by Chris Mullin
Out into the garden and away across the park. A crisp, clear autumn day. Sunshine on golden leaves. A homeless woman sits scribbling on a park bench, her possessions piled around her. What is she writing? A letter to the Prince of Wales perhaps?
Friday, 18 November
Sunderland
To the Women’s Centre in Green Terrace. An excellent enterprise which for 20 years has been enticing otherwise excluded women back into the world of education and work. Single mothers, asylum seekers, women who, without the lifeline of education, face a life ensnared in benefit culture. Fernanda, the Angolan woman who I helped to rescue from Yarlswood last week, is there learning English. Exactly in line with government policy one might think. It was. Until recently. But now the line from On High has changed. The focus is now relentlessly on the young. As a result the City of Sunderland College has slashed its funding. An application to the lottery has been rejected, on the grounds that it is not the business of the lottery to make up a shortfall in government funding. Result: the centre faces annihilation. It’s the same all over town. All traditional sources of finance – Single Regeneration Budget, European Social Fund – are drying up simultaneously. If nothing changes, we face a wholesale collapse of the voluntary sector. The women who run the centre want my help, but what can I do? I will write a stern letter to the lottery and provide a ‘To Whom It May Concern’ letter to enclose with future funding applications, but we all know it’s not enough.
Monday, 21 November
The Strangers’ Cafeteria, House of Commons
Joined at lunch by a Yorkshire MP, a mild-mannered fellow, incensed by The Man’s latest foray into education. ‘We’re opening the door for selection. Whatever safeguards we put in place, whatever assurances we give will be absolutely worthless once the Tories are in power.’ And then: ‘I think we will lose the next election. The Tories will come to some sort of understanding with the Lib Dems and we’ll find that we’ve opened the door to the market in health and education. And when we protest they will reply, “But this is your policy; you started it.” We’ll be vulnerable for years. Our benches will be full of ex-ministers who won’t have the stomach for the fight.’ As he talked his anger mounted and most of it was directed at The Man. A straw in the wind.
Tuesday, 22 November
The Adjournment Restaurant, Portcullis House.
Lunch with Bruce Grocott, who shares the general dismay at The Man’s latest education wheeze. We talked of reshuffles. Bruce, who has attended many, says that when it comes to the lower ranks they are totally arbitrary. Who is in, who is out depends less on ability than on the way the dice fall. Very few Cabinet ministers put themselves out to save junior colleagues who are at risk of the chop, although Jack is one who does. Which makes my downfall all the more mysterious.
A summons to see Deputy Chief Whip, Bob Ainsworth. Ostensibly to receive a bollocking for voting against the government last week, but in practice to sound me out about the future. The whips are terrified that the impending uprising over education will prove fatal both to The Man and to our prospects. Bob is a good man. Decent, down to earth, no bluster. He said, ‘Your standing in this place has gone right down. It used to be that high’ – he raised his hand – ‘and now it’s down here’ – he lowered his hand. ‘Why? Because no sooner are you out of government than you start voting against the whip.’
‘I prefer to look at it another way,’ I replied. ‘I’ve never devoted much time to sucking up to my superiors in the hope of preferment, and the fact that I have been preferred anyway is a source of resentment among those who have sucked up.’ That, plus the fact that many of my friends have retired or been dispatched to The Other Place.
‘Where do you stand on the education reforms?’
I was non-committal. ‘I’ve no desire to become a serial rebel, but I shall listen carefully to what my local authority has to say. Anyway, I’m not your problem.’ I cited yesterday’s conversation with the anonymous Yorkshireman.
‘If Tony’s defeated he will have to go. There will be chaos and we’ll lose the election,’ said Bob.
‘Then he’d better start listening.’
I may be wrong, but I had the impression that was Bob’s opinion, too.
Monday, 28 November
Victoria Line Tube, between King’s Cross and Green Park
I am sitting opposite a moon-faced Arab woman dressed exactly as the failed suicide bomber arrested in Jordan the other day – in a headscarf and a long gown that reaches to her ankles. She is fiddling interminably with the contents of a British Home Stores plastic bag under which is concealed some sort of thin strap. Am I the only one who has noticed? She sees me watching. She stops, throwing occasional anxious glances in my direction. After a while I notice that the thin strap leads to her handbag, but I am not entirely reassured. A relief to disembark at Green Park and watch the train disappear into the tunnel, one ear half-cocked for the explosion which, mercifully, never comes.
Committee Room 14
Gordon Brown addressed the parliamentary party; attendance surprisingly thin. He spoke well, with passion and occasional flashes of humour but, as ever, something is lacking. There is no light in those eyes and he looks dreadfully out of condition – exhausted, flabby, stomach starting to spill over his belt. Oddly enough, his faithful acolyte, Ed Balls, is developing the same haunted, driven look as his master. Is there something in the water at the Treasury?
Tuesday, 29 November
This evening, an appearance on Newsnight to discuss ‘extraordinary rendition’, the American habit of kidnapping terrorists and franchising them out to foreign torturers. People are beginning to ask how much HMG knows about all this. Not a lot is my guess, but there is such a thing as wilful ignorance.
Wednesday, 30 November
The Lycee, Kennington
A BBC television crew came to interview me about Tony Benn. They are preparing an hour-long obituary programme, prompted by his recent collapse and the discovery that they have nothing substantial on the stocks. They focused mainly on the battles of the late seventies and early eighties, having already interviewed Denis Healey, Neil Kinnock and Shirley Williams. My role, therefore, was to be a witness for the defence. I steered clear of Tony’s later retreat into impossibilism. With any luck it will be many years before it sees the light of day. When I looked up my notes from that era I did find one lovely line. His description of Kinnock: ‘A vacuum surrounded by charisma.’
Friday, 2 December
Sunderland
At this evening’s meeting of the management committee, an ear-bashing re my vote on the Terrorism Bill. The Silksworth women are on the warpath and a councillor, who I have long suspected of treason, muttered, ‘If you can vote with your conscience, I’ll vote with mine when the time comes.’ Even Dave Allen started up, asking why MPs weren’t subject to the same discipline as councillors, until I reminded him that he had been one of those insisting that I vote against the government on Iraq, at which point he went quiet. A couple of people whispered ‘Well done’ as they went out, but they had kept their mouths shut throughout.
Monday, 5 December
To the chamber for Gordon’s pre-Budget statement. A note of humility might have been in order, given that his growth forecast was way out of line with reality, but Gordon doesn’t do humility. Instead, cheered on by the troops, he unleashed a blizzard of facts and figures (all conveniently in billions rather than percentages) with a view to overwhelming anyone who dared question his stewardship. Young George Osborne, who, as Gordon was at pains to remind us, is the seventh Shadow Chancellor to face him across the dispatch box, was almost swept away in the torrent. I can’t believe that Osborne will last any longer than his predecessors. He looks permanently pink and facetious, as though life is one big public school prank.
Then to an upper committee room for the first meeting of the all-party group on extraordinary rendition, which, for a committee that has never met and has no formal status, is attractin
g an enormous amount of attention. Andrew Tyrie, whose brainchild it is, was in the chair and Menzies Campbell and I are his deputies. Happily our meeting coincided with a carefully worded statement by Condoleezza Rice which, at first glance, appeared to be an indignant denial of the suggestion that the US was handing prisoners over to foreign torturers. We took evidence from Stephen Grey, a journalist who has been tracking the movements of the mysterious CIA planes which have been using UK airports, and James Crawford, a professor of international law. The key question, which keeps coming up, is the extent to which the UK is implicated. There is no evidence that we are involved but we do seem to have been displaying a disappointing lack of curiosity. When asked to comment, Jack looks distinctly sheepish.
Tuesday, 6 December
Most of this morning’s papers suggest that Gordon was trounced by Osborne yesterday. Only goes to show how wrong one can be. Or perhaps I was attending a different event.
At three o’clock I turned on the television to witness the anointing of David Cameron. I must say the Tories have conducted themselves well during their ballot. Little or no unpleasantness, a civilised exchange of views involving a wide audience. It can only be good for them and for British politics as a whole. All the signs are that they have recovered the will to win. Cameron comes across as fluent, fresh, open-minded. We underestimate him at our peril.
Wednesday, 7 December
A big turn-out for David Cameron’s first PMQs. The galleries were packed as well as the chamber. He was all right, but not brilliant. At one point he departed from his script to have a go at Hilary Armstrong, who was behaving badly on the front bench. The Man was very gentle with him, which was sensible in the circumstances.
Thursday, 8 December
A hilarious moment at Treasury questions (which I unfortunately did not witness). George Osborne was complaining about Gordon’s overestimate of the growth rate, whereupon Dennis Skinner rose and said, ‘Is my Right Honourable friend aware that in the seventies and eighties we’d have thanked our lucky stars in the coalfield areas for growth of 1.75 per cent?’ Then, after a suitable pause, he added, ‘The only things growing then were the lines of coke in front of Boy George and the rest of them.’ Uproar. The Speaker called on Dennis to withdraw, which he declined (‘It must be true, it was in the News of the World’), scurrying out of the chamber before the Speaker could evict him. I came across Dennis holding court in the Tea Room. ‘I warned him, I warned those public school boys that I’d do them.’ Apparently Osborne and his mates had been taunting Dennis about his age.
Monday, 12 December
To London. From the train, fine views of Lumley Castle and Burn Hall, illuminated by winter sunshine. Nearer London a distant glimpse of the vast black cloud arising from the huge fire at an oil depot at Hemel Hempstead. Across the aisle, a woman with a small blond boy. It wasn’t until we were past Doncaster that I realised she was Sarah Brown. She looked exhausted and preoccupied so I made no attempt to strike up a conversation until we were pulling into King’s Cross. I’m glad I did because she had recognised me and was friendly once we established contact.
Wednesday, 14 December
A call from Nick Raynsford. Would I like to take part in the uprising over the Education White Paper? Ever so respectable. Estelle Morris is leading the charge and David Blunkett is lurking somewhere in the background, acting the honest broker. Nick emailed a ten-page paper, intended as a constructive alternative to the White Paper, and I agreed to sign up, but steered clear of the press conference. I hope the government has the sense to listen, otherwise another crisis looms.
Tuesday, 20 December
An opinion poll in the Guardian puts the Tories ahead of us for only the second time in 12 years. If asked to choose between David Cameron and Gordon Brown the gap widens. Might just be a blip, but I somehow doubt it. I think we’re in trouble.
On the train home I finished reading A Spin Doctor’s Diary by Lance Price, a surprisingly readable first-hand account of New Labour’s total obsession with news management. Price speaks highly of The Man but of Gordon he says, ‘He does come across as a pretty ghastly human being sometimes, but his friends seem to like him.’ One can’t help wondering if Gordon is really the man to see off Cameron. I guess it is too late. We’re going to end up with Gordon come what may.
Thursday, 22 December
Sunderland
To Sandhill View School, a New Labour success if ever there was. Twelve years ago it was a sink school with falling rolls and less than 10 per cent of pupils graduating with five or more GCSEs at grades A to C. Today on precisely the same catchment, more than half the children are achieving those grades. To what do we attribute this miracle? First, a brand-new school with state of the art facilities (a Private Finance Initiative, by the way). Second, a switch to vocational training for less academic students. Third, some first-rate dedicated teachers. One veteran teacher spoke of the difficulty of motivating boys. ‘Mothers around here have low expectations of their sons. It is assumed that daughters will be responsible for everything – earning, bringing up children, housekeeping.’
Saturday, 24 December
I called at Hill’s Bookshop, which is closing after 140 years. The manager says it’s hopeless trying to compete with the chains. Some of the big supermarkets are demanding discounts of over 70 per cent and ‘three for two’ deals on new books are destroying the independent sector. A new hardback in some of the big chains has a shelf-life of just two weeks, after which if they fail to sell, they go back to the publishers to be pulped. Madness.
Tuesday, 27 December–Friday, 30 December
Helions Bumpstead, Essex
Three days with Liz and Mum. Weather for the most part icy. Despite snow and sleet long walks each day with Liz’s dog, Rosie. Mum bright, but frail and increasingly bent. Up and down to the toilet every half-hour. ‘I never thought I’d end up like this,’ she said as I helped her to the bathroom for the umpteenth time. Of Brewster House she remarked, ‘I thought it was only temporary. I never expected it to be a life sentence.’ And when, just before Liz took her back to Brewster House, we took a photograph she said quietly, ‘The last picture of Granny.’ Despite all, no real sign of self-pity. Mostly she was chatty and cheerful, playing cards and Scrabble with the children. Underneath, however, I detect a deep melancholy. Especially as regards the sale of Manor Drive. Had she been willing to cooperate and had we tried harder to persuade her, there is no reason why she shouldn’t still be there today.
Saturday, 31 December
The Lycee, Kennington
The end of 2005. Not a good year.
CHAPTER TWO
2006
Wednesday, 4 January
To Newcastle for a tour of the new Crown Prosecution Service HQ. One interesting snippet. A senior prosecutor confirmed what I have long suspected – that GCHQ does tap domestic traffic. No doubt that helps to explain why the Security Service is so reluctant to make intercept evidence admissible in court.
Thursday, 5 January
I am reading the wartime diaries of Jock Colville, Churchill’s private secretary. Aside from Colville’s general brilliance and the maturity of his judgement (he was only 25 when the war started), several things strike me:
(1) The extent to which, even as late as 1940, the country was run by aristocrats; virtually everyone Colville knows is a toff and he is always bunking off for weekends at country houses and dining at posh clubs in St James’s.
(2) How laid-back it all seemed, at least in the early days of the war; the diary is full of entries such as ‘Rode at Richmond before breakfast . . .’ ‘Back to work at 3.30pm after dining at home . . .’ Even on the morning of the Norway debate, which brought down the government, the Prime Minister’s Assistant (as he then was) Private Secretary is to be found ‘riding at Richmond under cloudless skies . . .’ And this is from the entry for 15 May 1940, the day of a Cabinet reshuffle: ‘Most of the afternoon was spent offering under-secretaryships to various politi
cians and it was my difficult job to explain on the telephone to Kenneth Lindsay, the Duke of Devonshire, Lord Denham and Captain McEwen that their services were no longer required.’ Imagine the row these days if a minister, instead of being called personally by the Prime Minister, were telephoned by some 25-year-old under-strapper to be told that he was being ‘let go’.
(3) How absolutely useless the French were. If Colville is to be believed, their military by and large refused to engage the Germans, only threatening a fight when we demanded they surrender their fleet, rather than handing it over intact to the Germans.