The Downing Street Years (146 page)

The message of the meeting, even from those urging me to fight on, was implicitly demoralizing. Though I had never been defeated in a general election, retained the support of the Party in the country, and had just won the support of a majority of the Party in Parliament, the best thing to be said for me, apparently, was that I was better placed than other candidates to beat Michael Heseltine. But even this was uncertain since my strongest supporters doubted I could win, and others believed that even if I succeeded in that, I would be unable to unite the Party afterwards for the general election. And hanging over all this was the dread much-invoked spectre of ‘humiliation’ if I were to fight and lose. I drew the meeting to a close, saying I would reflect on what I had heard. In retrospect, I can see that my resolve had been weakened by these meetings. As yet I was still inclined to fight on. But I felt that the decision would really be made at the meetings with my Cabinet colleagues that evening.

Before then I had to make my statement in the House on the outcome of the Paris summit. Leaving No. 10 I called out to the assembled journalists in Downing Street: ‘I fight on, I fight to win,’ and was interested to see later on the news that I looked a good deal more confident than I felt.

The statement was not an easy occasion, except for the Opposition. People were more interested in my intentions than in my words. Afterwards, I went back to my room in the House where I was met by
Norman Tebbit. It was time — perhaps high time — for me to seek support for my leadership personally. Norman and I began to go round the tea-room. I had never experienced such an atmosphere before. Repeatedly I heard: ‘Michael has asked me two or three times for my vote already. This is the first time we have seen you.’ Members whom I had known well for many years seemed to have been bewitched by Michael’s flattery and promises. That at least was my first reaction. Then I realized that many of these were supporters complaining that my campaign did not seem to be really fighting. They were in a kind of despair because we had apparently given up the ghost.

I returned to my room. I now had no illusion as to how bad the position was. If there was to be any hope, I had to put my whole campaign on a new footing even at this late stage. I therefore asked John Wakeham, whom I believed had the authority and knowledge to do this, to take charge. He agreed but said that he needed people to help him: physically, he had never entirely recovered from the Brighton bomb. So he went off to ask Tristan Garel-Jones and Richard Ryder — both of whom had been closely involved in the 1989 leadership campaign — to be his chief lieutenants.

I now saw Douglas Hurd and asked him formally to nominate me for the second ballot. This he agreed to do at once and with good grace. Then I telephoned John Major at home outside Huntingdon. I told him that I had decided to stand again and that Douglas was going to propose me. I asked John to second my nomination. There was a moment’s silence. The hesitation was palpable. No doubt the operation on John’s wisdom teeth was giving him trouble. Then he said that if that was what I wanted, yes. Later, when urging my supporters to vote for John for the leadership, I made play of the fact that he did not hesitate. But both of us knew otherwise.

I now went to the Palace for an audience with the Queen at which I informed her that I would stand in the second ballot, as indeed I still intended to do. Then I returned to my room in the House to see the Cabinet one by one.

I could, of course, have concentrated my efforts for the second ballot on winning over the back-benchers directly. Perhaps I should have done. But the earlier meetings had persuaded me that it was essential
to mobilize Cabinet ministers not just to give formal support, but also to go out and persuade junior ministers and back-benchers to back me. In asking for their support, however, I was also putting myself at their mercy. If a substantial number of Cabinet colleagues refused their backing, there could be no disguising the fact afterwards. I recalled a complaint from Churchill, then Prime Minister, to his Chief Whip that talk of his resignation in the Parliamentary Party — he would shortly be succeeded by Anthony Eden — was undermining his authority. Without that authority, he could not be an effective prime minister. Similarly, a prime minister who knows that his or her Cabinet has withheld its support is fatally weakened. I knew — and I am sure they knew — that I would not willingly remain an hour in 10 Downing Street without real authority to govern.

As I have said, I had spoken to Douglas Hurd and John Major already, though I had not directly sought their views about what I should do. I had already seen Cecil Parkinson after returning from the tea-room. He told me that I should remain in the race, that I could count on his unequivocal support and that it would be a hard struggle but that I could win. Nick Ridley, no longer in the Cabinet but a figure of more than equivalent weight, also assured me of his complete support. Ken Baker had made clear his total commitment to me. The Lord Chancellor and Lord Belstead, Leader of the Lords, were not really significant players in the game. And John Wakeham was my campaign manager. But all the others I would see in my room in the House of Commons.

Over the next two hours or so, each Cabinet minister came in, sat down on the sofa in front of me and gave me his views. Almost to a man they used the same formula. This was that they themselves would back me, of course, but that regretfully they did not believe I could win.

In fact, as I well realized, they had been feverishly discussing what they should say in the rooms off the Commons Cabinet corridor above my room. Like all politicians in a quandary, they had sorted out their ‘line to take’ and they would cling to it through thick and thin. After three or four interviews, I felt I could almost join in the chorus. Whatever the monotony of the song, however, the tone and human reactions of those who came into my room that evening offered dramatic contrasts.

My first ministerial visitor was not a member of the Cabinet at all. Francis Maude, Angus’s son and Minister of State at the Foreign Office, whom I regarded as a reliable ally, told me that he passionately supported the things I believed in, that he would back me as long as
I went on, but that he did not believe I could win. He left in a state of some distress; nor had he cheered me up noticeably.

Ken Clarke now entered. His manner was robust in the brutalist style he has cultivated: the candid friend. He said that this method of changing prime ministers was farcical, and that he personally would be happy to support me for another five or ten years. Most of the Cabinet, however, thought that I should stand down. Otherwise, not only would I lose; I would ‘lose big’. If that were to happen, the Party would go to Michael Heseltine and end up split. So Douglas and John should be released from their obligation to me and allowed to stand, since either had a better chance than I did. Then the solid part of the Party could get back together. Contrary to persistent rumours, Ken Clarke at no point threatened to resign.

Peter Lilley, obviously ill at ease, came in next. From the message I had received in Paris, I knew roughly what to expect from him. He duly announced that he would support me if I stood but that it was inconceivable that I would win. Michael Heseltine must not be allowed to get the leadership or all my achievements would be threatened. The only way to prevent this was to make way for John Major.

Of course, I had not been optimistic about Ken Clarke and Peter Lilley for quite different reasons. But I had written off my next visitor, Malcolm Rifkind, in advance. After Geoffrey’s departure, Malcolm was probably my sharpest personal critic in the Cabinet and he did not soften his criticism on this occasion. He said bluntly that I could not win, and that either John or Douglas would do better. Still, even Malcolm did not declare against me. When I asked him whether I would have, his support if I did stand, he said that he would have to think about it. Indeed, he gave the assurance that he would never campaign against me. Silently, I thanked God for small mercies.

After so much commiseration, it was a relief to talk to Peter Brooke. He was, as always, charming, thoughtful and loyal. He said he would fully support me whatever I chose to do. Being in Northern Ireland, he was not closely in touch with parliamentary opinion and could not himself offer an authoritative view of my prospects. But he believed I could win if I went ahead with all guns blazing. Could I win if all guns did
not
blaze? That was something I was myself beginning to doubt.

My next visitor was Michael Howard, another rising star who shared my convictions. Michael’s version of the Cabinet theme was altogether stronger and more encouraging. Although he doubted my prospects, he himself would not only support me but would campaign vigorously for me.

William Waldegrave, my most recent Cabinet appointment, arrived next. William was very formal. I could hardly expect more from someone who did not share my political views. But he declared very straightforwardly that it would be dishonourable for someone to accept a place in my Cabinet one week and not support me three weeks later. He would vote for me as long as I was a candidate. But he had a sense of foreboding about the result. It would be a catastrophe if corporatist policies took over, which, of course, was another way of saying that Michael Heseltine should be held at bay.

At this point I received a note from John Wakeham who wanted an urgent word with me. Apparently, the position was much worse than he had thought. I was not surprised. It was hardly any better from where I was sitting.

John Gummer bounced in next. His position was, on the face of it, not easy to predict. He was a passionate European, but he apparently shared the same general philosophy of government as I did. In fact I was mildly curious as to how he would resolve this tension. But he reeled off the standard formula that he would support me if I decided to stand, but as a friend he should warn me that I could not win, and so I should move aside and let John and Douglas stand.

John Gummer was followed by Chris Patten. Chris and I had worked together for many years from the time when he was Director of the Conservative Research Department until I brought him into the Cabinet in 1989. He had a way with words, and perhaps this had too easily convinced me that he and I always put the same construction upon them. But he was a man of the Left. So I could hardly complain when he told me that he would support me but that I could not win, and so on.

Even melodramas have intervals, even
Macbeth
has the porter’s scene. I now had a short talk with Alan Clark, Minister of State at the Ministry of Defence, and a gallant friend, who came round to lift my spirits with the encouraging advice that I should fight on at all costs. Unfortunately, he went on to argue that I should fight on even though I was bound to lose because it was better to go out in a blaze of glorious defeat than to go gentle into that good night. Since I had no particular fondness for Wagnerian endings, this lifted my spirits only briefly. But I was glad to have someone unambiguously on my side even in defeat.

By now John Wakeham and Ken Baker had turned up to speak to me, and their news was not good. John said that he now doubted whether I could get the support of the Cabinet. What I had been hearing did not suggest that he was wrong. He added that he had
tried to put together a campaign team but was not succeeding even at that. I had realized by now that I was not dealing with Polish cavalrymen; but I was surprised that neither Tristan Garel-Jones nor Richard Ryder were prepared to serve as John’s lieutenants because they believed I could not win.

Tristan Garel-Jones had, of course, served on my campaign team the previous year when my position was not seriously under threat. Nonetheless, I could not find it in my heart to be really disappointed in him now. His view of Conservative politics had always been that the line of least resistance is the best course, and I suppose he was only being consistent. But it was a personal as well as a political blow to learn that Richard, who had come with me to No. 10 all those years ago as my political secretary and whom I had moved up the ladder as quickly as I decently could, was deserting at the first whiff of grapeshot.

Ken Baker went on to report that the position had deteriorated since we had spoken that morning. He had found between ten and twelve members of the Cabinet who did not think I could win. And if they thought that, there would not be enough enthusiasm to carry the day. Even so he believed that I should carry on. But he floated Tom King’s suggestion — which I was myself to hear from Tom a little later — that I should promise to stand down after Christmas if I won. The idea was that this would allow me to see through the Gulf War. I could not accept this: I would have no authority in the meantime and I would need all I could muster for the forthcoming battles in the European Community.

After John and Ken had left, Norman Lamont came in and repeated the formula. The position, he said, was beyond repair. Everything we had achieved on industry and Europe would be jeopardized by a victory for Michael Heseltine. Everything but Robertson Hare’s ‘Oh Calamity.’

John MacGregor now appeared and somewhat belatedly gave me the news that I lacked support in the Cabinet which he had felt unable to convey to me earlier in the day. He too eschewed any originality and stuck by the formula. Tom King said the usual things, though more warmly than most. He added the suggestion trailed by Ken Baker that I should offer to stand down at a specific date in the future. I rejected this suggestion, but I was grateful for the diversion.

In all the circumtances, it was a relief to see David Waddington enter and sit down on the sofa. Here was a steadfast friend but, as I quickly saw, one in the deepest distress. All David’s instincts were to fight on. For him the argument that battle should not be joined because
defeat was likely had none of the attraction that it did for some of his colleagues. It was not an evasion, nor a disguised threat, nor a way of abandoning my cause without admitting the fact. It was a reluctant recognition of reality. But as a former Chief Whip — and how often in recent days had I wished that he still held that office — he knew that support for me in the Cabinet had collapsed. David said that he wanted me to win and would support me but could not guarantee a victory. He left my room with tears in his eyes.