Nye asked the name of a Tory backbencher who he was eyeing quizzically. He was told the identity of the Member and Nye noticed that his head was connected to his shoulders without an apparent neck. ‘Ah’, said Nye a hangman’s puzzle!’
Herbert Morrison – the wrong speech
My own prize recollection of Herbert Morrison occurred when I was an undergraduate. Morrison was to make two speeches, one the day after the other. The first was to the Oxford University Labour Club and the second to the Ladies’ Co-operative Guild at High Wycombe. When he rose to address the audience he discovered that his press secretary had given as a press release the High Wycombe speech which he had in front of him and in view of the press release he felt honour-bound to deliver the address meant for the Ladies’ Guild! It was not a felicitous occasion. When he said: ‘Mr and Mrs Consumer, I want to discuss your weekly shopping pattern’, he was greeted with mock cheers and guffaws, both of which steadily increased in volume until finally Morrison was reduced to saying: ‘Either my sense of humour is rum, or yours is’. Ever since, for my part, I have always religiously checked any hand-out before it is distributed.
Harold Wilson’s haymaking
One of the more civilised customs of the House of Commons is the practice whereby one MP informs another – whether of his party or not – of his intention to visit the constituency of the MP concerned. This is based on the fact that the MP to be visited is the representative of all the electorate in the constituency.
One day, standing at the Bar of the House, lain Macleod turned to me and said: ‘I’ve just come back from your constituency’. ‘So I noticed’, I replied, ‘having read it in the press’. ‘Surely you are not suggesting’, he replied, ‘that one gives notice to MPs of a different persuasion?’ Attempting to and succeeding in sounding my most pompous, I rejoined: ‘When my father and grandfather took the Tory whip in the House, it was always done, and I am sorry to see that standards have deteriorated since my family left the Tory Party’.
Harold Wilson, observing the custom, and also as a friend, in the spring of 1962 gave me notice that he intended to visit the North Devon Labour Party. He said that he would not be dealing with the Liberals, but concentrating on the record of the Tory government. Having learnt the date, I told him that I, too, was going to North Devon that weekend and would be happy to give him a lift across Exmoor from the station at Taunton, where I kept the car. I would thereby save him between an hour and an hour and a half on his journey. ‘Do you mind?’ said Harold, to which I replied: ‘Of course I don’t mind. You are going down in any event, and I will have the pleasure of your company.’ ‘Will your supporters object?’ asked Harold. ‘I doubt it’, I replied, ‘but if they do, I shall tell them that an opponent should not be treated as a mortal enemy’. ‘Will the Labour Party mind?’ he asked, to which I said: ‘That concerns me even less!’
On the journey I filled him in as to what to expect: the North Devon Labour Party consisted of pockets in three places; at the next election the local party would be lucky to save their deposit; he would get an attendance of between fifteen and twenty; the chairman would be Dick Acland’s former Liberal agent, now a convert; and no arrangements would be made to feed him, so that I would expect him to come back for a late supper.
All went merrily along, until we rounded a corner in remotest Exmoor to find a hay wagon fully laden with bales of hay sideways on, blocking the lane.
I suppose this has been laid on’, said Harold jocularly. ‘Yes’, I said, ‘this is an ambush by the North Devon savages.’ It became clear that the shaft of the hay wagon had broken and the farmer was frantically moving hay bales into the neighbouring field. I became slightly worried and turned to Harold and said: ‘It is a point of honour for me to get you to your meeting on time. We must get out and help carry bales of hay, but please leave your pipe behind.’
Harold rolled up his sleeves and obliged. The farmer said: ‘Good evening, Mr Thorpe, I am sorry to delay you’. He kept looking quizzically at Harold, as if to ask: ‘Where did I last meet you?” Oh’, I said, ‘Let me introduce you. This is Mr Harold Wilson who has very kindly come down to help us with the hay harvest!’ ‘Very kind, I’m sure’, said the farmer.
We got to the Labour meeting on time. The Labour faithful were astonished to see their speaker driven to the door by the local Liberal MP. Harold got out, with wisps of hay clinging to him, and with total aplomb, went into the meeting.
Later that evening a Labour supporter brought Harold to the country hotel where I was living. Harold told me that the meeting was as prophesied, likewise the chairman, likewise the likely outcome in the next general election and most importantly, likewise the absence of supper. This was soon repaired.
Harold Wilson: a tribute at the time of his death
When Harold Wilson died I paid him this short tribute:
‘Harold Wilson was a good friend and a formidable opponent. He was a great parliamentarian and a dedicated democrat. His belief in democracy was not limited to fine phrases but led to positive action. When in government he was convinced that opposition parties were not sufficiently well equipped to oppose the government in power. He therefore initiated the so-called “Short Money” to finance the parliamentary activities of the opposition parties. Although at the time attacked, it is now a generally accepted part of parliamentary life. He considered that the job of the Opposition Chief Whip was full time and therefore should be salaried. He also took the view that the Chief Opposition Whip and the leader of the third party should be Privy Councillors, which had been by no means automatic in the past.’
Harold Lever
Harold Lever, who was Financial Secretary to the Treasury, was one of the great humorists in the House of Commons, and I particularly enjoyed his remark: ‘I am a fair-minded man and I would never accuse this government of dishonesty when a simple explanation of stupidity would suffice’.
I wrongly attributed this dictum to his brother, Leslie Lever, who was the MP for the Ardwick Division of Manchester. Leslie had many qualities but these did not include a ready wit. I am delighted to have this opportunity, albeit posthumously, to correct the record in Harold’s favour.
Pierre Trudeau
There are Liberal parties and Liberal parties. In Australia and Japan the Liberal parties are the equivalent of the Conservatives. In the Republic of Korea the Democratic Liberal Party is also Conservative. In Russia the Liberal Democrat Party is an anti-reform neo-fascist party. Canada stands out as having a liberal Liberal party in a three-party system, which certainly corresponds to the UK Liberal Party. We were loosely bound together by the Liberal International and I was determined to strengthen the links between the UK and Canada.
Trudeau made his first appearance as Prime Minister of Canada at the Commonwealth Conference in London in January 1969. I wrote to the high Commissioner of Canada asking whether it would be possible for him to fix up a meeting with Trudeau and was told that it was impossible. I therefore telephoned Trudeau’s private secretary to say that I understood he was dining at No. 10 that night and so was I; and he would be leaving Claridges for No. 10 and so was I; how would it be if my driver dropped me off at Claridges and I travelled to Downing Street in his car? It worked! I looked forward to our encounter.
By way of introduction I told Trudeau that the UK Liberal Party had a two-million vote behind it and regarded Liberal Canada as the political equivalent of Mecca. The two parties were linked by the Liberal International but it was a very tenuous connection. Lester Pearson had in fact taken part in a UK party political broadcast for the Liberals shortly after giving up the premiership. John Turner – one-time Minister of Justice and Attorney General, Minister of Finance and subsequently Prime Minister in the Canadian Liberal government, had been a college secretary of the Oxford University Liberal Club, of which at the time I was president. Trudeau might be warned by his advisers that some of the European Liberal parties were anti-clerical in nature. This could endanger the Roman Catholi
c vote in Quebec. Whilst this criticism was justified before the war, it no longer applied. I felt that getting to know people like Walter Scheel and Hans-Dietrich Genscher of Germany, and Gaston Thorn of Luxembourg, as fellow Liberals, could be invaluable.
Secondly, Trudeau might have started his premiership with reservations about the unity of the Commonwealth. In fact he would find within ranks people of the intellectual ability of Lee Kuan Yew of Singapore, Julius Nyerere of Tanzania and Indira Gandhi of India. It was not without significance that Canada had played a major part in preventing the break-up of the Commonwealth on the issues of Suez and Rhodesia. For my part, I felt that one of the most important factors of the Commonwealth was that it was about the only organisation in which men and women of all colours, creeds and ideologies sat down with complete equality and relative trust, based on shared history. Finally, he might have regarded the monarchy as something outdated. But he could well find the Queen, with her many years of experience, an invaluable source of knowledge and wisdom.
I felt we had established a rapport and so it was to prove to be. At this stage we reached Downing Street.
Canada under his leadership was to play a vital part in defusing the crisis over the shipment of arms by the UK to South Africa, which I deal with elsewhere. On two occasions Canada, on the issue of Rhodesia, probably averted the break-up of the Commonwealth. I have always thought that Canada felt overshadowed by her neighbour to the south. It was part of Trudeau’s success that Canadians recognised Canada as the world power which she had a right to claim to be.
Charisma is an overworked word, but it certainly applies to Trudeau: a man of infinite charm and negotiating skills which, allied to the fact that he is trilingual (English, French and French-Canadian), were all to play an invaluable part in dealing with the crisis of Quebec. The fundamental amendments which were made to the Canadian constitution during his premiership owed much of its success to the skills of the monarch and the Prime Minister of Canada. The Canadian Liberal Party has played a vital part in the recent history of the Liberal International, meeting on occasion in Ottawa. Now no Liberal International Congress is complete without the participation of Canadian Liberals.
Golda Meir
One of my favourite stories involved Golda Meir, Prime Minister of Israel and President Nixon. Henry Kissinger was the American Secretary of State, whilst Abba Eban, Cambridge educated, was the Israeli Foreign Minister. Nixon remarked: ‘We both have a vital factor in common in our two administrations’. ‘My God’, said Golda, ‘What is it?’ to which Nixon replied: ‘We both have Jewish Foreign Secretaries!’ ‘Oh, yes’, replied Golda, ‘But mine speaks better English than yours!’
On one occasion in November 1972 I called on Golda in the Prime Minister’s office in Jerusalem. It was at the time when there had been several cases of hijacking of aeroplanes. She was anxious to make clear that Israel would never give in to the hijackers. And yet, she said, ‘We are vulnerable. I am a grandmother. Suppose my grandchildren, along with other children, were flying abroad and were hijacked. I hope I would be strong enough to resist the terrorists’ claims. And then again, one is only human, and the temptation would be very great to act in a way which might spare the lives of innocent children.’
Roy Thomson
Roy Thomson was an eminently approachable man, but was very close when it came to cash. At one Guildhall banquet which was part of a state visit, Roy approached me and said: ‘Have you got your car here?’ I replied: ‘Yes, are you in difficulties? Has yours broken down?’ ‘No’, replied Roy. ‘I just don’t pay overtime and sent the car away’. I duly gave him a lift home on this and several occasions. But the most dramatic manifestation of his economy was the 125th anniversary dinner at Claridges for the Illustrated London News. Prince Philip was the chief guest and I would guess that even Roy would have certain inhibitions about asking him for a lift. However, Harold Wilson, then Prime Minister, could be and was asked. I heard Roy say: ‘You just drive to Downing Street and I’ll tell your driver where to take me afterwards’. On the journey back, Harold Wilson apparently said: ‘I hear The Times is in difficulties’. ‘Is that so?’ said Roy. ‘What do they need to do?’ Wilson: ‘They need a first-class business brain, a man of wide experience in owning and administering newspapers. In fact, Roy, you would be the ideal man. Why don’t you take it over and thereby be a national benefactor?’ ‘Oh’, said Roy, rising to the challenge, ‘I’ll ring them up tomorrow’. This was precisely what he did and took over The Times into which he pumped millions. I always wonder whether, had he paid his chauffeur over time, he might not have taken over The Times. As it was, he was a benefactor and I like to feel that the experience of losing so much money was good for his soul.
One abortive exchange between us took place in October 1960 in connection with the News Chronicle. This was a national newspaper which spoke for the liberal conscience in Britain. Rumours were rife that it was about to go out of business; the Manchester Guardian, then printed in Manchester, was more a provincial than a national paper, and there was a need for a radical version, of the quality of the Daily Telegraph. I told Roy that I thought £2 million would be needed to buy the News Chronicle. Broken down, this figure provided for £½ million for pensions; £1 million for losses in the first two years and £½ million for promotion. I made strenuous efforts to contact Lawrence Cadbury, the owner of the News Chronicle, but he was ‘not available’, having already sold out to the Daily Mail. In the debate in the House of Commons I referred to him as the Butcher of Bouverie Street, where the News Chronicle was situated. As predicted at the time, the liberal influence of the Chronicle was submerged and obliterated.
Max Beerbohm
After the war I visited Max in his spiritual home, Villino Chiaro, Rapallo. It was on the side of a hill overlooking the Mediterranean. Unfortunately ‘progress’ had cut a road at the foot of the property which was the main coastal road to the south. He was slightly protected against the noise by the fact that he lived on three levels. At the road level they had a reception room where they received their guests. Further up the garden path was Max’s studio-cum-study which opened on to a veranda giving a superb view of the sea without vision of the road. In his study he had a small, thin, waist-high shelf on which he kept a fabulous collection of cartoons by himself and others. Higher still was a small house where they entertained. When Lady Beerbohm wished to go from level one to level three, as it were, she would clap her hands and two retainers would appear to carry her up the garden to save her heart from being strained. It seemed a rather sensible arrangement. At tea-time she apologised for the fact that the cake had been bought. (‘No need to apologise’, said Max. ‘You always get that little something extra from shop cake that you don’t get with homemade cakes.’
We had driven through Viareggio the day before, down the coast from Rapallo. It was there that Shelley had drowned. I asked Max whether there was any permanent memorial to Shelley. The reply was unexpected: ‘Florence and I have never been to Viareggio.’ In spite of the fact that they had lived up the coast for many years, they had obviously regarded Viareggio as a vulgar seaside resort and given it a wide berth.
One delight of being with Max was that he would often indulge in drawing an instant cartoon. He had given a lecture on Lytton Strachey, and my great uncle asked him what Strachey really looked like. ‘Oh’, said Max, ‘I’ll show you’.
I mention the Beerbohms’ sojourn with my Wood relations elsewhere.
Noel Coward
My friendship with Noel Coward dated from the ’60s. I went to have tea with him in Switzerland and found him as biting and stimulating as his writings were at their best. I asked him whether he liked living in Switzerland. ‘Not very much’, he said. ‘But when I look out of my bedroom window each morning, I see a positively beautiful tax advantage!’
Perhaps his best-known quip related to Queen Salote of Tonga at the Coronation. Anxious not to disappoint the crowd, and despite the fact that it was raining,
this huge majestic lady insisted on having the roof of her carriage down so that she could see and be seen by the crowds. By the time she reached Westminster Abbey she was soaked through. Sitting opposite her in the carriage was an unfortunate little man who turned out to be the Sultan of Kelantan from Malaysia, who it was feared, would die of pneumonia. Somebody asked Noel: ‘Who is the little man in Queen Salote’s carriage?’ That’, said Noel, ‘is her lunch!’
On another occasion, Megan Lloyd George visited Noel in his house in Jamaica. Noticing a rather splendid picture over the chimney piece, she asked who painted it. ‘I did’, said Noel. ‘Is there any limit to your genius?’ she asked. ‘None’, replied Noel, ‘I call this picture Touch and Gaugin!’ Almost the last time I saw Noel, we had supper at the Grill at the Savoy.
Unfortunately our table was quite near the door and countless people would come up and say good evening to me, hoping it would lead to an introduction to Noel there and then. I found that this was slightly embarrassing and apologised. ‘Don’t apologise, dear boy’, was the reply. ‘I always wondered what it was like to be the station-master at Clapham Junction!’
Noel at his most Rabelaisian produced a classic on the occasion when his god-daughter came to have tea with him. To his dismay he saw two dogs copulating on the lawn. He was anxious to deflect the attention of the little girl from this basic scene and of course the inevitable happened. She saw the dogs and asked what was going on. Noel was only temporarily stumped, then replied: ‘The dog in the front is blind and the one behind is pushing her all the way to St Dunstan’s!’
In My Own Time Page 9