Breaking the Code (71 page)

When it came to the vote, we were right and Ted was wrong. Officially Labour was on a one-line whip. In the event, all but twelve of them turned up.

Lunch at the Treasury these days is like an informal family picnic. While the Chancellor – nonchalantly lighting his cigar with EU matches – flicks through the
Express
– enjoying Mandelson’s response to yesterday’s hatchet job on Blair – others chat to one another, pick over the sandwiches, pour out more wine. You’d never think a general election was only a matter of weeks away … Ken says he’s discussed dates with the boss and knows he hasn’t made up his mind yet. Phillip Oppenheim says: ‘The Conservative Party is united on only two issues. We all loathe Edwina and we all want the election on 1 May.’ Plenty of chuckles. I mention the idea of highlighting our targets on Third World debt as a potential international millennium project. General guffaws. ‘We might get votes in Uganda, but not many here.’ Around the table there’s genial banter, much mocking of Central Office, but no sense of urgency – or impending doom.

Later I meet up with Howell James and tell him I sense that only the PM and the DPM are still wholly committed to victory. Howell has an attractive, infectious laugh.
He blinks behind his owlish giglamps: ‘Don’t we just know it, my dear!’ I tell him that everyone wants to go on 1 May and not before and try a line I believe to be true: ‘If the PM goes on 20 March against the better judgement of the party and we lose, they’ll blame him personally.’

‘They’ll blame him anyway,’ says Howell. ‘They always do.’

Spend a couple of hours on the campaign trail in Wirral South where our candidate is impressive and the local troops quite buoyant. They were pleased to see me because the expected ‘star’ for the day – J. Gummer – failed to show. He has gone to Kenya for the weekend. Critical international environmental business, no doubt.

On the cold and windy streets of Heswall we thrust our faces and our leaflets into the paths of shoppers scurrying by. The reception we get is predictable: some greet you quite cheerfully (‘You’ll be all right with me’); some shake your hand but refuse to catch your eye; only one or two manifest open hostility. Most, needless to say, come from outside the constituency.

At my surgery yesterday a man came to see me about a contested planning application and said, leaning meaningfully across my desk, ‘I’d rather give £5,000 to the Conservative Party than see this go the wrong way.’ For an awful moment I thought he was going to wink, touch the side of his nose and mutter, ‘Nudge, nudge, know what I mean?’ Thinking it might be a set-up and wondering where he was hiding his tape recorder I said, rather loudly, enunciating every word, ‘No donations are required here. As your Member of Parliament it is my duty as well my privilege to investigate every case that its brought to me with due care and attention.’ The poor man looked utterly bemused.

Is this the moment to be considering modifications to the quarantine regulations for pets? Chris Patten thinks it is. Our Kent colleagues beg to differ. And Norman Tebbit is of the opinion that we should allow in
quadrupeds
from Hong Kong, but impose strict restrictions on
bipeds
… This has to be one for the long grass, doesn’t it?

Virginia stops me on the stairs leading up to the Cabinet ministers’ corridor. She perches on the third step, knees tucked under her chin. She is wearing trousers – a fashion unknown when I arrived, but successfully pioneered by Margaret Beckett. (Virginia, of course, looks good in trousers. This cannot be said of one and all – e.g.
I have just passed Mo Mowlam in a day-glo boiler suit.) Virginia reports that the PM is to host another reception at No. 10 for the arts community and Sproatie has seen the plans and gone berserk. I’m not surprised, first, because the event is to be called ‘Cool Britannia’ (Ye gods, can you believe it?) and, second, because the guest list reads like a Luvvies for Labour Who’s Who. The TV section features Harry Enfield, Martin Clunes, Neil Morissey, Angus Deayton, Richard Wilson, Stephen Fry and someone billed as ‘Andy Coulson,
Sun
journalist.’ I agree to try to find some additional names to help leaven the list. Clearly the Department of National Heritage (along with the rest of Whitehall) is readying itself for the new administration. Wouldn’t it be
glorious
if we managed to win after all!

The press have had fun with Stephen’s gaffe on devolution. Interviewed by
The Scotsman,
Stephen said he couldn’t envisage a future Conservative government leaving a Labour-created Scottish Parliament ‘unchanged’. Fair enough – except that canny wee Michael Forsyth’s line is that devolution is an omelette that canny be unscrambled and that’s why it canny be risked. Stephen was wrong. Forsyth is right. And all the papers are having a field day: leaders, cartoons, headlines, ‘Dorrell drops a clanger.’ Over breakfast we agree: if the press decide to make Stephen the government’s new ‘gaffe-man’ he’s in trouble. Danny counsels against going on the offensive: ‘The press are never wrong. They never admit mistakes. They never see anybody else’s joke. They never lose.’

The PM’s third ‘presidential’ press conference is thrown off-message. Of course. The theme was to be education, but the focus was Stephen and devolution. The PM was asked, twice, who had responsibility for this area of policy and, twice, he replied ‘The Scottish and Welsh Secretaries’. No. 10’s background briefing later gave the line that Stephen had been asked to campaign on the constitution last summer, but that had simply been a short-term arrangement. Not true, of course. Stephen was, until today, and with the full authority of No. 10 and Central Office, very much a key spokesman on matters constitutional – and was planning something on proportional representation for later this week – but No. 10 and Central Office are now sending out the signal: Dorrell rebuked – Dorrell loses campaign role – Dorrell demoted. Stephen asked Hezza what he should do. ‘Nothing. This is part and parcel of being one of the big boys.’

The PM has Stephen in for a whisky. This is pure Major! At the press conference, in the briefing, at PMQs, the boss dumps his man; privately, he immediately rebuilds the fence and offers the consoling, reassuring hand of friendship. He’s quite an operator.

During the afternoon I managed to get lost in the House of Lords. Turning an unexpected corner, who should I encounter but George Bridges from No. 10 scurrying along like the White Rabbit. We exchanged pleasantries and off he scampered. I turned another corner and found myself face to face with Howell James, clearly on his way to the same tea party. Odd, I thought. What is the PM’s political secretariat doing pacing the red-carpeted corridors of their Lordships’ House? Then it dawned on me. The PM is setting up his own command centre – and Lord Cranborne is commander-in-chief. Does the party chairman know?

The Chancellor was on the
Today
programme this morning and utterly brilliant. This afternoon he was prowling round looking for a ‘pair’ so he could go to the England/Italy match. Labour, by several accounts, is prowling around looking for an old boy ready to accept a peerage so that they can gerrymander a safe seat for Alan Howarth.

Last night I had dinner with Michael Fabricant. This came about because during the Finance Bill committee he passed me a copy of a letter he had just sent to the PM’s PPS: ‘Although Prime Minister’s Questions went well for the Prime Minister today, I do believe that this was an opportunity wasted. For the first time in ages we dominated the Order Paper with questions 2 to 5 inclusive from Conservative members. Yet did we use this opportunity to express a common theme as the Labour Party has done so successfully in the past?’ In fact, we do try to orchestrate PMQs. At 8.30 every Tuesday and Thursday morning Seb and Peter Ainsworth meet up with George Bridges at No. 10 to work out what we want. They then do their best to persuade colleagues to ask what’s wanted. Unhappily not all of our colleagues are persuadable.

Michael then sent me a further note – this one in green ink – suggesting dinner
à deux
. This means that we can’t eat in the Members’ Dining Room because the tables there are for four or eight and the form is you sit wherever there’s a space. There’s a waiting list for the Churchill Room (West End food at West End prices) so we make our way to the Strangers’ Dining Room where MF is confident we’ll be properly looked after. He’s right. Clearly he’s a regular and generous tipper. (When I arrived here I had difficulty securing a table and endured surly service when I did. Then, one evening, Michèle
noticed Soames sign the bill and tuck a tenner underneath it. Yes, of course,
that’s
how it’s done.) Over our roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and our second bottle of Fleurie, MF confided that he isn’t gay, it isn’t a wig exactly (‘it’s more complicated than that’) and he knows he allowed himself to become a figure of fun in his first couple of years – but no one offered him any guidance. ‘No one tells you anything here. This place thrives on secrecy and mystery. If you’re not in the loop you’re nowhere.’

A desultory meeting of EDCP. The Minister without Portfolio [Brian Mawhinney] is in the chair: the Lord President, the Chancellor of the Duchy, Norman Blackwell from No. 10, Charles Lewington and Sheila Gunn from Central Office, subdued but in attendance. Michael Bates [Paymaster-General] outlines the ‘themes’ for next week – all pretty meaningless, of course, since we’re not commanding the agenda, but it does at least allow the key players to know what’s in the air and spot potential pitfalls and opportunities in advance. The meeting catches fire briefly when Michael mentions the Department of Health’s forthcoming announcement on adoption.

‘Ah, yes,’ says Mawhinney with authority. ‘This is important. Now that abortion is going up the political agenda we must certainly make something of that.’

‘Adoption, Brian.’

‘We may not like the fact that abortion’s now a political issue, but there’s no escaping it.’

‘Adoption, Brian,
adoption
.’

‘Adoption, abortion, it’s all the same … er, no, well…’ He has a cold and he’s tired. The Lord President is yawning noisily. The DPM has gone home with ‘flu.

Over dinner Jeremy [Hanley] was looking profoundly pug-eyed: he is still recovering from his nightmare year as party chairman: none of it’s as much fun as it used to be. But I love him and he still makes me laugh. He reported that on his last visit to the People’s Republic he was presented with a magnificent stallion from Mongolia. Of course, you can’t bring it home, but you accept it graciously and ask them to look after it for you – and they do, sending you the bills for its fodder. Malcolm Rifkind was presented with a beautifully wrapped goodbye gift from the Sultan of Brunei. The moment he boarded the plane to come home, Malcolm ripped open the package to discover what the world’s wealthiest monarch had given him. It turned out to be a short video of the Sultan’s recent birthday party.

At the 1922 Committee it was clear as crystal that almost everybody wants us to kick the Firearms Bill into the long grass. The PM won’t.

More trouble ahead.

Over lunch at the Treasury – Prêt-a-Manger sandwiches and treacle tart – we discuss the price of baked beans. The Chancellor joined the Wirral South by-election campaign yesterday and Central Office fixed him up with a photo opportunity in a local supermarket. Inevitably – certainly, predictably – the press asked him what the items in his shopping basket cost. Equally predictably, Ken didn’t have a clue! We should have seen it coming. (When Mrs T. did this sort of thing she had an equerry in attendance armed will a full list of current prices.) All the papers today are running pictures of a grinning Chancellor with matching quips about half-baked Ken who doesn’t know the price of beans. So how much is a tin of baked beans? We go round the table – Chief Secretary, Financial Secretary, Exchequer Secretary, Economic Secretary, Lord Commissioner to the Treasury … not one of us knows. It’s bound to come up in Treasury Questions this afternoon. Should the PPS go out and buy some beans? Possibly not: that would be too good a story. Eventually we settle on the line to take: ‘The price of beans? A lot less than it would be under Labour!’

That’s about the only line we can agree on. Tentatively, I suggest that, if we can, we should come up with a theme and a phrase for the day – but get nowhere. Actually, there’s no point trying. It simply isn’t Ken’s style. Inevitably – predictably – when we get to Questions, Labour
does
have a theme – VAT on food – and they hammer it home relentlessly. They bring it up in every single question. It’s risible, but it works. Ken’s a bit all over the place. He’s done fourteen separate radio and TV interviews in the past twenty-four hours (a couple of them quite brilliantly) and he’s talked himself out. Now he’s going to drive himself all the way to Leeds to take part in the BBC’s
Question Time
.

Two sittings for tea today. When constituents call and tell you they’re coming it’s very difficult to say ‘no’. They were so good-hearted and sat in the Pugin Room soaking it up and scoffing away. First they had the sandwiches,
then
the scones – they scooped every bit of cream and every last dollop of jam onto the scones, they weren’t going to miss a bit – and then, mouth still stuffed to overflowing, one of them sighted the tray of cakes passing by. Spraying crumbs and cream
everywhere
, she gasped, ‘We must have some of those!’

Winston is back from his mother’s funeral in Washington. He was purring: