The Path to Power m-2

by Margaret Thatcher

  It is hard to know whether one worries more about one’s children when they are within reach or far away. I wanted the twins to be at home when they were young, though I was reconciled to their going to boarding school later. Unfortunately, the nearby day school to which Mark went had to close in 1961, and Denis persuaded me that it was best that he should go to Belmont Preparatory School. At least Belmont was just on the edge of Finchley, so I could take him out to lunch. Also I knew he was not too far away in case of emergencies. But then, of course, not to be left out, Carol decided that she wanted to go to boarding school as well, and did so two years later. The house seemed empty without them.

  By now there was another emptiness in my life which could never be filled, and that was the loss of my mother, who died in 1960. She had been a great rock of family stability. She managed the household, stepped in to run the shop when necessary, entertained, supported my father in his public life and as Mayoress, did a great deal of voluntary social work for the church, displayed a series of practical domestic talents such as dressmaking and was never heard to complain. Like many people who live for others, she made possible all that her husband and daughters did. Her life had not been an easy one. Although in later years I would speak more readily of my father’s political influence on me, it was from my mother that I inherited the ability to organize and combine so many different duties of an active life. Her death was a great shock, even though it had not been entirely unexpected. We were all staying with my sister’s family in Essex when my mother fell ill: Denis and I drove her back to Grantham for an emergency operation. But she was never really well again, and died a few months later. Even young children have a keen sense of family grief. After my mother’s funeral, my father came back to stay with us for a while at ‘Dormers’. That evening when I turned back the coverlet of his bed, I found a little note from Mark on the pillow: ‘Dear Grandad, I’m so sorry Granny died.’ It was heartbreaking.

  LAW-MAKING FOR BEGINNERS

  I was very glad, however, that both my parents had seen their daughter enter the Palace of Westminster as a Member of Parliament — quite literally ‘seen’, because the press contained flattering photographs of me in my new hat on the way to the House. My first real contact with the Conservative Parliamentary Party was when on the day before Parliament opened I went along as a member of the 1922 Committee — the Party committee to which all Conservative backbench MPs belong — to discuss the question of the Speakership of the House. I knew only a relatively small number of the several hundred faces packed into that rumbustious, smoky committee room, but I immediately felt at home.

  Everyone in those early days was immensely kind. The Chief Whip would give new Members a talk about the rules of the House and the whipping system. Old-stagers gave me useful hints about dealing with correspondence. They also told me that I should not just concentrate on the big issues like foreign affairs and finance, but also find one or two less popular topics on which I could make a mark. Another piece of good practical advice was to find myself a ‘pair’, which I promptly did in the form of Charlie Pannell, the Labour MP for Leeds West.[8] I had met him years earlier when he lived in Erith, in my old Dartford constituency. He was exactly the sort of good-humoured, decent Labour man I liked.

  The Palace of Westminster seems a bewildering labyrinth of corridors to the uninitiated. It was some time before I could find my way with ease around it. The Tea Room, the Library and the main committee rooms were all points of reference for me. There were modestly appointed rooms set apart for the twenty-five women Members — the ‘Lady Members’ Rooms’ — where I would find a desk to work at. Neither taste nor convention suggested my entering the Smoking Room. My formidably efficient secretary, Paddi Victor Smith, had a desk in a large office with a number of other secretaries where we worked on constituency correspondence. But the heart of the House of Commons was, even more than now, the Chamber itself. Early on, I was advised that there was no substitute for hours spent there. Finance and Foreign Affairs Committee meetings might be more informative. The weekly 1922 Committee meetings might be more lively. But it was only by absorbing the atmosphere of the House until its procedures became second nature and its style of debate instinctive that one could become that most respected kind of English politician, a ‘House of Commons man’ (or woman).

  So that is what I did. I took my pre-arranged place in the fourth row back below the gangway — where thirty-one years later I chose to sit again after I resigned as Prime Minister. The House itself was — and still is — a very masculine place. This manifested itself above all, I found, in the sheer volume of noise. I was used to university debates and questions at the general election hustings, yet my brief previous visits to the Visitors’ Gallery of the House had never prepared me for this. But when I remarked on it to a colleague he just laughed and said, ‘You should have heard it during Suez!’ Masculinity, I soon found, however, did not degenerate into male prejudice. In different ways I had on occasion been made to feel small because I was a woman in industry, at the Bar and indeed in Tory constituency politics. But in the House of Commons we were all equals; and woe betide ministers who suggest by their demeanour or behaviour that they consider themselves more equal than the rest. I soon saw with appreciation that sincerity, logic and technical mastery of a subject could earn respect from both sides of the House. Shallowness and bluff were quickly exposed. Perhaps every generation of young men and women considers that those it once regarded as great figures had a stature lacked by their equivalents in later years. But I would certainly be hard put now to find on the backbenches the extraordinary range of experience and talents which characterized the House of Commons then. Almost whatever the subject, there would be some figure on either side of the House who would bring massive, specialized knowledge and obvious intuition to bear on it — and be listened to with respect by front and backbenches alike.

  As it happens, I had very little opportunity during my first few months as an MP for the relaxed acquisition of experience of the House. With 310 other Members I had entered the Commons ballot for the introduction of Private Members’ Bills. Never previously having so much as won a raffle, I was greatly astonished to find myself drawn second. Only the first few Private Members’ Bills have any chance of becoming legislation, and even then the Government’s attitude towards them is crucial.

  I had only given the most general consideration to the topic I would choose, but I now had just a week to make up my mind, for the Bill had to be tabled by 11 November. Clearly, it must be something about which I not only felt strongly but also, preferably, in an area I already knew. I got as far as approving a draft long title for a Bill relating to appeals in contempt of court cases — one of those minor Bills which the Whips’ Office keeps in reserve to pass off on unsuspecting backbenchers. But this seemed rather dry and I could not summon up much enthusiasm for it. So I thought again.

  Many of us on the right of the Party — and not just on the right — were becoming very concerned about the abuse of trade union power. I had read and discussed with my lawyer friends a pamphlet on the subject produced by the Inns of Court Conservative Society the previous year. Entitled A Giant’s Strength, it was, I understood, largely the work of a brilliant young Tory barrister called Geoffrey Howe. In particular, I was following throughout this period the lengthy and controversial case of Rookes v Barnard, relating to the closed shop. Rookes had resigned from his trade union which thereupon threatened his employer, the airline BOAC, with a strike if he was not dismissed from his post. BOAC promptly and pusillani-mously complied and Rookes sued the trade union officials. I was outraged by the trampling of what I saw as someone’s basic right to join or not to join a union. I also admired Rookes’s determination and courage. I sought advice about whether I could introduce a Bill which would break or at least weaken the power of the closed shop.

  But here again there were difficulties. Although younger Tories and many backbenchers were restive on the issue, the prevailin
g ethos in the upper ranks of the Conservative Party was still one of accommodating and appeasing the unions. It was therefore extremely unlikely that I could effect the change in the law which I wanted. The Whips made it clear to me that I would not have the Party’s support. Moreover, the case itself was still undecided — and would not finally be determined until 1964. At the time that I was considering introducing a Bill the Appeal Court had ruled against Rookes, but in the end the House of Lords found against the trade union. There were, therefore, strong arguments that the law should not be changed partway through a test case. I bowed to these considerations.

  The issue on which I finally alighted was also essentially one of civil liberties under threat from collectivism. As a result of an industrial dispute in the printing industry which began in July 1958, a number of Labour-controlled councils in big cities had denied normal reporting facilities to journalists working on provincial newspapers involved in the dispute. This had highlighted a loophole in the law which many councils used to conceal information from the general public about their activities. The press had a statutory right of admission only to meetings of the full council, not to its committees. By the device of resolving to go into committee, councils could therefore exclude the press from their deliberations. And besides these ‘committees of the whole council’ there were many other committees which were closed. Large sums of ratepayers’ money could be spent — or mis-spent — without outside scrutiny. Nor did members of the public themselves have the right to attend any council or council committee meetings.

  My own interest in the question stemmed partly from the fact that it had come to a head because of socialist connivance with trade union power, partly because I knew from Nottingham, not far from Grantham, what was going on, and partly because the present situation offended against my belief in accountability by government for the spending of people’s money. The 1959 Conservative manifesto had contained a promise ‘to make quite sure that the press have proper facilities for reporting the proceedings of local authorities’. Having read this, I imagined that a Bill to do just that would be welcome to the Government. I was again swiftly disillusioned by the Whips. Apparently, nothing more than a code of practice on the subject had been envisaged. This seemed to me extremely feeble, and so I decided to go ahead.

  It quickly became clear that the objection to a measure with teeth came not from ministers at the Ministry of Housing and Local Government but rather from officials, who in turn were doubtless echoing the fierce opposition of the local authorities to any democratic check on their powers. Henry Brooke, the Cabinet minister in charge, was consistently sympathetic. Each Private Member’s Bill is placed under the supervision of a junior minister who either helps or hinders its progress. My Bill was given to Sir Keith Joseph, and it was in examination of the tedious technical intricacies of the measure that I first got to know Keith.

  I learned a great deal in a very short time from the experience of devising, refashioning and negotiating for my Bill. Partly because the issue had been a live one for a number of years, but partly also because of senior Members’ kindness towards a new Member, I was able to rely on invaluable assistance from backbench colleagues. Sir Lionel Heald, a former Attorney General, gave me the benefit of his great legal experience. I learned from him and others the techniques of legal draftsmanship which were generally the preserve of the parliamentary draftsmen.

  I also witnessed the power of pressure groups. The influence of the local authority lobby made itself felt in a hundred ways, and not only through the Labour Party. I therefore learned to play pressure group against pressure group and made the most of the help offered to me by the Newspaper Editors’ Guild and other press bodies.

  In the end, however, there is no substitute for one’s own efforts. I wanted to get as many MPs as possible to the House on a Friday (when most MPs have returned to their constituency) for the Bill’s Second Reading — this was the great hurdle. I have always believed in the impact of a personal handwritten letter — even from someone you barely know. So just before Second Reading I wrote 250 letters to Government backbenchers asking them to attend and vote for my measure.

  There were other complications. I had originally envisaged waiting several months to make my maiden speech, because I had been advised first to get the feel of the House. I had had it in mind to speak on Lord Radcliffe’s Report on the Working of the Monetary System which had appeared in the late summer — I was fascinated by the techniques of monetary policy which it outlined. But I did not have the time to prepare such a speech as well as the speech to introduce the Second Reading of my new Bill, so I decided to concentrate on the latter. That in turn faced a further obstacle. Convention dictated that a maiden speech should be a modest, uncontroversial affair, larded with appreciative references to my predecessor and my constituency. This was now impossible, because a maiden speech on the Second Reading of a Bill like mine could not have avoided controversy.

  At least, though, I was not short of content. By the time I rose to deliver my speech on Friday 5 February 1960, I knew the arguments by heart. As a result, I could speak for almost half an hour without notes to hand — though not without nerves. The three women members of the Government — Pat Hornsby-Smith, Mervyn Pike and Edith Pitt — showed moral support from the front bench, and the House was very full for a Friday. I was delighted that nearly 200 Members voted, and we won handsomely. I was also genuinely moved by the comments that different MPs made to me personally — particularly Rab Butler, the Leader of the House and a master of ambiguous compliments, whose congratulations on this occasion, however, were straightforward, generous and very welcome to a new Member.

  It was clear from the press next day that the speech had been a success and that I was — for the present at least — a celebrity. ‘A new star was born in Parliament’, thrilled the Daily Express. ‘Fame and Margaret Thatcher made friends yesterday’, shrieked the Sunday Dispatch. ‘A triumph’, observed the Daily Telegraph evenly. Feature articles appeared about me and my family. I was interviewed on television. The cameras came down to ‘Dormers’, and in an unguarded moment in answer to one of the more preposterous questions I told a journalist that ‘I couldn’t even consider a Cabinet post until my twins are older.’ But apart from this gaffe it was roses, roses all the way.

  Excessive praise? I had no doubt myself that it was. And I was slightly nervous that it might excite the jealousy of colleagues. My speech had been a competent performance, but it was not an epic.

  But was it, however, a portent? Some time before the general election I had read John Buchan’s The Gap in the Curtain. I had not thought more about it until I considered these somewhat overstated headlines. John Buchan’s tale concerns a group of men, including several politicians, who spend Whitsun at a friend’s house where they are enabled by another guest, a mysterious and fatally ill physicist of world renown, to glimpse the contents of a page of The Times one year later. Each sees something affecting his own future. One, a new Conservative MP, reads a brief obituary of himself which notes that he had delivered a brilliant maiden speech that had made him a national figure overnight. And so it turns out. The speech is outstanding, praised and admired on all sides; but after that, deprived of the self-confidence which knowledge of the future gave him, he fails totally and sinks into oblivion, waiting for the end. I shuddered slightly and reached for my lucky pearls.

  But my Bill — with the significant addition that members of the general public should have the same rights as the press to attend council meetings, and with committees (apart from committees of the whole council) excluded from its provisions — duly passed into law; and, though my seven-day stardom faded somewhat, I had learned a lot and gained a good deal of confidence.

  THE RIGHT LEFT PEOPLE

  Life on the backbenches was always exciting — but so hectic that on one occasion, to the consternation of my male colleagues, I fainted in the Members’ Dining Room. I spent as much time as I could in the House and at b
ackbench committees. I also regularly attended the dining club of new Tory Members to which the great figures of the Party — Harold Macmillan, Rab Butler, Iain Macleod and Enoch Powell — and brilliant young Tory journalists like Peter Utley would come to speak.

  The natural path to promotion and success at this time lay in the centre of politics and on the left of the Conservative Party. Above all, the up-and-coming Tory politician had to avoid being ‘reactionary’. Nothing was likely to be so socially and professionally damaging as to bear that label. Conservatism at this time lacked fire. Even though what are now widely seen as the damaging moral, social and economic developments of the sixties mainly belong to the period of Labour Government after 1964, the first years of the decade also were ones of drift and cynicism, for which Conservatives must be held in large part responsible.

  Indeed, Conservatives in the early sixties were living through one of their occasional phases of complacency. Macmillan’s 1959 landslide and the continuous rise in affluence combined to persuade even non-partisan commentators that the Tories were now the party of ‘modernization’ and that Labour, with its ‘cloth cap image’, was in danger of being relegated to permanent opposition. Rab Butler told us at the New Members’ Dining Club one evening that if the Party played its cards well, we would be in power for the next twenty-five years. In these circumstances there was little incentive for either serious forward thinking on policy or philosophical reflection. The main dispute within the Tory Party was over Iain Macleod’s ‘Scramble from Africa’, with the old right complaining that Britain was abandoning its responsibility both to white settlers and to the African majorities of tribal farmers by giving power to rootless urban African politicians who would become dictators in short order. Time has made these fears seem prescient; in the early sixties they looked like a nostalgic hankering for an Empire that had almost passed into history. A passionate minority of Tory MPs embraced these criticisms; most of us, though, thought that Iain Macleod was applying Tory ‘modernization’ to colonial policy and backed him.