Breaking the Code (59 page)

We’re flying to Manchester. Last night we had M’s birthday supper at San Remo, a little Italian restaurant at the top of Castelnau by the Bridge. It was just the two of us, a tiny candle-lit table in the corner. It was like going back twenty-five years. The candle should really have been stuck in a basket-clad Chianti bottle. We had
moules
in a cream and white wine sauce and I don’t think I have enjoyed a meal more
ever
. The whole meal cost less than half a starter at
Le Manoir
. ‘This is what we like, isn’t it?’ said M. It is.

What she doesn’t like is what we’re embarking on now – a full ‘constituency weekend’, lunch with the bishop, the Ellesmere Port Conservative Association dinner, the Cheshire Yeomanry
en fete
at the Town Hall. She doesn’t dislike it – she says all the individual elements are fine (and she’s brilliant at them) – it’s just not what she wants to be doing for the next twenty years. Politics is a way of life and not one she enjoys. ‘You’re out five nights a week, sometimes six. The only night we know we’ll have together is Sunday and then you’re so shattered all you do is fall asleep in front of the box.’ It’s true. And it’s one of the reasons why I’m reconciled to losing my seat. The other, of course, is that while government is exciting (I am loving the Whips’ Office), being a backbencher is a pretty thankless occupation – the status has been tarnished, the money’s derisory, the potential for influence pitifully slight. We have our AGM tonight and I’m going to be readopted as our candidate, nem. con. I shall fight the good fight with complete commitment, but when I lose I shall be able to do so with a good grace because it’s certainly what M wants and it’s sort-of what I want. I shall miss the thrill of government and the camaraderie of the House. Clearly what I need is the House of Lords!

M is very funny. Driving to the airport (we get a free parking space, courtesy BAA) I said, ‘But you’ve got to admit we’ve met some interesting people.’

‘
You’ve
met some interesting people,’ she squawked, ‘What have I met? Boring men who only want to hear how wonderful they are and ghastly women who ask, “What’s he really like? Do you knit his jumpers?”’

I think she should write a novel about constituency life. You could have the Bishop and the Dean at the heart of the story. They’re both good people (we really like them, admire them, enjoy their company) but they are ripe for literary exploitation. The Bishop
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is tall, thin, balding, set to retire, ready to retire, slightly disappointed. A hymn-composing evangelical who kindly gave us a copy of his sex manual (dedicated to his wife Myrtle), he and the Dean (stocky, golden head of hair, port-coloured face) do not see eye to eye. At all. I suspect the Dean is at fault here, but, poor man, he has had quite a cross to bear: a brilliant, mad, alcoholic wife. We used to see her fairly regularly, but the ‘embarrassing moments’ became ever more frequent. When the Queen came to the Cathedral, the Dean’s wife circled round her muttering like a demented witch.

It was agony.

Something’s up. I’m not sure what. I’ve just seen the unflappable Roger Knapman
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looking almost wild-eyed. I said, ‘How are you?’ He mumbled and began gathering up papers from his desk. I said, ‘Anything serious?’ He looked at me and said, ‘Deadly serious. For the government, for all of us. It could be devastating.’

Stephen cancelled breakfast and, last night, I stood in for him at the United & Cecil Club dinner. All yesterday, all this morning he worked on his BSE statement.
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He was excited in anticipation of it and exhilarated at the way it went. He did well: he was clear, moderate, totally on top of the brief, and managed to walk the wire, getting the facts out into the open asap while trying hard not to sound alarmist. But I was a little alarmed to see the adrenalin flowing at quite such a pace. Clearly he
feels this is going to do him a lot of good, plenty of exposure, leading from the front, proof that he can handle a delicate issue with a sure touch. He wants to do all the broadcasts, be seen in the front line. When I said, ‘Are you sure?’ he looked at me as though I was quite barmy. I persisted, ‘I just don’t see this as a winner. You’ve done the responsible thing today, getting it out into the open. Now lie low. Let Hoggie get the flak from the farmers.’

He wasn’t listening. ‘No, no, no, I’ve got to run with this one. It’s important.’

Harriet [Harman, shadow Health Secretary] was at her worst. Whining, whingeing, scare-mongering. I imagine she’ll have done herself a lot of harm. If ever she gets into government she’ll be a disaster.

We finished early. I was home by nine. Supper in the kitchen with M and Jo [Lumley]. Pasta and peppers – of course. M doesn’t eat meat and Jo’s virtually a vegan.
They
think we’ve known about the dangers of BSE for years and we’ve been keeping quiet because we don’t want to upset the farmers.

This morning we trooped through from No. 12 to No. 10 to have our picture taken with the PM. He was at his twitchiest. And with cause. The handling of the beef crisis is going from bad to worse. Our beef is now banned around the world. The British beef market has collapsed. And no one in government – least of all the Agriculture Minister – seems to have a clear idea what to do.

According to Roger [Knapman], last week we were considering slaughtering all eleven million cattle in the country; this week it’s four million. We’re saying ‘beef is safe’ but because nobody believes us we’re going to have to slaughter half the cattle in the kingdom at a cost to the taxpayer of something around £6 billion! This could be announced any minute now – except we’re not sure how practical it is. Who will do the slaughtering? How many years will it take? How do we dispose of the carcasses? Nobody knows! The PM is ‘impatient’. Hogg is evidently all over the place. Roger describes the ministerial meetings quite dispassionately, he adds no ‘colour’, but his unvarnished literal account makes it plain it’s
chaos
. Hogg hasn’t got a grip, Angela Browning (the PUSS) appears to be the best of the bunch, but the back-up from the civil servants is woeful. Stephen (who is still high on it all) was so eager to rush out his statement they clearly hadn’t had time to think through the consequences. And they had no contingency plans. It’s beyond belief. Now we’re simply reacting to events, making it up as we go along.

This is incompetent government.

More news of mad cows … Neil and Christine [Hamilton] invited their friend Dame Barbara Cartland
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to dinner and asked Michèle and me to join the party. Ten of us, Members’ Dining Room, her son at one end of the table, Dame Barbara at the other. I sat on her left. She was as ridiculous and glorious as ever: the white-powdered face, the giraffe’s eyelashes, the eight remaining strands of hair spun into an extraordinary candy-floss confection, flowing pink tulle everywhere, she seemed to have come dressed as the fairy queen in a Victorian pantomime. She didn’t draw breath. Out the stories tumbled: Noel Coward, Beaverbrook, Churchill, ‘darling Dickie’. ‘No one knew him as I did, he was quite extraordinary. He was the most fascinating man in the world, so ahead of his time.’

According to Dame Barbara, Mountbatten pioneered the zip fastener instead of fly buttons – and persuaded the then Prince of Wales to follow suit. ‘But it all went terribly wrong one evening at a very smart supper in Biarritz. The Prince went to the cloakroom, but, poor lamb, didn’t dare emerge because the zip got stuck! He had to slip out by the back door. He was furious, had all the zips taken out of his trousers.’ She was full of concern for the plight of the present Prince and Princess of Wales. ‘It’s so sad for them both. It’s heart-breaking. Of course, you know where it all went wrong? She wouldn’t do oral sex, she just wouldn’t. It’s as simple as that. Of
course
it all went wrong.’

I flew up to Chester yesterday morning and had a really good session with the farmers on BSE. They are profoundly worried, but remarkably calm. I’ve scored with them not because I have any of the answers but because almost every day since this broke I have sent them the relevant pages from Hansard. They think I’m listening and that I care – and I am and I do. While they offered their solutions, I scribbled away furiously. I didn’t say much, other than voice sympathy. I pulled appropriate faces, but I was careful not to say anything overtly critical of Hogg in case one of them might repeat it to the press. Then I did our local election press conference and photo call. Then I spent four hours on a variety of dismal trains getting from Chester to Harrogate via Leeds arriving in the nick of time for the Central Council conference dinner at which I was the after-dinner turn. I sat with Brian Mawhinney [party chairman] who seems permanently grumpy. I am clearly not his cup of tea. I imagine he finds me
bumptious, egregious, too fruity by half. I’m not sure what to make of him. He’s not an easy ride. He’s frustrated that the PM can’t/won’t announce a referendum on the Euro this weekend. He can’t understand why Ken won’t concede when there’s really nothing to be lost and everything to be gained. (Ken, of course, believes these things should be settled by Parliament. That’s what parliamentary democracy is all about. He’s worried too that a simplistic, jingoistic referendum campaign would a) split the party and b) bring about the wrong result.)

In my speech I lavished mountains of praise on Stephen, only because he was sitting there with Annette and I thought it would please/amuse her. I think it did. Afterwards, we went up to their bedroom and Danny [Finkelstein] joined us and Stephen kindly ordered a bottle of wine and I drank most of it. He clearly believes the last ten days have been to his advantage. I said, ‘They’ve raised your profile, that’s for sure.’

A jolly whips’ meeting. I do my best to keep in with the Chief by at all times ensuring he is within reach of the cheese straws. He is in mellow mood today – except, it seems, when Roger is speaking. Roger appears to irritate him. I have a feeling that when he presents his weekly report on the Lloyds’ Names he
intends
to irritate him! (Roger is guardian of the list of colleagues who are Names and is supposed to update us on the state of their fortune – or misfortune as the case may be. Roger is a Name who has lost a great deal. The Chief is a Name who may have lost rather less. Roger talks knowledgeably about the vagaries of the various syndicates, but what Roger knows doesn’t always tally with what the Chief believes. Roger speaks, the Chief twitches. Roger continues, the Chief snaps a cheese straw. Roger won’t stop; the Chief leaves the room to make an urgent phone call. I don’t understand the ins and outs of any of it, but it’s quite funny to watch.)

I can’t work out if Roger in his account of life at the Min. of Ag. is intending to alarm us or amuse us – or simply inform us. Probably the latter, because he seems a totally straightforward guy. (I like him a lot, but I don’t really know him. I don’t think I had spoken to him more than once before I joined the office). Hogg is ready to resign. My feeling is he should. That’s not what I say. What I say is, ‘If he stays, that hat must go.’ We all agree: the wide-rimmed fedora is ludicrous. If he gets rid of the hat, he may be perceived as less of a joke. We charge Roger with stealing and
shredding
the hat.

The Chancellor is not resigning either. I don’t believe he ever was. He is ‘reluctantly’ accepting the proposed referendum ‘for the sake of the party’.

We’re having Easter at home, the Hanleys for lunch on Saturday, Benet’s organising a boat race party, and then we’re off to Venice for five nights. I am taking Elizabeth Taylor. She is now my favourite author.

Is Ann Widdecombe now my favourite female politician? Possibly. She came up to Chester with me this morning. We travelled together on the train, second class (Ann insisted). The hair, the teeth, the vast low-slung lopsided bosom, she’s certainly an oddity, but the integrity, the commitment, the ambition make her quite special. She’s like Ken: she can never really go wrong because she only says what she believes. You can’t fault her. I asked her why she always sits on her own in the Aye lobby on days when she’s got Questions. ‘I’m there for forty-five minutes in case colleagues have any queries. All ministers are supposed to do it.’ She is the only one who does.

She came to address the President’s Club. Of course, they were disappointed not to have a Cabinet minister. When I told Stuart [the association chairman] who I’d secured his face fell. I said, ‘We’ve already had the Deputy Prime Minister, the Chancellor, the Home Secretary, Portillo, Virginia…’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I know it isn’t easy,’ (meaning, of course, you haven’t got the clout to get us anyone decent) ‘but she’s not much of an attraction.’

I said rather petulantly, ‘She could very well end up leading the party one day.’

In the event there was a
reasonable
crowd and they
were
impressed. She was good on the collapse of the ‘moral consensus’. In the ’50s there was an agreed standard – everyone – politicians, teachers, church leaders, judges, newspaper editors, everyone – subscribed to the same standard. Of course, people fell below it, but they knew what it was, they accepted it and life was easier. Now there are no agreed standards and life is a lot more troublesome. She told us about her first election campaign, in the run-up to which she had published a pamphlet called
Christian Principles.
She was going to do an open-air meeting. She’d set up her soapbox in the market square and then suddenly remembered she had left her pamphlets in the boot of her agent’s car. She was to be seen running down Maidstone High Street shouting, ‘Stop, stop! I’ve lost my
Christian Principles
!’

Our majority of one
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is now threatened by Sir George Gardiner. Well-intentioned loyalists in Reigate want to deselect him, but Sir George says if he isn’t readopted he’ll resign
and force a by-election. The view in the office is that this is ‘probably but not certainly’ an idle threat. We look to Liam to explain how it is that Sir George is still alive when we understood he should have died months ago. Liam cannot help us. We look to the chairman of his association (a retired Major-General and by all accounts ‘thoroughly sound’) to keep Sir George on board at least until we’re within shouting distance of the election – and
then
dump him.