by Jonathan Coe
And now, dear Diary, I am about to trust you with some top secret information: for the truth of the matter is, I THINK I AM IN LOVE. Yes! For the very first time! The President of the Association is a girl from Somerville called Margaret Roberts and I have to say that she is an absolute pip!1 An utterly gorgeous head of nut-brown hair – I just wanted to bury myself in it. Most of the time all I could do was stare at her but afterwards I did pluck up the nerve to go up and say how much I’d enjoyed the meeting. She thanked me and said she hoped I’d come again. Just try stopping me!
She made the most brilliant speech. Everything she said was true. It was all true. I’ve never heard it put so clearly before.
My heart and mind are yours, Margaret, to do with what you will.
February 11th 1948
Uncle Lawrence visited today. This is good news, because we’re only halfway through term and I’m already running out of cash, and you can always rely on the old boy to slip you something on his way out. Gillam was in my rooms when he arrived, at about 12.30, so he came out to lunch with us too. I thought this might cause fireworks, because he and Uncle were bound to get on to politics sooner or later: it was all quite good-natured, however. Gillam is all for Labour – we’ve always tried to keep off the subject, for the most part, but privately I think that most of what he talks is a lot of rot. Anyway, Uncle soon sniffed him out for a hardened Bevanite,2 and began ribbing him about this and that. He asked him what he thought of the idea of a National Health Service and of course Gillam went into raptures about it. But then Uncle said, In that case, why do you think all the doctors are opposing it? – because apparently only yesterday the British Medical Association voted (again) not to cooperate with the whole thing. Gillam said something feeble about the forces of reaction having to be resisted, and then Uncle pulled the rug out from under his feet again by saying that actually, as a businessman, he thought the idea of having a centralized Health Service made a lot of sense, because ultimately it could be run as a business, with shareholders and a board of directors and a chief executive, and that was the way to make sure it was efficient, to run it along business lines, i.e. with a view to making a profit. All of this was absolute anathema to Gillam, of course. But Uncle was in full swing by now, and started saying that in fact the Health Service, if properly managed, could turn out to be the most profitable business of all time, because health care was like prostitution, it was something for which the demand could never dry up: it was inexhaustible. He said that if someone could get himself appointed manager of a privatized Health Service, he would soon be just about the richest and most powerful man in the country. Gillam argued that this would never happen, because the commodity involved – human life – could not be quantified. Quality of life, he said, was not something you could put a price on, and added, In spite of anything Winshaw might say to the contrary. This was a rather flattering allusion to a short paper which I gave to the Pythagorean Society last year, under the title ‘Quality is Quantifiable’ – in which I argued (rather frivolously, it has to be said) that there was no condition – spiritual, metaphysical, psychological or emotional – which could not be expressed mathematically, by some sort of formula. (This paper seems to have made a bit of a splash: Gillam told Uncle, in passing, that its title invariably comes up in conversation whenever my name is mentioned.)
After lunch Uncle and I took tea together in my rooms. I congratulated him on ribbing Gillam so successfully but he assured me that it had all been perfectly serious, and I would do well to remember what he’d said about the Health Service. He asked me what I was planning to do when I left Oxford and I said I hadn’t decided, it was probably either industry or politics. When I said politics he asked which side, and I said I didn’t know, and he said it didn’t make much difference at the moment, they were both too far to the Left, it was a reaction against Hitler. Then he said there were several companies he could find me a position with, if I wanted: there was no point in starting at the bottom, I might as well go straight on to the board. So I thanked him for that and said I would bear it in mind. I’d never cared much for Uncle Lawrence before now, but he really does seem a very decent sort. As he left he gave me eighty pounds in ten pound notes, which should see me through the next few weeks nicely.1
∗
BBC TRANSCRIPTION SERVICE
PROGRAMME TITLE: ‘Matters of Moment’
TX: 18 July 1958
PRESENTER: Alan Beamish2
BEAMISH: … We move on now to a new feature which we have called ‘Backbencher’, and which we hope will soon establish itself as a regular item on the programme. If we want to know the Prime Minister’s views on any particular issue, or – em – the views of the Leader of the Opposition, for instance, then we all know where to look. We can find them in the newspapers, or we can hear them on the wireless. But what of the – em – ordinary, working Member of Parliament, the backbencher, the man you have elected to best represent the interests of your own local community? What does he think of the larger – em – political questions of the day? To help us find out, I have pleasure in welcoming to the studio our first guest in this series, Henry – em – Winshaw, the Labour member for Frithville and Ropsley. Mr Winshaw, good evening.
WINSHAW: Good evening. Now, what this government fails to understand –
BEAMISH: Just a moment, Mr Winshaw. If I might just leap in with a little – em – biographical information, so that our viewers at home might know something of the background …
WINSHAW: Oh, yes, certainly. By all means.
BEAMISH: Now, you were born in Yorkshire, I believe, and took a degree in Mathematics from – em – Oxford University. In the years since leaving university, I understand that you worked in industry and held the post of Executive Chairman on the board of Lambert and Cox at the time when you put yourself forward for candidacy in the Labour Party.
WINSHAW: That’s correct, yes.
BEAMISH: You were elected to Parliament in 1955 but have retained your position with Lambert, and in addition you’ve continued to serve as an active – em – board member with Spraggon Textiles and Daintry Ltd.
WINSHAW: Well, I believe it’s very important to maintain contact with the manufacturing – erm – process, at – erm – at grassroots level, as it were.
BEAMISH: Naturally, with your close interest in – em – matters industrial, you must have strong views on Mr Amory’s1 recent decision to relax the credit squeeze.
WINSHAW: I certainly do. And what this government simply fails to understand is that –
BEAMISH: But before we come on to that topic I thought we should perhaps consider things in a more – em – global perspective, because after all only one issue has been dominating proceedings in the Commons for the last few days, and that of course is the revolution in – em – Iraq.1 You must have been following the debates with interest.
WINSHAW: Ah. Well I haven’t been in the House this week, nearly as much – erm – nearly as much as one would wish. Business commitments have – I mean constituency business, of course – have been very – erm – very pressing …
BEAMISH: But, for instance, what sort of impact do you, personally, think that Brigadier-General Kassem’s uprising will have on the balance of power?
WINSHAW: Well … well, the whole Middle East situation, as you know, is very delicate.
BEAMISH: Absolutely. But I think it’s true to say that this was an especially bloodthirsty coup, even by the standards of the region.
WINSHAW: Quite.
BEAMISH: Do you foresee that Mr Macmillan2 will face any problems in recognizing the new government?
WINSHAW: Oh, I’m sure he’d … know them if he saw them. I gather he’s pretty well acquainted with that part of the world.
BEAMISH: No, my point, Mr Winshaw – my point is that there is concern, in some quarters, about the effect that the violent imposition of a new, left-wing regime will have on our trading prospects with Iraq. And indeed on our relations generally.
/> WINSHAW: Well, I personally don’t have any relations in Iraq, but anybody who does would be well advised, I would have thought, to get them flown home at once. It sounds absolutely ghastly out there at the moment.
BEAMISH: Let me put it another way. There’s been considerable disquiet in the House over Mr Macmillan’s decision to send British troops into the area. Do you think we could now be faced with another Suez?
WINSHAW: No, I don’t, and I’ll tell you why. The Suez, you see, is a canal: a very large canal, as I understand it, running through Egypt. Now there are no canals in Iraq. Absolutely none at all. This is the essential factor which has been overlooked by people who have tried to make this point. So I really don’t think the comparison stands up to scrutiny.
BEAMISH: Finally, Mr Winshaw, do you see any irony in the fact that this coup – so hostile, potentially, to our national interests – has been carried out by an army trained and equipped by the British? Traditionally, the British and Iraqi governments have cooperated very closely in this area. Do you think their military ties will now be a thing of the past?
WINSHAW: Well, I very much hope not. I’ve always thought that the Iraqi military tie is an extremely attractive one, and I know there are many British officers who wear it with pride. So it would be a sad day for our country if that were to happen.
BEAMISH: Well, I see now that we’re out of time, and all that remains for me to say is – Henry Winshaw, thank you very much for being our guest on the programme. And now over to Alastair for our location report.
WINSHAW: Is there a bar in here?
BEAMISH: We’re still on air, I think.
∗
February 5th 1960
The shock of my life. Not having much to do this morning, wandered into the House at around eleven. The agenda wasn’t promising: second reading of the Public Bodies (Admission of the Press to Meetings) Bill. This was to be the maiden speech of the new Member for Finchley, one Margaret Thatcher: and blow me if she didn’t turn out to be the self-same Margaret Roberts who knocked me for six at the Conservative Association back in Oxford! Fifteen years ago, for Heaven’s sake! She made the most magnificent début – everyone was congratulating her in the most effusive terms – although to my shame I have to say that I only took in about half of it. While she was speaking the years just seemed to slip away, and by the end I was probably staring at her open-mouthed across the benches like some sex-starved pubescent. That hair! Those eyes! That voice!
Afterwards I approached her in the Corridor to see if she remembered me. I think she did: she wasn’t just saying it. She’s married, now, of course (to an entrepreneur of some sort), with children (twins).1 What pride, what wonderful pride that man must feel. She was rushing off to meet him, and we spoke for only a few minutes. Then I dined alone in the Members’ Room, and then back to digs. Telephoned Wendy, but didn’t have much to say. She sounded drunk.
What a millstone she’s become. Even the name – Wendy Winshaw – even that sounds absurd. Daren’t take her out in public with me any more. Now 3 years and 247 days since last coitus. (With her, that is.)
Asked Margaret what she thought about Macmillan and his winds of change.2 She didn’t give much away, but I suspect we think alike. Neither of us can afford to declare our hands at this stage.
I feel, just as I did all those years ago – tho’ perhaps now with more reason – that our destinies are inextricably bound together.
September 20th 1961
Impertinent telephone call this afternoon from the Whip, who has somehow caught wind of our little contretemps up at Winshaw Towers over the weekend.1 Don’t ask me how – the thing was in the local paper, but Lawrence will already have seen to it that it doesn’t get any further. Damn this wretched family of mine! If ever they turn out to be a liability … Well, they can expect no loyalty from me.
Anyway, he wanted to know about Tabitha and her illness and whether we had any other mental cases locked away in the attic at all. I did my best to play it all down, but he didn’t seem entirely convinced. If it gets back to Gaitskell2 (as I’m sure it will) – what will that do to my cabinet prospects?
July 14th 1962
Much righteous indignation in the newspapers over Macmillan’s reshuffle. I must say that sacking seven ministers in one night seems pretty good going to me. For my own part – not that I’m allowed to say this to anyone, of course – I admire (and am pleasantly surprised by) his guts. We could do with the same ruthlessness in our own party, frankly, to get rid of some of the spineless Yes-Men who have allowed the Communists to get a foothold – those ructions at Glasgow merely being the most public example.3 I’d hoped, to be honest, that most of that nonsense would have died with Bevan. What place is there for me if the party drifts further and further to the Left? There’s talk of Wilson becoming the next leader, which would be nothing short of disastrous. The man hates and despises me, for one thing. Never says hello at Conference or in the House. Seven bloody years I’ve sat on these benches and I’m damned if it’s not going to pay off in the end.1
November 8th 1967
Brief but humiliating conversation with Richard Crossman2 in the Tea Room this afternoon. Ostensibly he stopped by to congratulate me on my appointment, but there was an element of mockery there. I could hear it. Bastard. Well, Parliamentary Undersecretary: it’s a step nearer to the front bench, isn’t it? There’s no point in fooling myself, though. The fact is that if I was with the Other Side I’d be near the top of the shadow team by now. I’m batting for the wrong eleven, and it’s getting more and more obvious. Wilson and his pack of cronies don’t have the faintest idea what a man of ability looks like. No vision, any of them.
Nothing but gloom on the financial front, too. Under this blinkered administration it’s becoming impossible for businesses to forge ahead – like trying to run through treacle. Profits down 16% at Amalgamated, 38% at Evergreen. Dorothy seems to be doing well, however, so her offer of a non-executive position starts to look more and more attractive. Should I resign at the next election and get out of this rat race altogether?
Of course, there’s no guarantee that I’d get back in, in any case. Very much a moot point at the moment. Wendy’s little appearance in the local rag won’t have helped at all. Stupid bitch: with that much inside her, she was lucky not to have crashed the thing. Could have been killed.
(Dangerous line of thinking, Winshaw. Very dangerous.)
June 19th 1970
Well, we deserved to lose.1 Now the country will get the most hardline government it will have known since the war, and a good thing too. People need shaking out of their swinish complacency.
Margaret has her cabinet post at last: Education. She will be wonderful, I just know she will.
Keith Joseph2 in charge of Health. He’s a bit of an unknown quantity to me. Hasn’t made a big impression. All I’ve noticed is a slightly manic gleam in his eye, which I find a trifle disconcerting.
My majority down to 1,500. Amazes me that it’s as big as that, frankly – but these people would probably vote for a tailor’s dummy if it wore a badge with ‘Labour’ written on it. What a dismal farce it all is.
March 27th 1973
Debate on Joseph’s NHS reforms3 dragged on for another day. The usual people making the usual footling objections. Our Man making a poor job of his speech. Didn’t stay to hear the whole thing – dropped in and out during the course of the day. The Bill isn’t all it should be, but a step in the right direction: more efficient management structure, more externals (or ‘generalists’ as he calls them) on the various boards – business people, I assume that means. I think this may be it – the beginning of the asset-stripping process. So I must start looking for ways to make my move.
Voting, finally, at about 10.15. Did my duty, as per usual. But will try to buttonhole Sir Keith some time over the next few days and let him know where my allegiances really lie. He looks the sort of chap who can keep a secret.
July 3rd 1974
; Forgot to mention it at the time, but Wendy died last week. Came as no surprise to anyone, really – least of all me. 20 aspirin and a big tumbler-full of Scotch. Never did anything by halves, that woman.
Funeral this morning, so whizzed up the motorway and made it just in time. Fairly low-key affair – no family, thank God. Back to London in time to hear Castle’s statement on the nurses’ strike.1 Confirmed my worst fears – she wants to phase private beds out of the Health Service altogether. Lunacy. Am beginning to see our election victory (if you can call it that) for what it was: a national disaster. This cannot go on. Wilson can’t govern for long without a majority and when he announces the next polling date, I shall stand down. Please God let it be soon.
October 7th–10th 1975
Attended the Conservative Conference in my new capacity as journalist. The editor wants 8–900 words a day, my brief being to decide whether Margaret’s election2 means a break with old-style Conservatism once and for all. He thought it would be interesting to have someone write about it from a Left perspective, although he may get a surprise when he reads what I have to say.1