The Path to Power m-2

by Margaret Thatcher

  After careful thought I decided to keep Jim Prior as Shadow Employment Secretary. This was rightly taken as a signal that I had no immediate plans for a fundamental reform of trade union law. Jim’s suitability for the job is only understandable in the light of the Heath Government’s poisoned legacy. In the 1972 Industrial Relations Act Ted had attempted the most far-reaching reforms of trade union law since 1906: its failure made Conservatives right across the Party very wary of pursuing the same course again. Moreover, after Ted had taken on the militants and lost in February 1974, the main question in the public’s mind was whether any Conservative Government could establish a working relationship with the unions, which were now seen as having an effective veto on policy. It was Jim’s strong conviction that our aim should be to establish both that we accepted the existing trade union law, with perhaps a few alterations, and that we saw the union leaders as people with whom we could deal.

  Such an approach made more sense at the beginning of the period in Opposition than at the end of it. But in any case it left two important questions unanswered. First, how would we react if events demonstrated that the theoretical shortcomings of the present law, as amended by the socialists, were having malign practical effects? (The circumstances of the Grunwick dispute[36] and of the strikes of the winter of 1978/79 would demonstrate precisely that.) Secondly, since the trade union leaders were at least as much socialist politicians as they were workers’ representatives, why should they cooperate willingly with Conservatives? There was a basic incompatibility between their economic approach and ours, and indeed between their political allegiance and ours. So how valuable would any amount of personal diplomacy between Jim and the TUC turn out to be? Probably not very. For the present, though, he was the right man in the right position.

  Airey Neave had already privately told me that the only portfolio he wanted was that of Shadow Northern Ireland Secretary. His intelligence contacts, proven physical courage and shrewdness amply qualified him for this testing and largely thankless task.

  The other appointments were less strategically crucial. Quintin Hailsham had no portfolio, but was in effect the Lord Chancellor in waiting. Francis Pym stayed on at Agriculture, though a few months later he had to give this up on health grounds. My old friend Patrick Jenkin I kept at Energy. Norman St John-Stevas, whom I had got to know from my days at the Department of Education and who was both a lively wit and one of my few open supporters on the second ballot of the leadership election, shadowed Education. Norman Fowler, a former journalist and a Member for the politically crucial West Midlands, came in as Shadow Social Services Secretary. I had no clear view about where precisely any of these stood in relation to the balance of opinion between left and right of the Party. But in appointing Tim Raison as Shadow Environment Secretary I knew that I was promoting someone associated with the left of centre, but who was tough-minded, thoughtful and knowledgeable about social policy in general. I believed he would be an asset. Two offers of Shadow Cabinet posts were turned down — one to John Biffen, who would in fact join later, and the other to Edward du Cann, whose early campaign team had provided the nucleus of mine. Edward stayed on as Chairman of the 1922 Committee, which was probably far more useful to me.

  The next day (Tuesday) I had some less pleasant business to transact. At 10.30 Peter Walker came in. We had known each other since he had succeeded me as candidate for Dartford. But those days were long gone and there was no personal warmth between us. He had been one of the most effective members of Ted’s inner circle, and he opposed with vigour and eloquence the approach which Keith and I were committed to adopt. He clearly had to go. I found it a distasteful business breaking such news; over the years it was one of the things I most dreaded. But at least Peter can hardly have expected anything else. He became a consistent critic on the backbenches.

  I confirmed in a discussion with Geoffrey Rippon, who now came into my room, that he did not wish to serve: that suited us both. I then saw Nicholas Scott, who had shadowed Housing. He too was on the left of the Party. The conversation was made slightly easier by the fact that I had absorbed the Housing portfolio into the wider Environment one. His job had been shot from under him.

  I left to last the interview with Robert Carr. I told him that I had given the Shadow Foreign Secretary post to Reggie Maudling, which he presumably knew already. Perhaps he had just bid too high, or perhaps he might have been persuaded to stay in another capacity. But I was not keen to have another strong opponent in any position on the team. So I made it clear that I could not ask him to be in the Shadow Cabinet. After a difficult few minutes he left and told the press of his worries about ‘those people who seem to think [monetary policy] is some automatic mechanism’. Not too many guesses were required about who ‘those people’ were.

  The published Shadow Cabinet list (to which Peter Thorneycroft as Party Chairman and Angus Maude as Chairman of the Conservative Research Department would later be added) was rightly seen as a compromise. As such, it annoyed the left of the Party who disliked my dropping of Robert Carr, Peter Walker and Nicholas Scott: it also disappointed the right who worried about Reggie Maudling’s return, the fact that Geoffrey and not Keith was Shadow Chancellor and the lack of any new right-wing faces from the backbenches. In fact, given the fragility as yet of my position and the need to express a balance of opinion in the Shadow Cabinet to bring the Party together, it was a relatively successful operation. It created a Treasury team that shared my and Keith’s views on the free-market economy, shifted the balance of opinion within the Shadow Cabinet as a whole somewhat in my direction, and yet gave grounds for loyalty to those I had retained from Ted’s regime. I felt I could expect support (within limits) from such a team, but I knew I could not assume agreement — even on basic principles.

  MACHINE POLITICS

  It is said that when Ted Heath was offered a Junior Whip’s job in 1950, he asked the advice of Lord Swinton, the Tory Party’s elder statesman, as to whether he should accept it. ‘Get in on the machine — at however squalid a level,’ said Lord Swinton. Ted had taken this advice to heart, and I, in my still vulnerable position as head of the machine, could not afford to neglect it. So I set out to get some control of it.

  Airey Neave and I decided that there would have to be changes at Conservative Central Office. Constitutionally, Central Office is the Leader of the Party’s office: events during the leadership campaign had convinced me that it would be very difficult for some of those there to act in that capacity under me.

  At Central Office I wanted as Chairman an effective administrator, one preferably with business connections, who would be loyal to me. I had always admired Peter Thorneycroft and in retrospect I thought that his courageous resignation on the issue of public expenditure in 1958 had signalled a wrong turning for the post-war Conservative Party. As part of that older generation which had been leading the Party when I first entered Parliament, and as chairman of several large companies, Peter seemed to me to fit the bill. But how to persuade him? It turned out that Willie Whitelaw was related to him, and Willie persuaded him to take the job. It would have taxed the energy of a much younger man, for the Party Chairman has to keep up morale even in the lowest periods, of which there would be several. Peter had the added problem that at this stage most of the Party in the country accepted my leadership only on sufferance. This would gradually change after the 1975 Party Conference. But it took a good deal longer — and some painful and controversial personnel changes — before I felt that the leading figures at Central Office had any real commitment to me. Peter gradually replaced them with loyalists; I never enquired how.

  Alistair McAlpine’s arrival as Party Treasurer certainly helped. The existing Treasurers, Lords Ashdown and Chelmer, told me that they had decided to resign. Airey Neave had suggested that Alistair, who had been Treasurer for ‘Britain in Europe’ during the referendum campaign, had the personality, energy and connections to do the job. He was right. Although a staunch Tory from a family o
f Tories, Alistair had to turn himself into something of a politician overnight. I told him that he would have to give up his German Mercedes for a British Jaguar and he immediately complied. But I had not prepared him for the host of minor but irritating examples of obstructive behaviour which confronted him at Central Office, nor for the great difficulties he would encounter in trying to persuade businessmen that in spite of the years of Heathite corporatism we were still a free-enterprise Party worth supporting.

  Some people expected me to make even more substantial changes at the Conservative Research Department. The CRD was in theory a department of Central Office, but largely because of its geographical separateness (in Old Queen Street) and its intellectually distinguished past, it had a specially important role, particularly in Opposition. In a sense, the Centre for Policy Studies had been set up as an alternative to the Research Department. Now that I was Leader, however, the CRD and the CPS would have to work together. The Director of the Research Department, Chris Patten, I knew to be on the left of the Party. Much bitterness and rivalry had built up between the CRD and the CPS. In the eyes of many on the right it was precisely the consensus-oriented, generalist approach epitomized by the CRD which had left us directionless and — in the words of Keith Joseph — ‘stranded on the middle ground’. I decided to replace Ian Gilmour with Angus Maude as Chairman of the Research Department, who would work with Keith on policy, but leave Chris Patten as Director and Adam Ridley, Ted’s former economic adviser, as his deputy. These were good decisions. I came to have a high regard for the work of the department, particularly when it was fulfilling its role as Secretariat to the Shadow Cabinet rather than devising policy. Even though there were occasional squalls, the CRD moved further and further in the direction that Keith and I were taking.

  Meanwhile, Airey Neave and I had to assemble a small personal staff who would run my office. The day after the leadership election result I met the secretaries who had worked for Ted. They were clearly upset, and I detected some hostility. This was quite understandable; indeed, I thought it a tribute to their loyalty. But I asked them to stay on if they felt able to, and most of them did, for a time at least. In those days the Leader of the Opposition had the present Home Secretary’s office in the House. There was one large room with a small ante-room for two secretaries, and some other small rooms upstairs. There was not enough space, and as summer approached it all became very hot and airless. (It was only later in the summer of 1976 that we moved into the rather more spacious accommodation previously used as the flat of the Serjeant-at-Arms, where the secretaries I had inherited from Ted were joined by my lively and reliable constituency secretary Alison Ward.)

  A flood of letters followed my becoming Leader, sometimes 800 a day. Girls would come across from Central Office to help sort out the post, but usually this was the task of my four secretaries, who sat on the floor in the main room opening envelopes and categorizing the letters. They did their best, but it was hopelessly unsystematic. Then Alistair McAlpine suggested that I ask David Wolfson to take charge of the correspondence section. Alistair thought that if David, as the man responsible for the mail-order section of Great Universal Stores, could not bring order out of this chaos no one could. In fact, both in Opposition and then at 10 Downing Street David’s talents were put to a good deal wider use than sorting the mail: he gave insights into what business was thinking, provided important contacts and proved particularly adept at smoothing ruffled political feathers.

  But I also needed a full-time head of my office, who had to be industrious, dependable and, with the number of speeches, articles and letters to draft, above all literate. It was my old friend and colleague, providentially translated to the editorship of the Daily Telegraph, Bill Deedes who suggested Richard Ryder, then working on Peterborough, the Telegraph’s respectable gossip column. Richard joined me at the end of April — to begin work alongside Caroline Stephens, one of the secretaries I inherited from Ted, who would later become Caroline Ryder.

  Richard Ryder ran this small office very effectively on a shoestring. It was a happy ship, and some entertaining characters served on their way to better things. Matthew Parris, who was in charge of replying to my correspondence, showed a talent for the sketch-writing he was later to perform for The Times when, on the eve of the 1979 election campaign, answering an aggrieved letter from a woman rejecting our policy of selling council houses and simultaneously complaining about what was wrong with her own, he told her that she was fortunate to have been given a home paid for by the rest of us out of taxation. Like Queen Victoria, I was not amused — especially when the Daily Mirror published the letter at the very beginning of the campaign. But Matthew survived.

  A month after Richard’s arrival Gordon Reece, on secondment from EMI for a year, joined my full-time staff to help in dealing with the press and much else. Gordon was a Godsend. An ebullient former TV producer whose good humour never failed, he was able to jolly me along to accept things I would have rejected from other people. His view was that in getting my message across we must not concentrate simply on heavyweight newspapers, The Times and the Daily Telegraph, but be just as concerned about the mid-market populars, the Daily Mail and the Daily Express and — the real revolution — about the Sun and the News of the World. Moreover, he believed that even newspapers which supported the Labour Party in their editorial line would be prepared to give us fair treatment if we made a real attempt to provide them with interesting copy. He was right on both counts. The Sun and the News of the World were crucial in communicating Conservative values to traditionally non-Conservative voters. The left wing Sunday Mirror also gave me fair and full coverage, however critical the comments. Gordon regularly talked to the editors. But he also persuaded me that the person they really wanted to see and hear from was me. So, whatever the other demands on my diary, when Gordon said that we must have lunch with such-and-such an editor, that was the priority.

  Gordon also performed another invaluable service. Every politician has to decide how much he or she is prepared to change manner and appearance for the sake of the media. It may sound grittily honourable to refuse to make any concessions, but such an attitude in a public figure is most likely to betray a lack of seriousness about winning power or even, paradoxically, the pride that apes humility. When Gordon suggested some changes in my style of hair and clothes in order to make a better impression, he was calling upon his experience in television. ‘Avoid lots of jewellery near the face. Edges look good on television. Watch out for background colours which clash with your outfit.’ It was quite an education.

  There was also the matter of my voice. In the House of Commons one has to speak over the din to get a hearing. This is more difficult the higher the pitch of one’s voice, because in increasing its volume one automatically goes up the register. This poses an obvious problem for most women. Somehow one has to learn to project the voice without shrieking. Even outside the House, when addressing an audience my voice was naturally high-pitched, which can easily become grating. I had been told about this in earlier years and had deliberately tried to lower its tone. The result, unfortunately, whatever improvement there may have been for the audience, was to give me a sore throat — an even greater problem for a regular public speaker. Gordon found me an expert who knew that the first thing to do was to get your breathing right, and then to speak not from the back of the throat but from the front of the mouth. She was a genius. Her sympathetic understanding for my difficulties, which was a great help, was only matched by that for her ailing cat. Unfortunately, the cat would sometimes fall sick just before my lesson and force its cancellation. Fortunately, I too like cats. And so we finished the course.

  On one occasion Gordon took me to meet Sir Laurence Olivier to see whether he had any tips which might be useful. He was quite complimentary, telling me that I had a good gaze out to the audience, which was important, and that my voice was perfectly all right, which — no thanks to the cat — it now probably was. Above all, he understoo
d the difference between speaking someone else’s script and climbing into someone else’s character, and delivering a speech reflecting one’s own views and projecting one’s own personality. Indeed, as a result of our conversation, I became interested in the differences as well as the similarities between the techniques of the political speaker and the actor. For example, I was later told that most stage actors would rather hear an audience’s reaction without seeing the audience, buried in the gloom. But I always insisted that from any public platform I must be able to see as well as hear how my words were being received. I could then speed up, or slow down, or throw in what we later came to call a ‘clap line’ (i.e. a line which had previously got loud applause) if the speech seemed to be going over badly. So Gordon would always try to ensure that even in a darkened hall I could see the front rows of the audience when I spoke.

  Getting all these things right took me several months. But all in all the general system never let me down. The real political tests of Opposition Leadership, however, still lay ahead.

  SHACKLES OF THE RECENT PAST

  My first real experience of the public aspects of being Leader of the Opposition came when I visited Scotland on Friday 21 February. From the time that I stepped off the aircraft at Edinburgh Airport, where a waggish piper played ‘A man’s a man for a’ that’, I received an enthusiastic Scottish welcome. Everywhere huge crowds turned out to see me. My planned walkabout in the centre of Edinburgh had to be abandoned altogether. Several hundred people had been expected, but 3,000 packed into the arcade of the St James’s Centre near Princes Street and there were only half a dozen policemen trying in vain to hold them back. Several women fainted and others were in tears. There was a real risk of tragedy as crowds were forced against the shop windows. It was impossible to go on and I had to take refuge in a jeweller’s shop, where I saw an opal (my birthstone) that I later had made into a ring. The occasion was a demonstration both to the police and to me that from now on there could be nothing amateurish about the way in which the logistics of my visits were organized.