Breaking the Code (43 page)

Headline: ‘Hanley fulfils deep foreboding.’

When I got to the department, John K. handed me a letter: ‘Hayden Phillips mentioned that there were rules set out in
Questions of Procedure for Ministers
governing the activities of Parliamentary Private Secretaries. He thought you might want to see them, and they are attached.’ It’s three pages of closely typed blah. I am clearly to be kept in my place.

I am commuting to Bournemouth for the party conference. I saw Margaret Thatcher. She looks quite terrible: gaunt, pale, shrunken. She’s lost at least a stone, and the mad glint in her eye had gone. She just looked sad. I saw Norman Lamont who has never looked happier! He’s been making mischief on the fringe, telling us to reject a European superstate, and dismissing the PM’s approach as ‘simplistic’. Douglas Hurd is being magisterial, Geoffrey Howe is huffing and puffing in the wings, Norman Tebbit (now looking like a moth-eaten polecat) is adding his own touch of bile to the brew.

The news from the conference platform is that the Michaels did well – Heseltine did his usual stuff and they stood and cheered; Portillo wrapped himself in the Union Jack, denounced Europe’s ‘crackpot schemes’ and demanded ‘clear blue water’ between us and the opposition, and they stood and they stamped and they
roared
. And Stephen’s debut passed off well enough. Rousing the conference crowd at the fag-end of the day when National Heritage is your brief isn’t easy – isn’t possible, actually – but Stephen’s speech was sensible, thoughtful, and well-received. The really good news is that Jeremy’s speech was a triumph – all is forgiven, gaffe-man is forgotten. Verna [Hanley] is beaming and Jeremy is greeting and gladhanding and backslapping to the manner born. They took us to their ‘suite’: they’ve got a pair of tiny interconnecting bedrooms. We went in and closed the door and hugged them long and hard. ‘It’s been one hell of a summer.’ They’re shattered. They both had tears in their eyes.

The speech is behind me. I was going to say it was a triumph, but now I’m wondering. It certainly felt like a triumph at the time.

After our drinks ‘do’ for the activists last night (the usual: us, the Goodlads, the Sackvilles,
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Jonathan Aitken) we murmured something about ‘getting on to the next “do”,’ climbed into the car under cover of darkness and raced home. (For sentimental reasons I was almost tempted to stay: we were at the Palace Court Hotel where, aged twenty-one, I treated Michèle – more than once – to a slap-up dinner of lobster Thermidor and chilled Sauternes!) This morning I drove back down again – alone. Sometimes, on a difficult day, I prefer to go it alone – I can concentrate on the task in hand, not worry about M – and then, if it’s a success, I can report back, and, if it’s a disaster, I can pretend it never happened.

I found my way to the makeshift greenroom behind the stage. The Cabinet was gathering, lots of bonhomous banter, Gummer giggling, clanking of coffee cups, genuine pleasure – and relief – that Jeremy has survived the week and come out on top. I huddled in a corner with the PM. They were fiddling with his tie, which was fine, but what was absurd was they were still fiddling with his speech. (The essence of a conference speech is that it is full of bravura banality and uplifting clichés – you could write it several years in advance! But, no…) Anyway, at 2.00 p.m. the moment was upon us. The party apparatchiks lined us up behind the stage, the martial music played and on we trooped – the party hierarchy, me, the Cabinet: only the PM stayed behind. I was introduced, nice applause, full house, over the top. I did my stuff: a couple of jokes; praise for the activists (laid on with a trowel); knock the opposition (compare/contrast our team with theirs: mocking Prescott, Cook,
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Beckett – looking at Hezza, ‘Who needs Bambi when we’ve got the Lion King?’ – line kindly provided by Peter Shepherd
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who I bumped into on my way to the platform – it worked a treat); encapsulate the policies they love best in three sentences; throw in a touch of sentiment (‘You do this not just for love of party, but for love of country’); then rack up the pace and the emotional charge for the peroration: ‘Ours is the only party that believes, that truly believes, in the United Kingdom. Ours is the only party that understands … Ours is the only party etc. etc. … Onward and upward!’ Cue: sustained standing ovation – which, let’s face it, is very nice.

Thinking of Michèle, I tried not to milk it and after a wave or two (well, three – possibly four) I returned modestly to my place. Lots of back-slapping from all round and
then, as we were settling down for the PM’s entrance, a party man (I don’t know who he was) leant over and said, ‘Brilliant, well done.’ I nodded gratefully. ‘Of course, you know what W. G. Grace said to the young fellow who bowled him out with his first ball?’ (I raised an eyebrow.) ‘“I think you’ll find, lad, that the crowd came to see me bat, not to see you bowl.”’

In fact, both the PM and I did exactly what was required of us. I offered fifteen minutes of rousing knockabout and he gave us an hour of what he is – intelligent, thoughtful, middle-of-the-road, determined, honest. He has no oratorical flourishes to offer, but there is always something quite moving about his manner. The crowd loved him – they want to love their leader.

Afterwards we returned to the green room for tea. I congratulated him on a triumph. He said, ‘I hope yours went well. I’m afraid I didn’t catch it.’

I drove straight back to London. The traffic getting onto the motorway was impossible. I realised there was a car next to mine with its horn honking. I looked across. It was Portillo, leaning forward, with both thumbs up, mouthing, ‘You were brilliant, you were brilliant.’

7.45 a.m.: Breakfast with Stephen at the Ritz.

9.00 a.m.: DNH prayers. Timothy Kirkhope
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is our whip. Droll.

9.30 a.m.: Lottery planning meeting. Who will buy the first lottery ticket? Stephen? The PM? What happens to the money if they win?

11.00 a.m–1.00 p.m.: Good catch-up session with Di. Lunch in the Tea Room: smoked mackerel, salad, lots of tomato and grated carrot, no dressing, cup of tea. Much chuntering about the royals: Sir Marcus and co. think Charles and Diana should divorce – ‘otherwise she’ll end up on the throne – God, can you imagine!’ I point out that the Queen Mother is set to live to a hundred and the Queen will probably do the same which means that Prince Charles will be about eighty if and when he becomes king. Do we really need to worry about this now? James Hill
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is
very
worried: he really is: red-faced, anxious, he feels Charles has done irreparable harm to the monarchy by
talking to Jonathan Dimbleby.
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I got the impression James has actually been losing sleep over it.

At 3.15 p.m. it was Blair’s first outing at PMQs – not at all bad. He paid tribute to the PM’s achievements in Northern Ireland and then went for our divisions over the single currency: Portillo wants to rule it out (true), the PM is contemplating a referendum on the issue (true), the Chancellor has tried to rule out a referendum (also true) – where are we? The PM walked the tightrope well. There were lots more warm guff about Ireland and just two tricky moments: did Mark Thatcher make £12 million from the Al-Yamamah arms negotiations? And doesn’t Lord Archer owe the public an explanation on his Anglia share dealings? The PM, on song, brushed both effortlessly aside.

11.10 p.m.: High drama. I was with John Redwood, thanking him for his oh-so-smooth handling of the Raytheon Jets meeting,
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when [David] Willetts appeared, I thought/hoped to offer me a lift home. But no. ‘Haven’t you heard?’ We hadn’t. (Maddening. What you know and when you know it is everything here: intelligence is power.) He tried to look solemn: ‘A story in tomorrow’s
Guardian
that could prove profoundly damaging.’ He was quite excited. Perhaps we’re all hooked on disaster? In which case, we may be in for one hell of a high. I’ve just come from the Chamber where Stuart Bell, out of the blue, on a point of order, got up and told the House that
The Guardian
is accusing Neil Hamilton and Tim Smith of taking £2,000 a time to ask questions on behalf of Harrods. It beggars belief. There’s a buzz in the building that makes me feel people believe it. I am now off to the Smoking Room to see if the first editions are in yet.

It is extraordinary.

What Mohammed Al-Fayed
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says is this:

This is truly horrendous. Tim I have known since Oxford. We might have gone into business together. I don’t know him well, he’s a dry stick, difficult to know well, but I like him. He’s got a ramrod back, a City background. This doesn’t make sense. And Neil and Christine are real friends. I can’t believe it – and yet – I almost don’t want to put this in writing – I know they did go to Paris at Fayed’s expense. They revelled in it. They relish these treats. But a Paris freebie is one thing: 2,000 quid a question quite another.

Tim Smith has resigned. Yes, he did have a ‘business relationship’ with Fayed and, yes, he failed to register it. Curtains. Another career bites the dust. But Neil denies it all. Well, not quite all. Yes, he stayed at the Ritz, in Fayed’s ‘private rooms’ and the bill topped £3,000, but he is adamant he accepted no fees, no ‘cash for questions’ of any kind.

At Questions the PM was as robust as circumstances allowed. He first got to hear the allegations three weeks ago. They were brought to him by an unnamed emissary, but, said the PM, ‘I was not prepared to come to any arrangements with Mr Al-Fayed’. What? We all gasped. Was the gyppo trying to bribe the PM? Skinner called out, ‘How much did he offer?’ The PM repeated his line, plainly implying that the king of the kasbah was attempting to sort out some sort of deal with the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom – ‘give me citizenship and we’ll say no more about it, Johnnie.’ The PM was doing no deals and put the Cabinet Secretary on the case. As a result of Sir Robin’s discreet enquiries, Tim was forced to put his hands in the air, ‘It’s a fair cop,
guv.’ Amazing. The Tea Room buzz is he took thousands, in cash. Neil, on the other hand, stoutly maintains his innocence: he has written to the PM explicitly denying the charges, he has issued a writ against
The Guardian
, he keeps his job. The Tea Room is not happy: ‘no smoke without fire’, ‘Neil’s a greedy bugger, we all know that’, ‘let him fight his libel action from the backbenches, then come back in glory.’ The last line (from Sir Fergus) is the right one, isn’t it?

Lunch with Michael Grade in his office at Channel 4. He is Mr Schmooze: if he doesn’t get the rebate from ITV, the beautiful C4 movies are going to be in jeopardy … I don’t think he realises the Secretary of State has probably never seen a Channel 4 movie – in truth, has probably never seen Channel 4! Dinner with Bill Deedes
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in Dining Room C. This is what we want: an evening of claret and anecdote – tales of the Smoking Room from the golden age of Supermac. He sees distinct parallels between now and 1963. And suggests we underestimate Blair at our peril. (I don’t think we do underestimate Blair, but we don’t
rate
him. Deep down, he’s shallow. On our side, it’s Cook we most respect. The Tea Room line: if he didn’t look like a garden gnome he’d be their leader – no question.)

Ulrika
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has had her baby: 9 lbs. 11 oz. Michèle: ‘Poor girl.’

I have just left a ‘chin-up’ message on Neil’s answering machine, but he’s an idiot. He emerged from a school he was visiting in his constituency yesterday brandishing a biscuit that one of the children had baked and given him. ‘Shall I declare it?’ he inquired of the photographers at the gate. He just can’t resist it. The inevitable has happened: the picture of Neil and his biscuit (a grinning Christine in the background) adorns the front pages. The PM will not be amused.

Alex Carlile
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(smug bugger, nasty piece of work) is successfully making matters worse. The trip to Paris now appears to have cost £4,000 plus. Carlile wants an investigation by the Committee on Members’ Interests. Neil will have to step down. That seems self-evident to all – except apparently to Neil and Christine. Yesterday I went to Boothferry for David Davis and Morecambe and Lunesdale for Mark Lennox-Boyd: the activists were all of a mind – Hamilton must go. Mark gave me two rather distinguished-looking bottles of claret. Nice man.

Arts & Heritage Advisory Committee: wind and waffle (wind courtesy of Patrick Cormack who I’m afraid does seem somewhat puffed up without cause). Positive European Group: more wind and waffle (I don’t think I’m going to go any more meetings. There really isn’t any point). Douglas Hurd at the FCO: what a class act! How does he manage it? Jocelyn Stevens
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at English Heritage: seems a bit of a self-indulgent, self-regarding piss-artist to me (and certainly not Stephen’s type), but what do I know? Apparently he’s unassailable. The same cannot be said for Neil who is clinging on by his fingernails. He has upset all and sundry (and most critically the PM) by protesting that if the PM could stay in office and pursue a libel action against the publications that suggested he had had an affair with his caterer, Neil should be afforded the same opportunity.