Breaking the Code (20 page)

‘Good morning,’ I ventured, a little too cheerily.

No reply.

‘I’ve come with a Ten Minute Rule Bill.’

‘I do not see you,’ said the clerk.

‘Sorry?’

‘I do not see you, Mr Brandreth.’

‘Then how do you know who I am?’

He didn’t look at me. He simply glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was two minutes to ten.

I left the room, stood stupidly in the hall until I heard Big Ben striking, knocked on the Office door once more and went back in. The clerk couldn’t have given me a more cordial welcome.

Teresa Gorman
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tells me I’m lucky that I’ve only had to wait a couple of hours. ‘In the good old days, you had to queue all night. Seriously. Take a camp bed up there and wait all night. It was rather fun.’

Not much fun at PMQs. John Smith returned to the assault on the Matrix-Churchill arms-to-Iraq affair. Major reiterated that the Scott inquiry will come up with the answers.
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Until it does, of course, the questions hang in the air. Who knew what and when? Nick Lyell
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vehemently denies any cover-up. F. E. Smith
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he ain’t, but he seems a decent cove in a lacklustre way and there’s no reason not to believe him.

I am waiting for the ten o’clock vote (we’re abolishing the wages’ councils) and then I’m off to the Ivy to celebrate Simon’s first night. It’s been a long day.

We went to the lunch at Guildhall to mark the fortieth anniversary of the Queen’s accession. She gave the most wonderful speech – wry, personal and very moving – and, best of all, she spoke before the meal not after it! The establishment was on parade: the Prime Minister, the Leader of the Opposition, the Foreign Secretary, old courtiers (Lord
Charteris),
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old soldiers (Lord Bramall), old darlings (Lord St John of Fawsley) – the lot. We mingled, as one does on these occasions, feeling quietly smug that one is part of the party, and eventually, after the Guard of Honour had been inspected and the Marshal and the Remembrancer and the Commissioner and the Sheriffs and their Ladies had trooped this way and that, we were herded (most politely) into informal pens for ‘informal presentations’ as the royal party came past. The Queen has a filthy cold and was reduced to a whisper (‘I’m not sure my voice will last’) and consequently there was more nodding and smiling than small talk. Someone (the Lord Mayor? Sir Robert Fellowes?
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the Queen herself?) had the bright idea of getting her to make her speech as soon as we were seated, before the meal was served and before her voice ran out. It’s an idea that deserves to catch on. If the speaker does his turn before he eats, he’s in with a chance of actually enjoying the meal. And if the speech is interesting then, as they eat, the guests have got something to talk about. The speech was interesting, as much for the manner as the matter. She talked about her
annus horribilis
, ‘not a year I shall look back on with undiluted pleasure’. She didn’t mention Anne’s divorce, Andrew’s separation, Charles’ marriage on the rocks, but they were in her mind – and ours – and she talked about the weekend’s fire at Windsor with a sense of pain and acute personal loss. She said, rather wistfully, that of course any institution must accept scrutiny and criticism but couldn’t it be done with a touch of humour, gentleness and understanding? She commended loyalty and ‘moderation in all things’.

We were seated with Peter Stothard, the curly-headed new editor of
The Times
(rather a likeable character, self-deprecating, odd-looking, not in a million years would his morning suit ever fit, hardly anyone’s idea of a traditional establishment figure) and every time Her Majesty came up with a sideswipe at the press (and there were several, mostly done more in sorrow than in anger) we gleefully pointed at Peter and giggled. He took it in good part. And he was impressed by the speech. You couldn’t not be.

All eyes glistening we gave Her Majesty a sustained standing ovation. Then Grace was said and we tucked into the turbot, partridge and ruby soufflé with gusto. The final treat of the outing was to turn round with our glasses of forty-year-old port in hand to find ourselves being caught on camera by Andrew Festing. He has been commissioned to paint the official portrait of the occasion. They picked the right man. Son of a Field Marshal, married a general’s daughter, ex-Sotheby’s, good shot, small house in Kensington, family seat in Northumberland, a gentle gentleman, gifted, civilised, amusing, moderate in all things. The Queen must love him.

A perk of the place is a free medical check-up. The doctor (thirty-something, a touch insipid and a specialist in ‘occupational medicine’) comes in two or three times a week and is available in a small, airless makeshift surgery located off the Cromwell Lobby. He did all the usual tests and I was given the usual verdict. ‘A little more exercise probably wouldn’t do any harm. Most people put on a stone or so when they come here. You haven’t done too badly. Moderation in all things.’ My cholesterol is at the upper edge of the range. Why did I lie about my alcohol consumption? I said half a bottle of wine a day and it must be two-thirds. (I assume everyone lies and when you say half a bottle he puts down two-thirds.)

My young war widows did well giving their evidence to the National Heritage Select Committee enquiry on privacy and the press. I met them in Chester and felt their story was one worth telling: in the immediate aftermath of their husbands being killed in Northern Ireland, the grieving widows were plagued by the papers, local and national; and at the funeral of one of the soldiers, the photographers were climbing trees to get better shots.

The PM did well at PMQs. And at 3.30, when he went off to run the country, I stayed in my place for the statement on Sunday Trading (we’re deregulating and getting a free vote); went to the Tea Room during the statement on the revenue support grant (Tea Room talk is of more trouble in store for the Chancellor); and then returned to the Chamber for a four hour stint: the ‘Management of Public Service’ debate. Not the sexiest of subjects. I was ‘persuaded’ (along with a couple of other saps: Edward Garnier,
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Lady Olga Maitland)
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to make a contribution and since the debate had to be kept going till ten o’clock (God knows why) we were encouraged to be as discursive as we felt inclined. My ramblings included a reference to Jeremiah Brandreth, noted Luddite and, in 1817, the last person to be beheaded for treason in England. He was known as ‘the hopeless radical’. As I sat down William Waldegrave told me that it was his forebear, Edward Waldegrave, who led the brigade of hussars sent to suppress Brandreth’s failed uprising.

William opened the debate. Robert Jackson
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closed it. It was exactly like being back at the Union in the late ’60s – except at the Union we played to full houses. During my speech tonight there were at most eight people in the Chamber. No one was really listening to what I had to say. No one will read it in Hansard tomorrow. It will go completely unreported. What there any point to it at all? Not really.

I have just come from drinks with the Princess of Wales in the Cholmondley Room. Everyone said how wonderful she was looking. I thought (ungallantly) that her skin had rather gone to pot: a sort of light pebble dash effect on her beaky nose. I thought the thing to do was try to make her laugh, so I talked about Norman Lamont. I don’t quite know why. I’d just been looking at a cartoon of him in the paper – Norman as a collection of banana skins. Of course, before I opened my mouth I should have thought it through. Diana is sympathetic to poor Norman! The papers have been rotten to him. Just as they have to her. ‘They make things up, you know.’ In the case of the Chancellor, it seems it was the Thresher’s shop assistant who made it up. Norman was not to be found prowling the back streets of Paddington in search of cheap fizz and fags: yes, he had visited Thresher’s, but it was the Connaught Street branch, where he purchased Chateau Margaux at £9.49 the bottle.

In the Tea Room, unfair as it is, I’m afraid we do find the Chancellor’s plight rather comical. ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ chortles Geoffrey Dickens, tucking into his toast and marmalade, leafing through the tabloids in search of more tasty titbits. Geoffrey Johnson-Smith is more circumspect. ‘What was it Napoleon used to ask of his generals? “Is he lucky?” I think we’ve got to concede that Norman has been very unlucky. He’s a decent fellow, but it’s become a bit of a chapter of accidents.’ If Geoffrey’s saying this, then Marcus will be saying it too, and sooner rather than later they’ll be handing poor Norman the dreaded black spot. There’s genuine disquiet at the revelation that Norman’s legal costs for evicting the ‘sex therapist’ from his house last year were covered in part by the Treasury, in part by Central Office. There’s amazement that he allows his Access card to go over the limit and ignores the reminders. There’s a general feeling he’s too accident prone – and too cavalier – for our liking.

Lunch with the Chancellor in the flat at No. 11. It’s more duplex than flat, two floors, spacious but not specially gracious, faded English embassy feel. When I arrived William Hague was in the kitchen warming up the soup. I said I was sorry I hadn’t brought a bottle, but Threshers was closed and my Access was over the limit. Norman laughed. In fact, we both laughed a lot. It was a very jolly little party. The only moment I misjudged it I think was when I stood looking out of the window, peering down onto Downing Street, and said ‘Who’d have thought it? Isn’t it amazing? I’m standing here and you’re Chancellor of the Exchequer!’ That was a touch of
lèse-majesté
too far. It isn’t amazing
to Norman that he’s Chancellor. He believes he’s the right man in the right job – and he’s determined to stay. Inflation remains low, the recession’s bottoming out, the autumn statement went well – ‘the Prime Minister isn’t going to give in to the press and a few disgruntled backbenchers.’ He served a very acceptable wine (not the Margaux, but not at all bad) and couldn’t have been a more relaxed or agreeable host. He does excellent impressions. His Heseltine’s uncanny and his Brandreth’s rather good.

At 5.00 I made my way to the Foreign Secretary’s room at the House and sat with two or three other new boys while Douglas gave us a masterclass on international relations. He offered an effortless world survey, moving easily from one continent to the next, from one war zone to the next, stopping off in countries I’d hardly heard of, but where Britain has interests, influence and friends. The message (if there was one) is that we shouldn’t become obsessed with Europe: there’s NATO, there’s the UN, there’s the Commonwealth. I got the feeling that he and the PM are cooking up some initiative to turn the spotlight on the Commonwealth … perhaps Her Majesty (in a hoarse whisper) put them up to it on Tuesday?

At 7.30 it was a masterclass of a different sort. Jonathan Aitken gave a supper party in honour of Richard Nixon.
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We gathered in Lord North Street, in the long low-ceilinged, Aitken drawing-room (it’s another house that’s bigger than you’d think) and Jonathan introduced us to his ‘friend, President Nixon, who has been so right so often’. This was Nixon as hero, elder statesman and freedom fighter, rather than Tricky Dicky, fiend of Watergate. Nixon then gave a wonderful address, a
tour
d’horizon
, without notes, with surprising dry humour. And with great charm. He worked the room, he played the crowd. He’s eighty, but, on a night like tonight, when there’s an audience, the energy’s still there. He said the energy’s been drained from George Bush.
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He’s been sucked dry. He’s got no more to give. ‘The voters have sensed it and moved on. You can smell a winner. Clinton
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is a formidable campaigner. I should know.’ He was impressive. It was as Churchill said of his ‘great contemporaries’, ‘one did feel after a talk with these men that things were simpler and easier.’

Christopher Hudson
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came to lunch and asked me to produce the two from my intake
that I thought destined to go the furthest. I chose Stephen Milligan and David Willetts.
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And told them that’s the reason they were invited.

I’d planned to spend the afternoon working on my speech for tomorrow, but walking along the corridor towards the Library I was ambushed by one of the whips.

‘What are you doing tonight?’

‘Um – er –’

‘Good. Go straight to the Speaker’s Office and apply for tonight’s adjournment debate.’

‘What? I don’t understand.’

‘The planned adjournment debate’s fallen through. We can’t let the opposition get it. You go now and apply for it.’

‘What’s it got to be about?’

‘Anything you like. Neil Hamilton’s the minister who’s scheduled to answer the debate. Anything to do with the DTI. Inward investment in Chester, deregulation, anything you like. But go. Now. Before anyone else gets in.’

I trotted along obediently and found the Speaker’s secretary and said I understood there might be an opportunity for an unexpected adjournment debate this very evening. ‘Yes, as it happens, there is. What subject?’ ‘Deregulation and small businesses.’ ‘Very good.’

So, the afternoon ruined, frantically I tried to cobble together some thoughts for the debate. I did not do very well – but it didn’t matter. At the right moment I was in the right place and got to my feet and burbled away and kept (loosely) to the theme and appeared to please the whips inordinately. When I’d said my piece, others joined in – including my neighbour from Ellesmere Port,
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who is the dullest in Parliament and believes he’s the brightest. Neil had no more notice of the debate than I had, but his reply was polished and to the point. (I say that and it’s true, but several times while he was speaking he caught my eye and I thought we might both burst out laughing because we both knew how contrived and ridiculous the whole thing was. It’s amazing really: middle-aged men, at the taxpayers’ expense, playing pointless games in the mother of parliaments.)