Breaking the Code (78 page)

Not one of the Cabinet who has been to Chester during the campaign has any expectation that we’ll come within a mile of winning.

The crisis of the hour is that I’ve discovered a hole in the seat of my trousers – and I don’t have another pair. I’ve been wearing one of my MP’s suits day in day out through the campaign and finally it’s given out – worn away. Is this a portent?

Five years ago I had no idea what the election outcome would be. I hoped against
hope, prayed the opinions polls would be wrong. They were. This time they can’t be. What do I reckon the Chester result will be? Con: 20,000? Labour 29,000? Lib Dem: 5,000? Others: 1,000?

I wasn’t far out: Con: 19,253. Lab: 29,806. Lib Dem: 5,353. Referendum: 1,487. Loony and A. N. Other: 358. End of era. Chester RIP.

We voted first thing and then spent the day touring the committee rooms, attempting to boost the flagging morale of our gallant troops. A policewoman noticed the hole in my trousers and mentioned it discreetly to Michèle. When I saw the Superintendent of Police at the count I commended his officer’s vigilance.

We had supper with
Blackadder
in front of the box – and when ten o’clock came readied ourselves for the exit poll. It’s going to be a Labour landslide. At 10.05 the telephone rang. It was David Davis, our Minister for Europe: ‘How’s it looking?’

‘Haven’t you seen the exit poll?’

‘Oh never mind that,’ said David blithely. ‘You’ll be all right. We’re about 4 per cent down here. Good luck.’

In the event, the swing against him was 9.5 per cent.

A little after midnight we donned our gladrags, adjusted our brave faces, and made our way up the hill to the Town Hall. My opponent was standing on the stairs. I said to her at once, ‘Congratulations.’ She looked bemused. Our result wasn’t due for a couple of hours at least. I spent the time wandering between the press room, the count, and the TV room where a large screen had been erected to display the results. It was so relentlessly bad for us the other parties’ supporters had stopped cheering. They just looked on amazed. Of course, there were hurrahs for certain scalps – Neil Hamilton provoked a roar, Norman Lamont a jeer, and poor Portillo’s defeat prompted a standing ovation.

Major has gone, and with some dignity. Mr Blair has arrived and already the messianic fervour is a little too rich for my taste. And as for Cherie…

Talk to Stephen. He sounds dreadful. His voice has gone. He croaks at me in a state of high nervous excitement. I tell him to go to bed and keep quiet. He says he
can’t. There are calls to make and broadcasts to give. I tell him that wanting to win isn’t enough. Others must want him to win too. And to have any chance of winning he needs to look – and sound – like a winner. Michèle tells me, ‘You’re wasting your time – he doesn’t listen to a word you say.’ She’s right. He’s off to do
Newsnight
. We’re off for a farewell dinner with our team. They have done all that you could ask of them. The debacle is not their fault.

Nick Winterton calls. He goes through the routine of commiseration (via a good bit of bombast about his and Ann’s own splendid results) on his way to asking for Alastair’s number. He wants to pitch in early with his thoughts on the leadership. ‘Redwood is intellectually the most interesting, but Lilley has strengths – I have had useful meetings with him, at his department, in his room at the House and always been impressed – and, of course, there’s William – but that must be for some time down the road. Stephen is supremely competent, but he lacks warmth. I told him months ago that he’s got water in his veins instead of blood.’ I don’t dislike Nick, but he is such a windbag, and so self-opinionated and self-satisfied, that I doubt our paths will be crossing again.

Call Jeremy Hanley. ‘This is the Job Centre. How may I help you?’ Jeremy is funny, as ever – but devastated. ‘The last three elections I was sure I was going to lose – and I won. And this time I thought I’d win and … well, here we are.’ I suggest Jeremy puts in to be Director-General of the British Council. He’d be brilliant. He agrees. We also agree that the moment we get back from Sicily we’ll all have dinner in the heart of his constituency – ‘and we can be as loud as we like and undertip the waiters.’

‘I must tell you,’ he chuckles, ‘my three mad women – the three truly deranged constituents who come to every surgery – I’ve given each of them my successor’s home telephone number…’

Talk to Danny – who gets it spot on:

And they didn’t want us anymore. It was as simple as that.

We shop. (New Labour, new trousers.) We pack. We hoover through. By noon we’re on our way. Lunch at Broxton Hall: poached salmon, salad, new potatoes, and a glass of Sancerre. The sun is shining. I’m forty-nine. I weigh 12 st 9 lbs. I’m out of a job, but for the first time in years I’m beholden to no one. Cry freedom!

The overnight news is that Hezza is in hospital and has withdrawn from the race [for the Tory leadership]: this has to be good for Stephen; Lilley has thrown his hat into the ring, which must be bad for Howard; the Blair Cabinet is complete and there are no real surprises, except for Dobson at Health.
657
(At least it'll make the officials realise what a class act Stephen has been.)

Ruth Deech (Principal, St Anne's College, Oxford) calls, full of kind concern and heartfelt commiseration. I think she's a little shocked by how jolly I'm sounding – but I do feel free, and easy, and I can't hide it. ‘The system's so cruel … the way you're just thrown out overnight… Poor Peter…' Peter Butler is an old friend of the family, it seems. He had a majority of 14,000. He just assumed he was there for life. A dangerous assumption. ‘Poor Peter. He'd moved to Milton Keynes and the children are at school there … And, of course, there's the loss of status. And the car – he was loaned these wonderful cars – with wonderful soft leather seats…' Dear God, it clearly was time for a change in Milton Keynes!

Stephen calls. He's home at last. The throat's a lot better. He says GMTV went well. I say: ‘Now Hezza's out, you're in the frame – but still by default. The press are predicting a final play-off between you and William. As we stand, you'll be the loser. The problem is you're a lot of people's second or third choice, but nobody's first.'

Should he call Ken? No harm in talking to Ken, but Ken will want to stand come what
may – and to form too early an alliance with the Clarke corner will alienate the Eurosceptics and, like it or not, they are the masters now. We need a clear platform and some key supporters. David Faber, Simon Burns, Peter Luff are lovely, but lightweight. We need Michael Ancram, John Maples, David Curry … My advice is rest, relax, decide on your pitch, and try to secure the support of a few grown-ups.

Richard Ottaway calls. I say that I'm sorry to hear about Michael (odd – I'd have called him Hezza if he hadn't been in hospital with angina): ‘Is it serious?'

‘He's just being sensible, but it's been a warning for him – better to have had it now than to have let it kill him in a year's time.'

‘What do you do now?'

‘I don't know. Until 4.00 p.m. yesterday I was Michael's campaign manager. I could end up with Stephen, but…' There's always this ‘but': unless we overcome it, we lose. Richard doesn't want Lilley or Hague (‘an empty vessel'), but Stephen doesn't deliver for him. ‘He comes over as rather soulless. He looked so terrible during the campaign, those bags under the eyes … Some of us have been wondering if we shouldn't look outside the Cabinet.'

‘Oh yes?'

‘I know three or four who are drawn to Michael Ancram…' Dream on… ‘And a couple have mentioned Tom King…'

‘Richard. Please. Be serious! We considered that option ten years ago. Don't give up on Stephen … Think: Ancram would be outstanding at the Foreign Office, Lilley at the Treasury, Hague at Central Office. We've got to make sure the centre holds. Don't give up on Stephen…'

Blair has formed his government. It looks tired already. A handful of stars, a bunch of has-beens and a crowd of never-going-to-bes. And out there in voter-land all that naive optimism … On TV at the weekend John Fortune was quite ludicrous. In place of his customary (and enchanting) cynicism there was the most terrible sentimentality – eyes bulging, throat taut, brow glistening, he hailed New Labour as though it were the gateway to the New Jerusalem. ‘Yes – and the hawthorn is in bloom!' Pass the sick-bag, Mabel…

It is Mr Blair's forty-fourth birthday and the century's youngest Prime Minister has completed his government with a little flourish: Tony Banks as Minister for Sport. Better to
have the likely lad contained on the front bench than barracking like a barrow boy from the back. Containment is clearly part of the Blair plan. Alastair Campbell has written to the heads of information in every department telling that requests for interviews with ministers should henceforth be cleared with No. 10 – a bureaucratic nightmare! – and that ministers lunching with journalists will be ‘frowned upon'. The new ministers will all be ‘working too hard building a better Britain for us all' to have time for lunch. Ah well, the road to hell etc.

Last night William Hague did a deal with Michael Howard. Michael as leader, William as deputy and party chairman. Overnight, William thought better of it and reneged. Michael leaked William's change of heart. Stephen's verdict: ‘It damages both of them.'

A change of government offers high excitement for the civil service. This morning's post contains the following, dated 2 May: ‘I am required to write to you to ask you to return any items of government property which are in your possession. I understand you have a pager and some departmental passes. I should be grateful if you could make arrangements for these items to be returned to me as soon as possible. You are, of course, allowed to keep your black ministerial box as a memento.' Given Mrs Blair's reported aversion to cats I'm also inclined to hang on to my Treasury file on HM government's cats.

This is perfect. We are in Sicily, in Taormina, and the sun is shining. I am lying on a deckchair by the swimming pool. The season is only just beginning: there is hardly anyone else here. There is a gentle breeze and the smell of spring. It is eleven o'clock and my first cappuccino of the day has just been served.

Michèle booked this for us during the campaign. She knew we'd lose. (She proposed putting our flat in Chester up for sale during the campaign, too. Seriously.) She is very happy with the outcome of the election. Everybody is. Britain is awash with hope. ‘A new day has dawned, has it not?' The golden age of Blair is upon us. It'll all go wrong, of course. It always does. But that's not something that you can say out loud at the moment. Everyone (including my wife) believes that Saint Tony will lead us to the Promised Land and that the Conservative Party is not just down, but out – and probably out for good.

I am saying nothing. As an MP, you only meet two types of people: people with
problems and people who are right. I marvel that everyone seems to have the answer to everything. What I discovered in Whitehall and Westminster is that, in truth, nobody really knows anything. (Even at the Treasury where they really do think they know it all.)

It is so good to be here, away from all that. I can see Mount Etna in the distance. We are planning an expedition to Syracuse, where the boys come from. But first, lunch: vitello tonnato and a glass of Frascati, I think, don't you?

I am on the train, going to Leeds, to record
Countdown
– six episodes. (And, yes, madam, since you ask, they do feed you the words through an earpiece. But, no, I won't be wearing any wacky jumpers. ‘Time for a change' and all that.) I am so lucky. I am picking up where I left off.
Countdown
called immediately after the election. CBS News called. LBC called. I have a contract for a new novel. I have work − and plenty of it. Many of my colleagues have nothing – nothing and no prospects. People like Derek Conway (who called just now) had huge majorities and still they lost – and now his children will have to be taken out of boarding school. People think there are ‘directorships' and all sorts of goodies awaiting ex-MPs. Not so. What use is an ex-Tory MP to anyone? This is Blair's Britain. This is the age of New Labour. Old Tories have nothing to offer. Their contacts are outdated: their skills (such as they are!) irrelevant. It's fine for the few who are famous – e.g. Michael Portillo – but most of my former colleagues are shop-soiled, unknown, unfashionable and the wrong side of fifty. The best they can hope for is something in the charity sector.
658

Just before the election, in the Tea Room of the House of Commons, queuing up for a toasted teacake, I found myself standing next to Jack Straw. He was grinning from ear to ear. ‘Why are you looking so cheerful?' I asked. ‘Because I have been sitting here doing nothing for eighteen years – eighteen years! – and this time next month it looks as if I'll be Home Secretary.' And so he is. And well done him. (He beat me to it, after all.)

After lunch (sole off the bone, at Le Vendome in Dover Street, with Laurie Mansfield,
agent to the stars, organiser of the Royal Variety Performance) I walked to Pimlico, to Stephen Dorrell's campaign headquarters. He hopes to be Leader of the Conservative Party – what's left of it. He is a good man, but it won't happen. He has no following – and I have no interest any more. Either you are in there or you're not. And I'm not.

Stephen has thrown in the towel. He's backing Ken [Clarke]. We went together to Ken's office this morning. John Gummer, David Curry, Michael Mates were there. They think their man's in with a chance. There was high excitement in the air. I felt the complete outsider. I shouldn't have gone.

William Hague has defeated Ken Clarke by twenty-two votes and, at thirty-six, has become the youngest leader of the Conservative Party since Pitt the Younger. ‘Much good will it do him,' says Michèle. ‘No one is interested in your lot any more. The people have spoken, Gyles. Listen to the people.'

I do. I have. This week I am writing a children's book:
The Adventures of Mouse Village.
Next week I start my novel:
Venice Midnight.
(Jo Lumley gave me the title. I was calling it Venice at Midnight. She said, ‘Venice Midnight is much more intriguing.') I am getting on with life in the real world. My friend Seb Coe, by contrast, has thrown in his lot with William. He is already his right-hand man. ‘What's the point?' asks M.

‘If he sticks with it,' I reply, ‘he'll be offered the first safe seat that comes up or a place in the House of Lords.'

‘Do you think so?'

‘I know so. I know how the system works.'

‘Is that what you want?' she asks – and I don't reply. The truth is: I'm not sure. (Actually, the truth is I can't afford to play at politics. I have a living to earn.)

We went to Cambridge to watch Benet take his degree. We went on afterwards to the Master's drinks at Magdalene. The sun shone. The young people looked so happy. We parents looked so proud. This is what life is about.

I came down into the kitchen to make the early morning tea and turned on the television and heard the news. Princess Diana is dead.

I called Michèle and we just stood there watching. We just stood there. It was quite difficult to take in. I went out to buy the papers and, amazingly, the
News of the World
had produced a 6.00 a.m. ‘shock issue':

It's wall-to-wall Diana. Charles has gone to Paris to collect the body. William and Harry are at Balmoral with the Queen and Prince Philip. Blair has been on the box and brilliant – if you like that sort of thing. William [Hague] botched it utterly.

Last night Saethryd went over to Kensington Palace and joined the crowds. They came in all shapes and sizes – a lot of black people, a lot of gays – and they all brought flowers to lay at the palace gates. The outpouring of emotion is extraordinary. There are pictures in the paper of William and Harry being driven to church with Charles yesterday: no tears there, just stiff upper lips. But the rest of the world is awash. And they have all got something to say: Mother Teresa, Lady Thatcher, Bill Clinton, Nelson Mandela. Even James Hewitt's mother Shirley has thrown in her two cents' worth: ‘He's in a state of shock.'
659

I am sorry for Diana, of course. And for her sons. This is a tragedy – but it is their tragedy, not mine. I cannot say that I am feeling this personally, as the rest of the world seems to be doing. I am out of step with the rest of mankind. Mr Blair has his finger on the national pulse: ‘She was the people's princess and that is how she will remain in our hearts and our memories forever.'

It's completely out of hand. The world has lost the plot. The issue of the hour appears to be the Buckingham Palace flagpole. As anyone who knows anything knows, the flagpole is traditionally bare except when the sovereign is in residence when the royal standard is flown. And the royal standard is never flown at half mast, even on the death of a sovereign. But the tabloids are having none of that – they are baying for blood. Actually, they are baying for tears. ‘Show us you care, Ma'am!' Well, the Queen doesn't cry – and certainly not in public – but she has bowed to public opinion and the union flag is now flying over Buckingham Palace at half mast.

I have just watched the Queen's live broadcast. It was perfectly judged. It will have diffused the anger. She did not say anything she did not mean. She did not go over the top. But she did enough.

We sat in the kitchen and watched Diana's funeral. Tony Blair's over-emotional reading of the lesson was an embarrassment, but other than that it all worked. Charles Spencer's tribute to his sister was very touching – even if it didn't quite make sense. (Prince Charles and the royals are William and Harry's ‘blood family' too, surely?) When he'd finished, the crowd outside applauded – and the applause was taken up by the congregation inside the abbey. ‘The people's princess' indeed. I imagine the Queen is utterly bewildered by it all.