hill426 is very worried: he really is: red-faced, anxious, he feels Charles has done irreparable harm to the monarchy by talking to Jonathan Dimbleby.427 I got the impression James has actually been losing sleep over it.

  At 3.15 p.m. it was Blair’s first outing at PMQs – not at all bad. He paid tribute to the PM’s achievements in Northern Ireland and then went for our divisions over the single currency: Portillo wants to rule it out (true), the PM is contemplating a referendum on the issue (true), the Chancellor has tried to rule out a referendum (also true) – where are we? The PM walked the tightrope well. There were lots more warm guff about Ireland and just two tricky moments: did Mark Thatcher make £12 million from the Al-Yamamah arms negotiations? And doesn’t Lord Archer owe the public an explanation on his Anglia share dealings? The PM, on song, brushed both effortlessly aside.