Breaking the Code (52 page)

Stephen, of course, is hoping to be released from the bonds of the DNH, but he’s not counting chickens. He accepts that he didn’t manage/wasn’t asked to get in on the inner circle of the PM’s campaign team so the spoils will go to others. Stephen sees himself as
party chairman, but that’ll go to Mawhinney for certain – notwithstanding the fact that Mawhinney isn’t that good on the box and lacks some of the emollient interpersonal skills that make for a happy ship. But there’s a momentum going for him – and around here that’s everything. I huddled in a corner with poor Jeremy [Hanley]. Through oyster eyes he was expressing his ‘sheer joy’ at the PM’s success. He knows he’s doomed. ‘I did my best.’ He’s hoping for Heritage – ‘with you as my junior’. That would be nice, but it won’t happen. I know because
about three weeks ago
Jenny Shaw
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told me that Sproat is staying in the department and being moved up a rank from Parliamentary Secretary to Minister of State. The civil servants were groaning at the prospect.

Jonathan Aitken is resigning … to spend more time with his lawyers. He says he is leaving the Cabinet at his own request to concentrate on his libel actions against
The Guardian
and
World in Action.
Who comes in as Chief Secretary? Roger Freeman? Hague? Heseltine was closeted at No. 10 for most of the morning and the buzz now is that he’s going to become Deputy Prime Minister in return for having committed his men to the PM’s cause. The first part of the rumour I can believe; I have my doubts about the second. But if Hezza is promoted and Rifkind or Lang gets the Foreign Office rather than Howard, the Redwoodites will be spitting blood. I have already heard Wilkinson, Sweeney, Walker, Jenkin grumbling, grunting, grinding their teeth – and this within a matter of four hours of the election designed to resolve all our differences!

Stephen is the new Secretary of State for Health and he is so pleased it’s almost comical. He can’t stop grinning; he’s rushing from here to there in a state of happy excitement. I, on the other hand…

I began the day by making the pilgrimage to the stately home of the Heseltines. It is magnificent, not at all as vulgar and
arriviste
as Alan Clark had led me to expect.
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The pictures, wall hangings, furnishings, all in the best possible taste. A little clangy, a touch of the uncomfortable French salon about the public rooms, but unquestionably a home fit for a
grand seigneur.
While Hezza himself was strutting into Downing
Street as our new Deputy Prime Minister, I was doing my turn for the benefit of his Association ladies. Once a year they’re given this treat – bussed over from Henley for a peep inside the great man’s mansion, followed by lunch down in the garden by the lily ponds. I gave my talk in the hallway with the ladies sitting on spindly gilded chairs. Anne was very gracious and rather sweet. ‘Don’t slim like Nigel Lawson. He looks so old and tired. You’d slip through the floorboards.’ If only.

I got back mid-afternoon and found Stephen already ensconced at the Department of Health, gurgling with delight. I said, ‘Who are the ministers going to be?’

He said, ‘I’m not sure. Gerry’s staying,
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which is good. He’s an ally. They want to move Julia Cumberlege.
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What do you think?’

‘She knows the nurses and the midwives. I don’t think you’re going to want to spend a lot of time sweet-talking the midwives.’

‘You’re right. Let’s hang onto her. I’ll call Alastair.’ Alastair is the new Chief Whip.
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(He has a Chief Whip’s gift for oratory.) Stephen called No. 10. He got through to Alastair. ‘Look, Chief, on second thoughts, could I keep Julia Cumberlege … No … Who else have you got? … Could I have Willetts? No…’

In the corner of the room rather pathetically I mouthed, ‘What about Gyles?’

‘If you can manage it then, I’d like to keep Julia … She knows the midwives … Thanks.’

Crossing Members’ Lobby just now I was stopped by a scurrying, breathless Greg Knight [Deputy Chief Whip],
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busy, busy, it’s all happening. ‘Could we have a word – tomorrow?’ he said. ‘Come and find me around 2.15 p.m.’

This means I’m not getting anything, but I’m going to be let down lightly with a kindly word. I imagine it’s part of a concerted exercise to keep the disappointed ‘on side’.

Bah.

The dust has settled. Rifkind, Foreign Office. Lang, Board of Trade (in ‘an expanded role’ – the bollocks they do talk.) Portillo, Defence (that’s clever). And the surprises: Waldegrave as Chief Secretary, Gillian Shephard combines Education with Employment,
and Virginia gets Heritage. She went in and was offered Transport, but she said ‘No, thank you Prime Minister. There’s only one job I want, National Heritage.
Please
.’ And she got it – instead of Jeremy for whom it had been destined. Reshuffles are in large part made up as they go along. It’s extraordinary. She does feel a twinge of conscience, just a pang. But Jeremy, wisely (and because he is a good man) has accepted Minister of State rank at the Foreign Office – demotion but a real job. Other than Jeremy the one involuntary departure is poor, dear David Hunt – his moment passed (it does), as the year went by somehow he faded. So the great Hanley-Hunt double act, that for which I led the cheering just a year ago bites the dust … (Michèle said to me this morning, ‘Let’s face it, you’ve got absolutely no judgement – and no sense of timing. To be endorsed by you is the kiss of death.’ A loyal wife speaks!)

Newcomers: George Young
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at Transport (‘Virginia won’t do it – bring on the bicycling baronet!’), Douglas Hogg at Agriculture, Forsyth to Scotland (which is amazing – when I was there for the Fairbairn by-election I was told time and again ‘the party in Scotland hates Forsyth – he can never be Secretary of State’ – but actually he’s a tough cookie, a sharp operator and who else was there?), Roger Freeman replacing Hunt (Roger will be superb), and for Wales, the baby of the party, young Master Hague, age thirty-four, the youngest Cabinet minister this century. The boy done well. And he’s decent, and nice.

All in all, it’s not a bad line-up and the rest of the shuffle looks okay – except for one thing: it doesn’t include me! I went to see Greg as instructed. He came out of the Upper Whips’ Office and we huddled in a corner. ‘I’m afraid it didn’t work out for you this time. The PM had to look after the Cowley Street lot – and you’ve got testicles which is a big disadvantage. He wants to reward his team and promote the women.’ So Oliver Heald goes to Social Security and Cheryl Gillan (!!!!!) to Education.
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And naturally Ken Clarke’s PPS gets something nice: Angela Knight is Economic Secretary. It beggars belief. I should have ditched Stephen last year and gone with Ken when I had the chance.

At lunchtime, I said to Stephen that I thought he should get a new PPS, that I’d done enough. He was very sweet (he is very sweet) and said ‘No, no, no. I need you. I’d be heartbroken.’ But the truth is Health is of no interest to me – at Heritage he
did
need me and I could actually make a modest impact on this and that. I know it’s only a game, a stupid merry-go-round, nothing matters very much etc., and this time next week I’ll be as happy as Larry – but here and now, this minute, I do find it
very
galling.

The Chancellor is magnificent. We’re halfway through the debate on the economy, I’m sitting just behind him, ‘helping out on the bench’, and he’s at his chuckling, combative, blokeish best. He’s been knocking Gordon Brown all over the shop. Gordon’s a good guy, always friendly in the Tea Room, infinitely more
real
than Blair, but what a windbag! The waffle and the gobbledygook, they just come tumbling out. He’s been at it twenty minutes and there are clearly masses more to come – he’s got reams of handwritten notes perched on top of a foot-high stack of bound copies of Hansard balanced on top of the despatch box – presumably so he can read his never-ending speech without resorting to the indignity of spectacles. Inflation target, borrowing limit, base rate – he daren’t commit himself to anything, so all he can offer is rant and wind.

Ken has just leant back and ‘wondered’ whether I’d be interested in being his PPS. He’s a good, kind fellow, and the surest-footed political animal we’ve got, but somehow I think I’ve done my eager-beaver PPS-ing, the moment has passed.

William [Waldegrave] is looking very chirrupy. It’s a strange business this: a week ago he was our expert on agriculture, tonight he makes his debut as Chief Secretary with all the Treasury answers at his fingertips. As it turns out, Jonathan’s departure may have been timely. The poor man is now contending with a prostitute who knew him fifteen years ago and has suddenly surfaced with the promise of a book of torrid revelations. Sadomasochism is her bag, Jonathan was her lover.

In the Tea Room they’re saying there’s more to come. ‘Some aspects of Jonathan’s lovelife are very dark indeed.’

I’m in bed. Tea and Marmite toast, and I don’t have to get up for an hour. If living in the moment is what we should be doing this is a good moment in which to live. M is looking very beautiful and last night, at the Chester French Circle fifteenth anniversary dinner (!), she was quite wonderful. She plays the constituency wife to perfection. I am very lucky and I know it.

Poor Peter Morrison has died and the obituaries (
Times, Telegraph
anyway) are pretty uncharitable, concentrating on his time as Mrs T.’s PPS (‘His part in her downfall’) with a definite unpleasant nudge and wink in the direction of his ‘bachelor’ status and interest in ‘young people’. Rumours abound, but I don’t think anyone knows the truth of the matter. What we do know is that he smoked and drank himself to death. He was found dead at the foot of the stairs. He was only fifty-one. He looked seventy.

The ‘Chester Jobs Summit’ went well – good press turnout and some useful contributions. Yes, it was my initiative, inspired by Stuart’s
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anxiety that my local profile wasn’t high enough, and designed to outflank the Labour group on the council, but it isn’t quite as cynical as it sounds. We can do more to attract investment and I believe I can help.

This afternoon’s surgery was alarming. A fellow was booked in for 4.00 p.m. Yesterday his ‘care worker’ called to say he was dangerous and on no account should I see him. Unfortunately we didn’t have a number for him so we couldn’t cancel. I suggested to the care worker that he might like to come along and help hold my hand. He said, ‘Oh no, that’ll only make him worse. He can be very violent.’ On the care worker’s advice, I rearranged the office, so that the man would have to sit right inside the room and I could sit behind my desk right by the door ‘which should remain open at all times.’ The care worker said, ‘Whatever you do, when he’s speaking don’t interrupt him and look straight in his eye. Never look away. And if he makes one false move, get out as fast as you can, lock the door and call the police. I’m deadly serious.’ At four o’clock, when the poor unfortunate arrived, my stomach was churning. I manoeuvred him into the chair in the far corner of the room and hovered nervously by the open door. I gazed steadfastly at him as, very politely, his voice hardly above a whisper, he told me his problem: ‘It’s my care worker. He doesn’t understand me.’

The
Chronicle
piece about Peter is fine. They’ve used my tribute and a nice quote from Mrs T. Given what Peter thought of the
Chronicle
I think he’d feel they’ve done him proud.

I have mastered the art of arriving at a Buckingham Palace garden party. The hordes turn up between three and half-past. The real time to reach the main gates is exactly 3.53 p.m. The riff-raff are already inside, so all alone you have the pleasure of scrunching your way across the gravel, past the guardsmen, under the arch, across the deserted square, up the red-carpeted stairs and through. Proceeding at a leisurely pace, taking in the pictures, pausing to admire the porcelain, you will arrive at the bay windows leading out onto the garden at 3.59 on the dot. It’s too late for the flunkies to push you out onto the lawn to join the crowds. You’ve got to stay where you are, in pole position, for Her Majesty’s arrival under your very nose as the clock strikes four.

We took Aphra and Saethryd, it’s Aphra’s seventeenth birthday, and then we went on to the end-of-term drinks at No. 10 and the PM was mellow, relaxed, almost playful. I talked publishers with Norma
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and the PM (good man) took the girls off to see the Cabinet room. I said to Aphra, ‘The Prime Minister has wished you a happy birthday – that’s one for the diary.’ She gave me one of her ‘Oh-dad-how-can-you-be-so-embarrassing’ looks. They take it all for granted. And why not? So long as they’re happy…

Lunch with Richard Ottaway. This was the united-in-sorrow lunch we fixed in the immediate aftermath of the reshuffle when RO was feeling even sorer than I was – and with greater cause. He first arrived in ‘83 and he’s Heseltine’s PPS. Apparently, the DPM lobbied on his behalf, but couldn’t pull it off … Sounds a bit unlikely. If the Deputy Prime Minister can’t get his man preferment … Never mind. RO is bullish once more – and his loyalty to Hezza is absolute. He says that Major and Heseltine are going to be ‘as one’ between now and the election: ‘you won’t be able to put a cigarette paper between them’. The real joy from the PM’s point of view is that Hezza is going to take on chairing most of the Cabinet committees which will free hours of the PM’s time, release him from mountains of paperwork, enable him to concentrate on the key objectives. It could work. Longer term,
bien sûr
, the Heseltine ambition remains undiminished. Says RO: ‘Michael will
never
give up.’

And speaking of those who never give up, we had dinner with the Portillos
chez
Hamilton. Neil was quite quickly in his cups, Michael was abstemious. He is chuffed with the new job and taking it
very
seriously. He won’t be wearing Hezzalike flap-jackets, but we all agreed he’d look so dashing in full-dress mess-kit. He’s a happy bunny. Carolyn [Portillo] seemed fairly remote from it all. Christine [Hamilton], a touch more manic.