Margaret Thatcher: The Autobiography

by Margaret Thatcher

  Saturday morning’s Daily Express carried a MORI poll showing our lead down to just 3 per cent. There was evidence of a mild case of the jitters affecting Conservative Central Office. Peter Thorneycroft wrote to candidates saying: ‘Whatever happens, I ask for no complacency and no despair.’ It was not a very encouraging message and perhaps indicated all too accurately the feeling of its author and his advisers that the way to win elections was by doing nothing wrong rather than by doing something right. For myself, I publicly shrugged off the polls, noting that: ‘Always as you get up to an election the lead narrows.’ In fact, I had decided that by far the best course now was to shut the opinion polls out of my mind and put every ounce of remaining energy into the decisive final days of the campaign. I had a good morning of campaigning in London, including my own Finchley constituency, returning home to Flood Street in the afternoon for discussion of the Election Broadcast.

  Sunday 29 April would be crucial. The opinion polls were all over the place. I ignored them. I had my hair done in the morning and then after lunch was driven to the Wembley Conference Centre for the Conservative Trade Unionists’ rally. Harvey Thomas, drawing on his experience of Billy Graham’s evangelical rallies, had pulled out every stop. A galaxy of actors and comedians livened up the proceedings. Ignoring previous instructions from perhaps over-serious Party officials concerned about the dignity of ‘the next Prime Minister’, Harvey played the campaign song ‘Hello Maggie’ when I entered. And dignity certainly went by the board as everyone joined in. I had never known anything quite like it – though compared with Harvey’s extravaganzas of future years this came to seem quite tame.

  The speech itself was short and sharp. And the reception was terrific. Then I went on to Saatchi & Saatchi to record the final Election Broadcast. From 4 o’clock in the afternoon Gordon, Ronnie, Tim and I worked and reworked the text. Then there was an apparently endless succession of ‘takes’, each of which – until the final one – seemed not quite right to at least one of us. At last, well after midnight, we were satisfied.

  The main event of my campaign on Monday was the Granada 500 programme, when each of the three party leaders was questioned by an audience from what was deemed to be the most representative seat in the country, Bolton East. (For many years Bolton East had been won by the party which formed the next government, but in 1979, dazzled perhaps by national attention, the electors got it wrong.) I enjoyed these occasions, feeling more at ease than when interviewed on a one-to-one basis. Somehow the fact that these were ‘real’ people with real worries helped me to relax. Judging by the ‘clapometer’ reading I won the contest.

  But the following (Tuesday) morning there was a further opinion poll by NOP which showed Labour 0.7 per cent ahead. There was only one real question on people’s lips at that morning’s press conference: how would I react to the poll? I just brushed it aside, saying that I hoped it would stir Conservative Party supporters to go out and vote on the day. Not only did this line serve me at a difficult moment: I suspect it was a correct judgement. For if anything really threatened our victory it was complacency, and from this moment there was no chance of that. I went on to campaign in the North-West, finishing up, of course, by addressing a rally in Bolton, where the comedian Ken Dodd appeared on stage with a blue feather-duster to greet me. After Ken Dodd’s message from Knotty Ash – which he made sound a pretty true blue constituency – any speech would have seemed over-serious. But there was only one real message for this stage of the campaign, which was that those who wished to throw the Labour Party out of government must not fritter their votes away on minor parties, but rather vote Conservative.

  Moreover, the same message had to be repeated insistently until polling day. It was my theme at the final press conference on Wednesday (2 May). I returned to it as I went around the London constituencies, finishing up at Woodhouse School in Finchley – where I had to push my way through protesting feminists chanting: ‘We want women’s rights, not a right-wing woman.’ As I drove back to Flood Street I felt the tiredness flow over me. I had had my chance and had taken it. It was oddly satisfying to know that whatever happened now was out of my hands. For the first time in many nights Denis and I had a full six hours’ sleep.

  I woke on election day to learn from the radio news that all of that morning’s opinion polls showed the Conservatives with a lead ranging from 2 per cent to 8 per cent. Denis and I went out to vote at 9 o’clock in Chelsea before driving on to Finchley, where, as was my wont, I toured the committee rooms followed by photographers. I went back to Flood Street for a light supper and to try to have some rest before what I knew would be a long evening. At the Finchley count in Barnet Town Hall, where I arrived shortly after midnight, I kept out of the way in a side room, equipped with a television and supplied with coffee and sandwiches, where I could listen to the results as they came in. Roger Boaden was with me, supplementing the television reports with early information telephoned through from Central Office. I kept a running tally, referring to the detailed briefing which Keith Britto had prepared for me. The first few results suggested that we had won, though among them was the upsetting news that Teddy Taylor had lost Glasgow Cathcart. The projections of our majority steadily began to mount. Local councillors, my Constituency Chairman and his wife, my agent and others came in and out looking more and more cheerful. But I deliberately suppressed any inclinations to premature euphoria: calculation, superstition and above all the knowledge that it is easiest to cope with bad news when you are not expecting good entered into this. In the end, however, not even I could remain non-committal. It was clear to everyone by the time I went out to hear the results of my own count that we would form the next Government.

  The scale of the victory took everyone – or almost everyone – by surprise. It was not just that we had won an election: we had also won a new kind of mandate for change. As the psephologists and commentators mulled over the detailed results, the pattern of our success bore this out. The 5.6 per cent national swing from Labour to the Conservatives was the largest achieved by either – and our 7 per cent lead over Labour was also the largest – since 1945.

  Equally significant, the biggest swing to us was among the skilled workers; and over a third of that lead had apparently built up during the campaign. These were precisely the people we had to win over from their often-lifelong socialist allegiances. They were confronted in a particularly acute form by the fundamental dilemma which faced Britain as a whole: whether to accept an ever greater role for government in the life of the nation, or to break free in a new direction. For these people, above all, it was a severely practical matter of choosing whether to rely on the comforting security of state provision or to make the sacrifices required to win a better life for themselves and their families. They had now decided to take the risk (for it was a risk) of voting for what I offered – for what, in a certain sense, I knew that I now personified. I would always try to keep faith with them.

  * Our proposals were distilled into five tasks:

  To restore the health of our economic and social life, by controlling inflation and sinking a fair balance between the rights and duties of the trade union movement.

  To restore incentives so that hard work pays, success is rewarded and genuine new jobs are created in an expanding economy.

  To uphold Parliament and the rule of law.

  To support family life, by helping people to become home-owners, raising the standards of their children’s education, and concentrating welfare services on the effective support of the old, the sick, the disabled and those who are in real need.

  To strengthen Britain’s defences and work with our allies to protect our interests in an increasingly threatening world.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Over the Shop

  First days and early decisions as Prime Minister

  WE KNEW WE HAD WON by the early hours of Friday 4 May, but it was not until the afternoon that we gained the clear majority of seats we needed – 43 as it eve
ntually turned out.

  There were many friends with me as we waited for the results to come in during those long hours in Conservative Central Office. But I can remember an odd sense of loneliness as well as anticipation when I received the telephone call which summoned me to the Palace. I was anxious about getting the details of procedure and protocol right; it is extraordinary how on really important occasions one’s mind often focuses on what in the cold light of day seem to be mere trivia. But I was haunted by tales of embarrassing episodes as one Prime Minister left and his successor entered office and I could not help feeling sorry for James Callaghan, who just a little earlier had conceded victory in a short speech, both dignified and generous. Whatever our past and indeed future disagreements, I believed him to be a patriot with the interests of Britain at heart, whose worst tribulations had been inflicted by his own party.

  At about 2.45 p.m the call came. I walked out of Central Office through a crowd of supporters and into the waiting car, which drove Denis and me to the Palace on my last journey as Leader of the Opposition.

  The Audience at which one receives the Queen’s authority to form a government comes to most Prime Ministers only once in a lifetime. The authority is unbroken when a sitting Prime Minister wins an election, and so it never had to be renewed throughout the years I was in office. All audiences with the Queen take place in strict confidence – a confidentiality vital to the working of both government and constitution. I was to have such audiences with Her Majesty once a week, usually on a Tuesday, when she was in London and sometimes elsewhere when the royal family was at Windsor or Balmoral.

  Anyone who imagines that these meetings are confined to social niceties is quite wrong; they are quietly businesslike and Her Majesty brings to bear a formidable grasp of current issues and breadth of experience. And, although the press could not resist the temptation to suggest disputes between the Palace and Downing Street, I always found the Queen’s attitude towards the work of the Government absolutely correct.

  Of course, stories of clashes between ‘two powerful women’ were just too good not to make up. In general, more nonsense was written about the so-called ‘feminine factor’ during my time in office than about almost anything else. I was always asked how it felt to be a woman Prime Minister. I would reply: ‘I don’t know: I’ve never experienced the alternative.’

  After the audience, Sir Philip Moore, the Queen’s Secretary, took me to his office down what are called ‘the Prime Minister’s stairs’. I found my new principal private secretary, Ken Stowe, waiting there, ready to accompany me to Downing Street. Ken had come to the Palace with the outgoing Prime Minister, James Callaghan, barely an hour before. As we drove out through the Palace gates, Denis noticed that this time the Guards saluted me. In those innocent days before security had to become so much tighter for fear of terrorism, crowds of well-wishers, sightseers, press and camera crews were waiting for us in Downing Street itself. The crowds extended all the way up Downing Street and out into Whitehall. Denis and I got out of the car and walked towards them. This gave me the opportunity to run through in my mind what I would say outside No. 10.

  When we turned to the cameras and reporters, the cheers were so deafening that no one in the street could hear what I was saying. Fortunately, the microphones thrust in front of me picked it up and carried it over the radio and television.

  I quoted a famous prayer attributed to St Francis of Assisi, beginning, ‘Where there is discord, may we bring harmony.’ Afterwards a good deal of sarcasm was expended on this choice, but the rest of the quotation is often forgotten. The prayer goes on: ‘Where there is error, may we bring truth. Where there is doubt, may we bring faith. And where there is despair, may we bring hope.’ The forces of error, doubt and despair were so firmly entrenched in British society, as the Winter of Discontent had just powerfully illustrated, that overcoming them would not be possible without some measure of discord.

  Inside No. 10 all the staff had turned out to welcome us. I am assured that in the days before television there was a good practical reason for this ceremony, in that everyone in the building has to be able to recognize the Prime Minister personally, both for security reasons and for the smooth running of the many different services which are provided there. It is also true that within No. 10 there is almost a family atmosphere. The number of staff is relatively small – between seventy or eighty, though because of the shift system not all will be there at one time. That figure comprises those working in the Private Office, including the duty clerks who ensure that No. 10 is able to operate round the clock; the Press Office, where someone is also always on call; the ‘garden room girls’, who do the secretarial and paperwork; ‘confidential filing’, which sorts and files the enormous accumulations of documents; the parliamentary section which deals with Parliamentary Questions, Statements and Debates; the correspondence section where some four to seven thousand letters are received every week; the sections which deal with Church matters and with honours; the Political Office and the Policy Unit; and the messengers and other staff who keep the whole extended family supplied with tea and coffee and – above all – information from the outside world. It is an extraordinary achievement, and it requires people of unusual qualities and commitment.

  The Prime Minister’s private secretaries, headed by the principal private secretary, are crucial to the effective conduct of government. They are the main channel of communication between the Prime Minister and the rest of Whitehall, and they bear a heavy burden of responsibility. I was fortunate to have a succession of superb principal private secretaries over the years. Other private secretaries, specializing in economic or foreign affairs, also quickly acquired judgement, expertise and a knowledge of my thinking which allowed me to rely on them. Bernard Ingham, my press secretary, who arrived five months after I became Prime Minister, was another indispensable member of the team. I was told that Bernard’s politics had been Labour, not Conservative; but the first time we met I warmed to this tough, blunt, humorous Yorkshireman. Bernard’s outstanding virtue was his total integrity. He never let me down.

  The hours at No. 10 are long. I never minded this. There was an intensity about the job of being Prime Minister which made sleep seem a luxury. In any case, over the years I had trained myself to do with about four hours a night. The Private Office too would often be working till 11 o’clock at night. We were so few that there was no possibility of putting work on someone else’s desk. This sort of atmosphere helps to produce a remarkably happy team, as well as a formidably efficient one. People are under great pressure, and there is no time for trivia. Mutual respect and friendly relations are often the result. This feature of No. 10 shapes people’s attitudes not only towards each other but towards the Prime Minister whom they all directly or indirectly serve. The cheers and clapping when a new Prime Minister arrives may perhaps be a traditional formality. But the tears and regrets when the outgoing Prime Minister makes his or her final departure are usually genuine.

  Number 10 is more than an office: it is intended to serve as the Prime Minister’s home. I never had any doubt that when the Callaghans had left I would move into the Prime Minister’s small flat at the top of the building. As we used to say, harking back to my girlhood in Grantham, I liked living over the shop but I was not able to move out of the house in Flood Street until the first week of June.

  The flat at No. 10 quickly became a refuge from the rest of the world, though on occasion a good deal of business was done there too. It was right at the top of the building – but that was an advantage, for the stairs provided me with about the only real exercise I got.

  Denis and I decided that we would not have any living-in domestic help. No housekeeper could possibly have coped with the irregular hours. When I had no other engagement, I would go up to the flat for a quick lunch of salad or poached egg on Bovril toast. But usually it was 10 or 11 o’clock at night when I would go into the kitchen and prepare something – we knew every way in which eggs and chees
e could be served and there was always something to cut at in the fridge – while Denis poured me a night-cap.

  Prime Minister or not, I never forgot that I was also MP for Finchley; nor, indeed, would I have wanted to. My monthly surgeries in the constituency and the correspondence which was dealt with from within No. 10 by my secretary, Joy Robilliard (who had been Airey Neave’s secretary until his death), kept me directly in touch with people’s worries. I always had the benefit of a first-class constituency agent and a strongly supportive constituency chairman, which as any MP knows makes a world of difference. I also kept up my own special interests which had been developed as a result of constituency work, for example as patron of the North London Hospice.

  I could never have been Prime Minister for more than eleven years without Denis at my side. Always a powerful personality, he was a fund of shrewd advice and penetrating comment. And he very sensibly saved these for me rather than the outside world, always refusing to give interviews. He never had a secretary or public relations adviser but answered between thirty and fifty letters every week in his own hand. With the appearance of the ‘Dear Bill’ letters in Private Eye, he seemed to become half the nation’s favourite correspondent.