A View From The Foothills
Page 3
Today I took my first decisions. All very simple. Jessica places a pile of files in my in-tray. Each one comes with a summary sheet prepared by the relevant experts setting out the issue, any relevant considerations and any ‘presentational’ problems that might arise (i.e. will I get a bad press?). This is followed by a recommendation. All I have to do is signify agreement or disagreement by making my mark on the top of the page.
The first file concerned a proposal that KLM/UK Air be permitted landing rights for its service to Poland. Next, an application by Thames Water to discharge a small quantity of treated sewage into the Thames near Henley. The attached brief explained why the alternatives were impractical and assured me that no solids would be discharged. A small number of representations had been received, including an objection from the town council, but none from the local Member of Parliament (Michael Heseltine). I hesitated. This is exactly the issue that has caused so much trouble in Sunderland (although our sewage was untreated). Upon inquiry I was told that the Thames would dry up if it wasn’t for the treated sewage discharged into it. What’s more, too rigorous screening (ultra-violet, for example) would kill the bacteria upon which fish thrive. After due consideration, I signed.
Next, I was asked to approve pay increases for the staff of the Housing Corporation. That was easy. I signed. Then I was asked to approve a Millennium fly-past across central London along the Thames by Concorde at a height of a thousand feet. I asked for assurances about safety on that one. And so it went on. Jessica loaded the files into one tray, usually with a little handwritten note attached, boiling the issue down to a single sentence. I read, reflected and usually signed, always remembering David Heathcoat-Amory’s remark: ‘Government is about hundreds of little decisions about which no one ever hears, unless something goes wrong.’ Concorde crashing into the Thames, for example?
Finally, there were letters. Hundreds. Almost all in response to colleagues writing with queries from constituents. Each came in an orange folder with the MP’s letter plus supporting documents. One foolish Tory had sent ten letters from constituents making the same point about water meters and received ten identical replies. I left the letters neatly piled on my desk for Jessica to take away in the morning. I trust she will be impressed by my diligence.
Friday, 6 August
More briefings. The first, from officials of the Countryside division. I asked about leylandii hedges (it is two years since I first took part in a delegation to Angela Eagle on the matter) only to be told that progress had been blocked by Downing Street. The boys and girls in the policy unit have apparently persuaded The Man that to legislate on so trivial a matter would spoil our image as deregulators. In my previous incarnation, I would have bent The Man’s ear on the subject at the parliamentary committee, but now (having been ‘promoted’) I am powerless. (Jessica says that JP gets very upset if he finds junior ministers going to Number 10 behind his back.) This ought to be one of life’s more easily resolvable problems. I intend to persist.
Then a briefing on waste disposal. Not very sexy, but of vital importance for the future of the planet. Household waste is apparently growing at 3 per cent a year which is clearly unsustainable.
A call to Gwyneth Dunwoody, who threatened ‘strenuous resistance’ to the government’s plans for the sale of a majority stake in air traffic control.
She wanted to know whether the Bill would be separate from the rest of the transport legislation. I replied that no decision had yet been made. ‘Well, I strongly advise you to keep it separate. Otherwise it could drag down the whole of the government’s transport programme.’ We arranged to meet in September.
Two men came in to see me about security. Jessica was not allowed to sit in on the meeting or even to know what it was about. Apparently, I am one of five ministers in the Department whose responsibilities (in my case water and aviation) entitle me to see STRAP 2 (Top Secret) information. I had to sign a piece of paper promising to reveal nothing now and for ever more. One of the men was small, sturdy and grave. He was dressed in a grey suit and dark tie and had the demeanour of an undertaker, clearly relishing the titbits that came his way. The other was younger and more laid-back.
The Undertaker said, ‘Some of the people we have to negotiate with are pretty uncivilised.’ He added, ‘Mind, we also deal with some very civilised people – and we spy on them, too.’ The only people we don’t spy on are the Americans, the New Zealanders, Australians and Canadians, who are all part of a little club that has agreed to share the products of their bugging, burgling and bribery. A pity about the Americans, since they seem to be the cause of most of our aviation problems.
When STRAP information needed to be drawn to my attention one of them would bring it to me, I would read it in his or her presence and they would then take it away. If I needed to discuss STRAP material over the telephone, I would be taken to a room with a secure telephone system. Every government department has one and so do most of our embassies. The Deputy Prime Minister was also in receipt of STRAP material on a wider range of issues which came from the Cabinet Office. The Undertaker remarked that JP was ‘not averse to knowing the other side’s cards’.
As I was leaving Jessica presented me with a mobile telephone
and pager. Only the office, she assures me, will have the numbers. I managed to persuade her that, since I shall be on holiday for the next two weeks, I don’t need them for the time being. As a result they remain lying in the in-tray.
Home to our ruined flat by 8.30 p.m.
Tuesday, 10 August
Gamekeeper’s Cottage, Northchapel, West Sussex
Up early for a walk around the lake. En route I disturbed two deer, who went bounding off across a field and then stood nervously eyeing me from a distance.
Wednesday, 11 August
As the hour of the eclipse approached the sky clouded over, but when the moment came the cloud miraculously parted. We placed our bowls of water in the garden and stood poring over them. Old Bear was brought out to watch. The girls were under strict instructions not to look at the sun. An eerie twilight descended, accompanied by a chill. As we peered into our bowls the shadow of the moon passed across the sun until it was almost eclipsed and then gradually, but not before the elapse of some minutes, normal service resumed. Emma, oblivious, played in the rhododendron bush. She will be well into her nineties before such an event occurs again.
Monday, 23 August
Back to the Department, where a mountain of tedium awaits. I have set myself three modest targets for the (hopefully) short time I shall spend at Eland House: (1) to manage without an official car; (2) to do something about leylandii hedges; and (3) to play my part in the reorganisation of air traffic control with as little fall-out as possible.
I am besieged with invitations to address conferences organised by obscure but no doubt worthy organisations. Mostly they are the crumbs that fall from the tables of my many superiors and my first instinct is to reject the lot. However, they usually come with notes from officials advising acceptance and, reluctantly, I concede. Before long my whole life will be eaten up by pointless activity. One such invite, originally addressed to Nick Raynsford, came with a note from his Private Secretary still attached. It read: ‘This is very low priority. I suggest we pass it to Chris Mullin.’
I wrote NO and waited to see what would happen. Sure enough, as I anticipated, someone was in my office within the hour, explaining why it was really of the highest importance …
Jessica has dug out a copy of the contract which this Department (and presumably every other) has with the government car service. It is truly incredible – designed to ensure maximum use of the car. Termination requires three months’ notice and, if the car has to be sold, a payment for ‘unrecovered depreciation’ which would in my case amount to about £4,400. We are charged a basic £864 a week, not counting overtime, for a car and driver, regardless of how much use we make of it. The Department has ten cars – nine for ministers and one for the Permanent Se
cretary. For much of the time the cars and their drivers are idle. If – as in my case – a minister chooses not to have a driver, but to make occasional use of the pool facility, the Department is required to pay a penal £704.75 a week. During my four weeks as a minister I have not had sight of – let alone travelled in – an official car and yet we have paid out nearly £3,000. The time has come to put an end to this nonsense.
My private office is the one bright spot in what I have so far seen of life at the bottom of the ministerial pile. They are bright, young, efficient and anxious to please. David, the diary secretary, is spending part of his holiday working with underprivileged children in London’s East End. Convention requires that they refer to me as ‘Minister’, but they are not over-deferential. Jessica exudes calm and competence. I must ensure that my general disenchantment does not rub off on them.
Tuesday, 24 August
The chief executive of the government car service came in to discuss the car. He was all charm and sweet reason. I invited him to justify the £700 a week we are being charged for a service of which we are making absolutely no use and he promised to come back to me with a lower price. He also agreed that there would be no difficulty about my using a pool car for the transport of boxes. He did remark in passing that the drivers were ‘heavily unionised’ and might not take kindly to a reduction in their numbers, but the matter was not pressed. He said that only one other minister – Charles Clarke at Education – had refused a car and since moving to the Home Office he has apparently been persuaded that a car was now necessary in the interests of security.
All in all, a successful outcome. Jessica was anxious to confirm the details in writing since, as she put it, ‘the government car service is renowned throughout Whitehall for being slippery’.
Saturday, 28 August
To Newcastle in search of a new suit. Ngoc assures me that I cannot hope to be taken seriously as a minister who owns only one. In the event there was a sale at Fenwick’s and we ended up buying three. My reincarnation as a clone is almost complete.
Wednesday, 1 September
A pleasant chat with Hilary Armstrong, who confirmed everything I already know about the JP regime. She says John is hopelessly insecure, ever afraid of being shown up by one of his underlings, constantly interfering in matters best left to junior ministers. His vast responsibilities mean that he is often tied up elsewhere. She says weeks go by without her seeing him to talk to. Personally, says Hilary, she gets on well with JP, but he has an image problem on account of his stream of consciousness approach to interviews and his partiality for colourful one-liners. ‘John, have the courage to be boring’ was Gus Macdonald’s advice.
Thursday, 2 September
To Number 10 where Alastair Campbell was briefing new ministers in an airless basement room. He said that, contrary to popular belief, the Downing Street press office was not run by control freaks. His only anxiety was to impose some sort of overall strategy. ‘We are not at all scared of ministers courting controversy or taking risks to get things up in lights.’ His basic message was that ministers should raise their eyes to the big picture. ‘We have a good story to tell and we must be confident enough to spell it out.’ Alastair added, ‘Political coverage in this country is a joke. Most of the national media treat politics as a soap opera.’ He advised us to concentrate on the local media, who were generally far more receptive (did he mean docile?) and often had a wider audience.
Several people complained about the quality of departmental press offices. Peter Kilfoyle said there were 109 press officers in the MoD and it was hard to work out what they were all doing.
Alastair replied that one of the big difficulties was that the Whitehall press machine generally only worked weekdays, nine to five, which wasn’t much use when the media operated round the clock. ‘Whitehall is dormant at the time when the media is most active.’ At Environment there were about 30 press officers, but when it had been suggested that they should provide weekend cover, some had resigned. ‘Find good people of whatever rank, and then bust the system to bring them up’ was Alastair’s advice. Sally Morgan said we must be nice to MPs in general and select committee members in particular. She rather spoiled her point by adding that select committees were often run by bitter and disappointed people. Everyone looked at me and laughed.
Walked up Victoria with Charles Clarke, who recounted his battle to be rid of his official car. Apparently Blunkett wasn’t keen, for fear that it would show up other people. Clare Short had raised the subject at the first Cabinet meeting and been jumped on by The Man for the same reason. Charles got away with it in the end by saying that he needed to walk for health reasons.
A talk with Gus Macdonald about aviation. He has an opinionated Private Secretary who, during a discussion of the air traffic control sale, remarked, ‘Someone should take Gordon aside and ask whether it’s worth all the shit we are going to get for a gain of £350 million.’ My sentiments precisely, but I was amazed to hear it coming from a civil servant. For a moment I thought he was a political adviser. Gus said that JP was the only person who could do that and he would have to move quickly since time was running out. He added, ‘The Treasury will only say that it’s not just a matter of the revenue. It’s about better management and attracting new investment that doesn’t count towards the PSBR.’ At this the discussion lapsed. I recounted it later to Larry Whitty, who said, ‘Dropping it would save everyone a lot of trouble. Gordon doesn’t need the money anyway. He’s got money coming out of his ears.’ I haven’t yet met anyone who is keen on this so-called public–private partnership.
Friday, 3 September
Sunderland
To the roof of the new Debenham’s store, where the mayor and I performed the topping-out ceremony. There are so many good things happening in Sunderland at the moment. A new shopping complex. A state of the art bus station. The metro on its way. A multiplex cinema in the pipeline. Mowbray Park being refurbished. The riverside reviving. I just pray that we have the economic base to sustain all this consumerism.
Monday, 6 September
Today I was allowed out on my own for the first time. To address the annual meeting of an organisation called Key Potential UK which has been set up to train housing managers. The Department had prepared a 20-minute speech full of impenetrable jargon. I managed to hone it down a little, but it was still excruciating. About five minutes in I realised – too late, of course – that I should have chucked it away and talked for five minutes off the cuff. That would have gone down far better and made me appear more than just a man in a suit. I was received politely, but without enthusiasm and hastily departed before anyone could ask questions. Humiliating.
I was walking down Whitehall this evening when an elderly estate car pulled alongside. I assumed it was someone wanting directions, but it turned out to be the former Tory Home Secretary, Ken Baker, offering congratulations on my supposed promotion. I replied, gloomily, that commiseration was more in order, but he would have none of it. ‘You must be enjoying government. There’s a tremendous buzz about it.’ Early days yet, but so far the buzz has entirely escaped me.
He sped off without offering a lift. I suppose he assumed I had a ministerial car waiting.
Tuesday, 7 September
A meeting with Gus Macdonald and Keith Hill to discuss transport.
Gus exudes competence and, unlike me, appears completely in command of his brief. Our difficulty, he said, is the long lead times. Money invested in transport now wouldn’t produce results until our second or third term. We were already getting flak for road pricing which wouldn’t come in for another five years. The difficulty with road pricing was that elsewhere it had been introduced to fund specific projects. No one has introduced it on existing roads as we are proposing.
As for the extra money we were supposed to be spending on rural bus services, ‘I keep asking where these services are and no one can tell me.’
‘Or whether anyone is using them,’ added Keith.
‘What about the humble bicycle?’ I inquired. ‘We will never succeed in persuading people to ride bikes in cities until there are dedicated cycle lanes in which bikes are separated from vehicles by a kerb, as they are in Holland and Denmark.’
Gus was very dismissive.
The discussion ended inconclusively. It’s becoming clear that we are – rightly – terrified of taking on the car because we fear that, as with taxation, in the privacy of the ballot box the Great British Public will exact revenge on any party that tries to separate them from their beloved vehicles.
Thursday, 9 September
Sunderland
To the Hospital Trust for my annual general meeting with the chairman, David Graham, and chief executive, Andrew Gibson. Andrew is generally upbeat, but complains of being deluged by the Department of Health with circulars and guidance notes. ‘They contain up to four pages of “Actions”. It’s becoming a serious problem. You end up not doing anything properly.’ We are run by control freaks who, in the end, will finish up controlling nothing.
Friday, 10 September
Lunched with Jim Rafferty (the chief executive of Home Housing) at Picasso’s. He mentioned a local housing estate which had always enjoyed a good reputation, where the social fabric is now beginning to crumble. As if to prove his point, a woman came to my surgery in the evening who had just handed in her keys and fled, after living there 13 years. She had three sons and had spent a lot of money making her home comfortable, so she can’t have taken the decision lightly. The problem was a neighbour who was holding all-night parties and attracting ne’er-do-wells. Complaints to the housing manager had brought no action. She and her sons are now camped out in the living room of their brother’s small house in Hendon. She wants me to help her get rehoused. Yet another case of evacuating the victims rather than the villains. I shall get on to Jim on Monday and make a fuss.