Breaking the Code

by Gyles Brandreth

  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?’

  SATURDAY 26 OCTOBER 1996

  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.

  On Thursday night I’d gone to Birmingham for the Birmingham Post Literary Dinner. Kenneth Baker, Jane Asher, Peter Stringfellow (‘200? That was last year. Hands up any of you ladies who’ve had the pleasure?), me. The speeches started late, went on too long. I didn’t mind as I wasn’t due to do the local radio at Pebble Mill till midnight. That done, I got back to the hotel at one. I turned on the light in my dismal room and the lights fused. Every one. Pitch darkness, in the room, in the corridor. I stumbled about. I tried the bedside light. Nothing. I tried the TV. Joy. It crackled to life. The hotel porn channel: I began to undress in the flickering glow of two young women soaping one another in the shower. Suddenly, crackle, crackle, rain across the screen. ‘If you want to see the rest of the movie dial X.’ I got dressed, stumbled to the door, felt my way along the corridor, got to the landing. Lights! I went down to reception. Eventually a night porter was produced, who accompanied me back to my room, found the fuse box outside, flicked the switch and all was well. ‘This happens most nights,’ he said cheerily as I fumbled in my pocket to find him a tip.

  I was asleep by two, awake at 6.30 a.m., and turning on the radio as I dressed suddenly found myself hearing about ‘a serious fire in Chester’. I called Brian Bailey, I called Neil Fitton [Chester City councillors]. I got on to the Chronicle. A major fire in Lightfoot Street, several houses still ablaze, casualties unknown. I cancelled the Birmingham book signings and set off for the constituency. I got to Lightfoot Street by lunchtime. The police, the fire services, the WRVS, everyone had done a superb job. No life lost, but several houses destroyed, families made homeless. The city council had come up trumps – at once. Refuge found, food laid on. Martin Seed [the local manager] from M&S rolled up with supplies and blankets and fresh underwear for all. Truly impressive.

  I asked the Superintendent if he could show me what had happened and, accompanied by two television crews, we walked the course of the devastation. The stench of the smoke was terrible. I showed my concern because I was concerned, but I am troubled because I know as I walked through the debris I was glad that I was on camera and (in my head) as I listened to the police and the firemen I began phrasing and rehearsing my thoughtful sound bite. It was worth it, I’m afraid, because when I got to the Eddisbury Patrons’ Club Dinner at Rowton Hall at 8.00 everybody had seen me on the early evening news. My admiration for what the rescue services achieved is heartfelt, the congratulations I offered was richly deserved, it was right that the Member of Parliament should be there showing interest and concern and offering (genuinely) to help. But when I volunteered to be the one to take the pet rabbit that had been saved from the fire over to the refuge to restore him to his young owner, I knew that my motive was not entirely worthy.

  MONDAY 28 OCTOBER 1996

  Marginals’ Club
dinner with the PM. He’s remarkably chipper, considering. On education, law and order, the reform of the welfare state – ‘there’s clear water between us and Labour.’ He thinks Blair is beginning to come over as too holier-than-thou, evangelical, ‘preachy’. ‘People don’t want the “nanny state”.’ And the economy’s coming our way. He managed to be upbeat and relatively relaxed. He’s in no hurry to go to the polls – ‘no hurry at all.’

  ‘We’ve got a working majority and the whips tell me everything’s nicely under control. Isn’t that right, Gyles?’ I assume the Chief has told him about Barry Porter. If Barry dies, our majority falls to one. If we lose Barry’s seat in the by-election we then become a minority government. And Barry, poor man, is going to die any day now. I speak to his wife and his mistress on alternate days. His wife (plus four, five children) are up in the constituency. His mistress, Angela, is nursing him in the flat down here. They are both coping remarkably.

  THURSDAY 31 OCTOBER 1996

  Breakfast at Claridges with David Puttnam. He has some deal with the hotel (is/was a non-exec director or some-such) whereby he gets the breakfast at a fiver a head. This is the sort of arrangement I could usefully use. He’s full of his schemes, plans, committees, initiatives. I imagine he is hoping to be one of Mr Blair’s first peers and a minister of state in the new administration. He is certainly busy-busy-busy. He floats the idea that within a year of the election Blair will have dropped Ken Livingstone and the hard left and that Ken Clarke and co. will somehow have come on board. He’s convinced of it. He deploys the argument persuasively and implies (but doesn’t state) that he’s as good as heard the plan from his leader’s lips … Is this why we still have breakfast? Because David thinks I may be a conduit to Clarke, Gummer, Curry, Stephen D.?

  It won’t happen – even if Portillo or Redwood becomes leader. He misunderstands why we are Conservatives. But the left (or, as we like to think of ourselves, ‘the moderate middle ground’) are not enamoured of the rightwards shift. One of the advantages of where I’m sitting now (in the quiet room in the Library) is that it used to be part of the Speaker’s apartments and the corridor leading from the House itself to the internal entrance to the Speaker’s house is actually part of this room – the ‘wall’ is simply a glass and wood panel divide. As people come and go to and from the Speaker’s house, I prick up my ears. Betty as she sweeps through is invariably chatty, but usually discreet. But now and again I do hear something worthwhile – most recently Douglas Hurd plotting with someone (it might have been Kenneth Baker, but possibly not, the other voice was quite low – Peter Brooke? Peter Lloyd?)607 to find ways to undermine Michael Howard’s plans to introduce mandatory sentences for repeat offenders …

  And have I recorded our latest wheeze for tackling our vanishing majority? It came up when we were trawling through names, wondering who might be next to follow Thurnham, Howarth, Nicholson across the floor. Why don’t we find someone to defect to us?! We decided Kate Hoey608 was our prime target. We like her, she seems sensible, she isn’t valued by New Labour – let’s have her! It’s laughable, of course, a daydream, but you never know. We’re going to put out the gentle, gentle feelers. Seb is going to seek her out and have lunch.

  MONDAY 11 NOVEMBER 1996

  I caught the 8.05 for Liverpool for Barry Porter’s funeral. It was at St Xavier’s, Oxton. The wake was across the road from the church, at a pub called The Bowler Hat. I travelled up with John Ward, who was representing the PM. John arrived at Euston, grey, puffing, looking unusually anxious. He’d got the funeral details faxed to him from No. 10 yesterday, had seen mention of the Bowler Hat on the briefing note and, knowing Barry’s Unionist sympathies, spent the entire night worrying where he was going to find one.

  John is exactly what the PM needs: he’s good, decent, dogged, loyal, no axes to grind. He’s quite a bit older than the PM too, which may help. He doesn’t look it, but he’s coming up for seventy-two. We chatted all the way. It’s clear the PM feels beleaguered on all sides, fed up with the factions, infuriated by the infighting. He no longer trusts anyone. Norma, John, Howell, Norman Blackwell, the inner circle excepted, can he completely trust his most senior colleagues? Not really, and he knows it.

  The train arrived late. We shared a taxi with Frank Field. Fortunately he knew where we were going. He spent most of the journey leaning across me giving instructions to the driver. Right close up, nostrils flaring, Frank looks exactly like Kenneth Williams.

  I am writing this on the front bench. We got back from Liverpool at 5.30 p.m. It is now after nine. The Second Reading of the Education Bill is drawing to a close. Rather to my surprise, Lady Olga is telling us she is against caning. We have done her an injustice. In the office, we’d put her down for a lash ’em and thrash ’em woman. (This may, of course, have been wishful thinking on some of my colleagues’ parts.) What is incredible, of course, (and what, justifiably, has had the PM hopping with anger), is that the education debate has been hijacked by all this rubbish on corporal punishment. It’s not going to be reintroduced, so why discuss it? We can only disappoint the diehards out there who want it, while reinforcing the view of everyone else that most Tories are heartless brutes.

  THURSDAY 14 NOVEMBER 1996

  Breakfast with Tim Rice at Claridge’s. He is late, but we don’t mind because when he arrives he readily agrees to be our ‘Luvvies for John Major’ front man. I wanted Charles Lewington609 to hear it from his own lips. We’re drawing up a long list of potential celeb supporters and Tim is going to top and tail letters to them. I told him his peerage is now in the post. (I assume he’s too sensible to believe me.)

  Back at the Palace of Varieties it’s all gone wrong again and I think it’s probably worse than it’s ever been. The caning nonsense is just a side-show. The main event this week is the Firearms Bill. The shooting lobby (step forward Prince Philip) think we’re going too far (it’s gesture politics, won’t change a thing), Mellor and co. want a total ban and are going to back Labour because we’re not going far enough. The boys want a free vote. That would get us off the hook, but the PM won’t have it. This is government policy. It must be backed by a three-line whip.

  And coming up on the radar screen: more Euro trouble, major Euro trouble. The PM’s standing by with a confidence motion. ‘Do turkeys vote for Christmas?’ he asks plaintively. ‘Some of our colleagues have got to decide if they want me or Mr Blair.’ The truth is a great swathe of his colleagues have decided it’s going to be Mr Blair come what may.

  THURSDAY 21 NOVEMBER 1996

  It’s a shambles. We are six months away from a general election at most and the Prime Minister is being barracked by his own backbenchers. In the Tea Room he’s being openly derided. The poor man, of course, is caught between a rock and a hard place. What the troops want is a debate on the floor of the House on the latest range of EU documents relating to EMU. They want the debate before ECOFIN.610 And ‘they’ is everyone from Hugh Dykes to Bill Cash! But the PM won’t have it, both because the Chancellor says it isn’t necessary, and because it could prove impossible to avoid a division on it and we might lose the vote – and why go to the country as a broken-backed government in the aftermath of a lost vote in the Commons if there’s a chance of struggling on till the Spring and finding calmer waters?

  At PMQs the PM resisted demands for a debate – to open cries of ‘Shame!’, ‘This is a constitutional outrage!’ etc. He then made the mistake of saying that the European reports on the single currency had been subject to ‘detailed scrutiny’ in the Standing Committee. This was met with hoots of derision. The scrutiny at European Standing Committee B yesterday was cursory at best – and in any event Whitto611 voted with the other side so it’s not clear whether the documents have been formally ‘taken note of’ or not. Heathcoat-Amory got up and flatly contradicted the PM. When the poor man persisted, there were shouts of ‘No! No! You’re wrong!’ At 3.30 p.m. the PM stomped off, looking ashen, and angry, leaving Tony Newton to pick up the pieces
. For the forty minutes of Business Questions the demands rained down on him. Cartiss, Marlow, Wilkinson, Heathcoat-Amory, but not just the usual suspects. John Townend: ‘May I implore my RHF to think again?’ Even Sir John Stanley (who I don’t think I’ve ever heard speak before) threw in his two cents’ worth from a great height. I sat right next to Tony. (I’m afraid I moved myself into the doughnut. If your constituents see you sitting there amazingly they think you’re doing something.) His hands were shaking violently throughout. He voice trembled too, but his content was measured, courteous. He did his best, he held the line. Every time he sat down, he muttered, ‘Was that all right?’ ‘It’s fine,’ I said, ‘It’s the wicket that’s impossible.’

  MONDAY 25 NOVEMBER 1996

  Not that we are describing it quite like this, but we have capitulated. The Chancellor is making a statement at 3.30 p.m. and we’re going to find time for a debate after all. (This is how we play it: five days of digging-in, mayhem and bloodshed all around, followed by total cave-in. Evidently we have a death-wish.)