There is no suggestion that Patrick Cormack, at the time MP for Cannock, shared Jim Prior’s distaste for a woman Prime Minister. On the other hand, he reflects the ambivalence towards Margaret Thatcher, on policy grounds, within the parliamentary party. Not only was she a woman, but she was taking the party into policy areas to which it was not accustomed, and to priorities not necessarily shared by colleagues.
I was of course aware of Margaret Thatcher as a rising star in the Tory ranks, when, as a very young schoolmaster, I fought the impregnable Labour stronghold of Bolsover in 1964, and even more so when I contested my home town of Grimsby eighteen months later. I had heard her speak at Party Conferences and candidates’ gatherings, and there was much talk of her being in the next Conservative Cabinet. The first time I was really conscious of her as a force to be reckoned with was when she was in charge of Education in Ted Heath’s government of 1970, when my victory in Cannock, against another formidable woman politician, Jennie Lee, helped put the Conservatives back in power. Margaret quickly made her mark at Education, and not just as ‘Margaret Thatcher, milk snatcher’. From my point of view, as someone who had been educated at a grammar school, and taught at one, it was a disappointing mark, for there was no attempt to roll back the engulfing tide of comprehensive education, no clarion call for the virtues and values of the sort of school from which both she and I had benefited.
I did not find it easy to be a fervent backbench supporter of the first or indeed the subsequent Thatcher governments. It was partly because she herself never seemed to be fully in sympathy with the needs and aspirations of manufacturing in the Midlands, where the first three years of the Thatcher administration did not go down well. There is certainly little doubt that hers, like Ted Heath’s, would have been a one-term government had it not been for the extraordinary events of April 1982, the invasion of the Falkland Islands.
My biggest falling-out with her came during her second and third terms, over her decision to abolish, rather than reform, the GLC. There was no sustainable case for depriving London of a directly elected local government, and I said so, and voted accordingly. And then, of course, there was the Community Charge, the ‘poll tax’, where I was one of only two Tories who refused to support its experimental introduction in Scotland and who consistently voted against it thereafter. So my relations with the woman I had helped to elect to leadership of our party were sometimes a little difficult.
While Patrick Cormack expresses no personal antipathy towards the new Prime Minister, and certainly no objection to her on grounds of gender, these views, many of which were shared by parliamentary colleagues, illustrate just how precarious was Margaret Thatcher’s position in the early days of her first government. Her reaction was emphatically not to betray any insecurity she may have felt, but rather to become, on occasion, overbearing and difficult.
John Major, as a former Chancellor and Foreign Secretary in a Thatcher government and eventually her successor as Prime Minister, was very well placed to observe some of the personality issues.
In the years since she left office, Margaret Thatcher has been buried under myth. The real Margaret – the one I knew, and for whom and with whom I worked – was more studied, more pragmatic and far more interesting than the stereotype celebrated in a thousand half-truths and exaggerations. I hope history records the reality and not the caricature. She was a woman of contrasts who could behave with great kindness, yet who was equally capable of great intimidation. I experienced both these character traits first-hand in the mid-1980s when I was appointed a Treasury Whip.
At a Whips’ dinner in June 1985, Margaret, accompanied by Denis, was becoming increasingly bored by the pre-dinner chat. John Wakeham, the Chief Whip, accurately reading Margaret’s impatience,
silenced the room, saying, ‘Let’s begin’, and went on to state that, given Treasury policy was crucial to all our plans, the Treasury Whip should brief the Prime Minister on the current concerns of the parliamentary party.
I obliged, but perhaps too vividly. I told the Prime Minister that the party was not enamoured of our policy. In fact, many of our members disliked it intensely, and were openly saying so in the tea rooms. Only loyalty was holding back their discontent and that was already being stretched to breaking point. We were close to facing a rebellion.
‘What exactly are they concerned about?’ came an icy voice from across the table, as her soup went cold. Unperturbed, I set out a detailed list, most notably that colleagues believed that worthwhile capital expenditure (which they favoured) was being sacrificed to sustain current expenditure – especially on social security (which they did not favour). Every Whip present had heard the same complaints on a daily basis, but they seemed entirely novel to the Prime Minister, and entirely unwelcome.
Margaret was livid and began attacking me as though the views I had reported from the party were my own. Her reaction was so wildly over the top that my fellow Whips studied their empty soup bowls and shuffled uneasily in their seats. Infuriated by the injustice of her behaviour, I reiterated that it was the job of a Whip to report the party view whether the Prime Minister liked it or not. Unsurprisingly, this did not calm her mood.
Carol Mather – ADC to Montgomery – intervened to support me. So did Bob Boscawen, blown up in a tank and terribly scarred. These were two of the bravest men I have ever known. Margaret slapped down Carol and glared at Bob. The temperature continued to rise. Jean Trumpington, a Lords Whip, attempted to diffuse the situation but had her head snapped off. It was an extraordinary scene, which significantly delayed the main course until we eventually, and uncomfortably, moved on to other issues.
At the end of the evening, the Deputy Chief Whip, John Cope, whispered in my ear that I ‘might care to make peace with the Prime Minister’. I did not. I was still seething at the injustice of her attack on me and others.
Yet the very next day, this extraordinary woman of contrasts came to sit beside me on the front bench, where I was the Whip on duty. All warmth and smiles, she suggested we continue our discussion in the Whips’ Office. I talked. She listened. All was sweetness and light. Three weeks later, she appointed me Junior Minister at the Department of Health and Social Security. ‘It’s a good job,’ said Margaret, ‘It’s where I started.’ And so it was. This was not the only disagreement I had with Margaret, but it was certainly the most memorable.
In the furore of that Whips’ dinner in 1985, I learned something crucial about Margaret’s modus operandi: she did not like people who were pliant. She liked a good row and thrived on it. Indeed, going into battle often helped her reach a decision.
Working with Margaret was always challenging, but equally stimulating. When she was in agreement with you, she was as forceful in support as she could be in opposition. Moreover, if she felt comfortable with you, a great deal of latitude was offered before your opinion was challenged. This was one of the reasons why she attracted such strong support from almost all those with whom she worked.
Like all iconic figures, Margaret Thatcher attracts stories which are an absurd travesty of the truth to those who know her and wish her to be fairly and accurately represented. And those of us who know her owe her no less than she expected from us: the unvarnished truth – not least for the sake of historical record.
Harvey Thomas provides an interesting explanation of Margaret Thatcher’s behaviour:
Margaret has a clear and simple approach to friendship. She has said many times, ‘Friends are there to be taken advantage of – and I expect them to take advantage of me.’ This was both a strength and a weakness, because sometimes her unwavering belief that you could say anything and do anything to ‘trusted friends’ could have negative consequences. I think her approach comes from an openness that for the most part is straightforward, but could occasionally leave the wrong impression.
On the positive side, in 1981, the late playwright, Ronnie Millar, John O’Sullivan and I, and Mrs T., were sitting in No. 10 working on a speech. On one section, I
made the comment, ‘I don’t really like this bit.’ ‘Don’t you, Harvey? What would you put in its place?’ I hadn’t thought through any further than an initial negative reaction to the section, and I stuttered, ‘Er, er, er, well I, er…’
‘For goodness’ sake, Harvey,’ she exploded, ‘I’ve got a country to run, and we’ve got to finish this speech. If you don’t have anything better to suggest, let’s get on with it.’
Of course I was chastened, to say the least, and tucked my head down to let Ronnie Millar do most of the talking for the next few minutes. But it was not even five minutes later when she turned and said, ‘What do you think about this, Harvey?’ as though there had never been a cross word.
As we left the room, Ronnie Millar turned to me and said, ‘Well, Harvey, welcome to the family.’ I asked him what he meant, and he said, ‘Well, you do realise she would never have raised her voice to you unless she regarded you as a trusted friend.’
I had only been working with her for two or three years, and those words were spoken privately in a small group, but they still ring proudly in my ears more than thirty years later.
Robert Armstrong was Secretary of the Cabinet from 1979 to 1987. Margaret Thatcher appointed him in a typically decisive manner, on 9 July 1979.
I was of course no stranger to her. I had come to know her and see something of her when she was Secretary of State for Education in Edward Heath’s administration and I was his Principal Private Secretary, and I had had occasional meetings with her on security-related matters when she was Leader of the Opposition. So I went to 10 Downing Street with a cautious hopefulness when I received a summons to go and see the Prime Minister.
I was disconcerted when the first thing the Prime Minister said when I went into her study was, ‘Robert, you’re looking very tired.’ It was a worrying opening to a meeting at which I hoped that I was going to be invited to take on one of the most onerous positions in the civil service. I mumbled something about having been up rather late the night before, and then the Prime Minister said, ‘Robert, I want you to succeed John Hunt as Cabinet Secretary when he retires in October. I should like you to know that I have not thought of asking anyone else.’
How could I have done otherwise than gratefully to accept an offer so generously expressed? So I went downstairs and told the Principal Private Secretary that the Prime Minister had offered me the job but that it had been a little disconcerting when she started by remarking that I was looking very tired. He laughed, and said, ‘Oh, you don’t need to worry about that, she’s saying that to everybody this morning.’
That was the introduction to eight fascinating and action-packed years of working for and with Margaret Thatcher, whom I invariably addressed as ‘Prime Minister’.
Every Friday morning at 10 a.m., I would go for my weekly meeting with her to discuss and plan the business for Cabinet and for Cabinet Committees of which she was chairman, for the ensuing three or four weeks. If she had other engagements that morning, our meeting would be short and business-like. If she did not, our meeting could go on far into the morning, and we would talk about many other things.
On one such occasion the Prime Minister wanted to discuss a memorandum I had recently submitted to her. She was clearly not persuaded by the recommendation I was making, and she argued quite fiercely, like an advocate (she had been a barrister), testing and contesting my case. After a time, I heard myself say, ‘No, Prime Minister, you’re wrong.’ I wondered if I had gone too far and whether that was not how one should address a Prime Minister. I remembered what Queen Elizabeth I said to Robert Cecil. ‘Must? Is “must” a word to be addressed to princes? Little man, little man! Thy father, if he had been alive, durst not have used that word.’ But the Prime Minister paused, and said, ‘Why do you say that I am wrong, Robert?’ I had burned my boats, and so I said why I thought she was wrong, chapter and verse, facts and figures. She did not interrupt me, and when I had finished, she said, ‘Thank you, Robert, you’re quite right. I was wrong.’
This incident did wonders for our mutual respect. I knew that she would listen and could be convinced. She knew that I would not put something to her which was not properly thought through. But those discussions were to be had only unter vier augen. I thought that it was not my business to argue with her in that way at meetings when her colleagues were present.
Henry Plumb recounts a rather similar experience. After nine years as President of the National Farmers Union, from 1970 to 1979, he was elected to the European Parliament, subsequently becoming the President of the Parliament in 1987. It was in his capacity as Chairman of the European Committee on Agriculture that he had regular meetings, every two weeks, with Margaret Thatcher in the early 1980s.
On one occasion we met late at night following a successful vote in the Commons, to discuss the European issues of the day. She greeted me very warmly and we had an extremely amicable conversation, accompanied by three large whiskies. As I was leaving, her mood suddenly changed, and she said, quite belligerently, ‘Henry, we must discuss the Common Agricultural Policy. I am not going to put any more money into the pockets of these peasant farmers in France, and elsewhere in Europe.’
I must have been emboldened by the three whiskies and I found myself saying, ‘If you will just shut up for one minute, I will tell you about the CAP.’ Not surprisingly, she looked a little startled at my less than tactful words, and said, ‘You’d better come back in.’ So we went back into her room, more whisky was provided, and I said, ‘Those peasants as you call them, the small farmers, get nothing out of the CAP. It is big farmers like your brother-in-law, on his farm in Essex, who are getting the money from the intervention payments they receive on their surplus wheat, £50 a ton while we still have a wheat mountain. Yes, the CAP wants changing, but surpluses are not the fault of the so-called European peasants, their problem is social, not economic.’
Her jaw dropped. ‘How do you know my brother-in-law?’ she asked. ‘I was on his farm only last week,’ I said, ‘and I can tell you that what I said is right. You can ask him yourself if you want.’
I never again heard her blame ‘European peasants’ for the problems of the Common Agricultural Policy, but I always wondered what kind of conversation she might have had when she next saw her sister and brother-in-law.
I left without being handbagged.
[Margaret Thatcher’s sister, Muriel, was married to John Cullen, a farmer, in 1950, and they settled in Essex.]
Ian Beesley describes an episode in No. 10 where handbagging did occur – with somewhat negative results.
Her tendency to lead from the front has been well reported. It left colleagues and officials in no doubt about the direction in which her mind was turning, and that was important in helping officials think about options. But it could bring trouble. I was present when Michael Heseltine presented his Ministerial Information System (MINIS) in a slide show in a first-floor reception room at No. 10 in 1981. Throughout, John Nott, Secretary of State for Defence, conspicuously worked on departmental papers, demonstrating his indifference to Heseltine’s initiative. Nothing daunted, Mrs Thatcher started the question-and-answer session with, ‘I can see that the Secretary of State for Defence has been taking copious notes throughout, so perhaps he’d like to begin.’ He did so with telling words, ‘My Department is different, Prime Minister…’ The invective that followed from the Prime Minister, and directed at John Nott [for so obviously ignoring the presentation and then opposing its arguments], wrecked any chance of others sticking their heads above the parapet, and with it, the prospect for widespread adoption of MINIS.
John Taylor, as an officer in the National Union, the voluntary side of the Conservative Party, had regular meetings together with his colleagues with the Prime Minister in No. 10, which were often unpredictable.
Shortly after the time of the tenth anniversary of her premiership (in May 1989), we were seated in Downing Street for one of these gatherings. All was going fine with conventional, even defe
rential, questions, when my friend and colleague John Mason asked a question about Europe. He raised it in terms which implied that the Conservative Party and the electorate needed a clearer indication of what government policy was on the issue.
What then followed was a display of verbal pyrotechnics which was glorious to behold. The then head of the EU Commission, Jacques Delors, came close to being described as a ‘little H’ which was aspirated away only to emphasise what she thought of the Commission’s President. Whether she was right or wrong to take such an aggressive approach to John’s question, it certainly gave us a glimpse of the political energy which made her such a powerful conviction politician.
Janet Fookes, while impressed by Margaret Thatcher’s charisma and hard-working approach, was taken aback by her strong, and possibly irrational, reaction to the name of a distinguished educationalist whom Janet mentioned during a conversation with her.
The effect on Margaret was immediate. It was not so much that it struck a chord but rather that it ignited a fire. She made it plain that she did not trust him at all and that nothing that he said would be of any interest to her. She did not explain why she had come to this view and frankly it did not seem politic to enquire further! It was, however, an indication to me that she felt very deeply about people, whether for good or ill.
The Real Iron Lady Page 6