by Craig Oliver
Resign, hanging on until the Conservative party has managed to find itself a new leader.
He says he will stay on to steady the ship, but won’t be able to see it to its destination. This involves not giving a specific date for going and creating a negotiating team, made up of a number of leading Brexiteers (he names Boris, Gove and Whittingdale, as well as George Osborne).
Oliver Letwin speaks first. He makes the powerful case for Option 2. He believes we should do this because it is clearly what is right for the country. Going will cause a great shock that could make things worse.
The PM invites me to speak next.
‘We tell ourselves that a win is a win, allowing us to do what we want. But we also need to understand that a loss is a loss. My main concern is you – and I want you to be able to go with dignity. If you lose and stay on, you will be fighting reality. The combination of the right-wing press and hardcore Brexit MPs will want to eject you from the system like a virus. They’ll say you’re clinging on. And don’t forget the narrative will be that this is a vote against the establishment, with you looking like a key representative of that establishment trying to go against the result. You won’t be able to withstand the pressure – you’ll look undignified and you will go.’
I can see DC nodding along with this. I know he has already made up his mind, probably even before this discussion.
George comes in next, ‘I’ve been fighting with two irreconcilable thoughts.’ The first is what I have just argued. The second is that history is littered with examples of governments that have been through torrid times, only to survive. DC laughs, saying, ‘Prime Ministers also resign.’ Kate joins in supporting George’s case.
No one is aggressive. No one feels they need to prove others wrong. This is a group of people who care very deeply about David Cameron and the country and want to do the right thing. Each of us would happily be proven wrong.
I have another go. ‘We seem to be discounting any sense of the countervailing forces. We often speak of moments where everyone sets their hair on fire and runs around screaming about one event or another. This is going to be the mother of those moments – and I just don’t think you could survive it.’
There is some pushing back and forth. I feel tears welling in my eyes at one moment. I hear the point about doing what is right for the country.
My other fear is that it will sound like, ‘The people can be trusted with democracy – until they make a mistake.’ DC goes out to the loo. As he does, I remind everyone of the Knight in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, taking hit after hit, having limbs sliced off – yet still urging people to come on and try to beat him, claiming ‘It’s only a flesh wound.’ In other words, he doesn’t know when he’s beaten.
Oliver Letwin moves on to what would happen in a Conservative leadership election. He thinks it would include Theresa May, Boris and Gove and it would be a competition on who could be the most ‘Leavist’, with Gove the only one who really believed it.
Someone questions whether Gove could cope. I think his latest comments on Nazis are an example of him feeling the pressure. DC says what we know is that Gove is prone to ‘infarctions’. I suspect he knows just about enough about himself to realise he couldn’t cope with it all – and that he’s done some kind of deal with Boris to make him DPM and Home Secretary, or perhaps even Chancellor of the Exchequer.
Next the conversation moves on to when there should be a reshuffle if we win. DC’s feeling is we should take the heat out of everything and leave it to September. I suspect that’s the right thing, but we need to realise it will create a vacuum that will result in every newspaper running endless reshuffle demands. DC says he understands that, shrugs and says we can ultimately withstand it.
Interestingly it is Kate who raises the prospect of us winning, only for them to still demand George’s head. DC’s view is that they can ‘get stuffed’. Everyone feels protective of George, who has given his all and left himself exposed throughout this fight.
Once again I am left thinking – it’s over, even if we win. No one else thinks that is the case.
Late in the afternoon, the skies open. I am fielding a stream of, ‘What’s happening?’ calls, with journalists hoping I can throw them a morsel of insight. I look out towards St James’s Park, which is little more than a slate grey blur, how Monet might have painted it.
I have described at the beginning of this book the torment of results night. The sense of everyone persuading us we were on a path to safety, only to fall into quicksand, and coming with it the slow descent, realising that nothing and no one would save us.
It was painful to write.
I am back in No. 10 to watch David Dimbleby call it formally on the BBC at 4.39 a.m. He says, ‘The decision taken in 1975 by this country to join the Common Market has been reversed by this referendum … there is absolutely no way that the Remain side can win.’
I feel strangely calm.
The pound is dropping to its lowest level since 1985.
I find a group of people gathered just inside the door to No. 11: Laurence Mann, Gabby Bertin and Liz Sugg. All of them have red eyes from crying. I give each of them a hug and ask, ‘What are you doing here?’ They shrug as if to say, it’s as good a place as any. They are discussing whether DC should go. Liz worries people will hold it against him, because he kept saying he was going to stay on in the circumstances. As gently as possible, I argue that I am willing to be wrong, but it’s not right for him, it wouldn’t work anyway, his heart isn’t in it – and worse, it isn’t right for the country.
A small voice inside me is also saying: they broke it, they own it.
I walk into No. 11 and into George’s study. He is sitting alone, watching a tiny television. I put my hand on his shoulder and say, ‘Hi.’ I am suddenly aware that I have put back on a Remain T-shirt.
I ask him how he thinks Gove and Boris feel. My hope is that they feel real pain, wondering what on earth they have done. George pricks that bubble, simply saying, ‘Cock-a-hoop. In politics you always believe you’ll be better than those who went before you.’ I wonder. I still suspect Boris and Gove never thought this would really happen – hoping to be the valiant losers who stood up for justice, without ever having to pick up the pieces. Now they have to.
A small group gathers in the PM’s office. I am getting texts pressurising me to say he will speak before the markets open. There’s a no chance of that: he’s upstairs with his family and none of us are going to impose on that.
My phone goes – a conference call is being set up with Philip Hammond. I wonder if he is so eager now to face the music. I take the call back at my desk phone, with dear Adam Atashzai, still enthusiastic to do the best job he can, even in defeat.
When Philip Hammond comes through, he says, ‘Are you going to say to me what another person at Number Ten just said?’
‘What’s that?’
‘You’re on your own!’
I burst out laughing, ‘Oh, come on! He didn’t say that!’
‘He did!’
‘Well, you’re not on your own. We’re here to talk it through.’
We agree he needs to be calm and conciliatory – the British people have given us an instruction and it is our duty to do our best. He seems to accept this. I’m not sure it really matters, it will dissolve in the tsunami of news.
There’s a fair amount of sitting around and waiting for DC to come down.
My eldest daughter, Maya, wakes up and sends me a WhatsApp message: ‘daddy I just heard that we left, it’s so bad I’m so annoyed but you did really well and I’m sure there’s nothing you could have done. Love you xxx’.
She follows up: ‘I’m really proud of you X’.
I send her back: ‘Thanks darling. I’m ok. I love you very much xx’.
For the first time I don’t think I’m going to stop myself crying. I walk through to the bathroom opposite the private office to take a moment.
DC arrives around 7 a.m., trying to have
a sense of humour about it all: ‘Well, that didn’t go to plan!’ He goes on, ‘We haven’t got much to complain about. It was a seventy-two per cent turnout.’
There are quite a few of us now in the room. DC reads through his farewell speech. The room thins out. DC is planning to make a number of calls. The most important of which is with Michael Gove, the chairman of the Leave campaign.
Switch patches me in.
Gove comes on and says, ‘Hi.’
DC takes charge immediately, ‘I wanted to call you to formally concede and to congratulate you on a stunning victory.’
‘Thank you, PM.’
‘From here on, I’m keen to provide stability.’
‘There are some particular things we should talk about regarding how the negotiations proceed.’
DC cuts him off at the pass, he sounds ultra-polite and friendly, though I detect some cold brutality here, ‘Well, I’ll make a statement shortly. It’ll really just say: result received and accepted and it must be delivered.’
There’s a long pause.
‘All right, take care.’ I can hear uncertainty in Michael Gove’s voice – what is DC planning?
The conversation lasts no longer than a minute. They have been typically British and polite, but there is no love lost here. Others who listened to the call are incensed, ‘Did you hear him – as if he was the PM dictating terms?’ I think he’s not aware of what is about to hit him.
The next call is to Sir John Major. He’s kept waiting a bit too long while DC sorts himself out, but he is very kind when he comes on, ‘I’m so sorry. I think the world has gone mad. You did all you can.’
DC tells him that he has come to the conclusion that the only right answer is to resign and that he hopes he won’t be perceived as cutting and running. Sir John Major is clear, ‘I hate saying that you are right – but the alternative situation would be impossible and undignified.’
The final call before he faces the world is to Nicola Sturgeon. There is some elaborate felicitation before he tells her he felt she was part of a strong campaign and that he is personally disappointed. He wants her to be involved in any negotiations.
She tells him she appreciates that and she will seek to protect Scotland’s involvement in the single market. Of course, she is saying that she will take a diametrically opposite view to the Brexiteers who are negotiating.
It’s just after 8 a.m. DC is ready to go out. He asks the Duty Clerk for the ‘plastic fantastic’, in other words, a folder where each bit of paper in his statement can be slid into a plastic pocket, to stop it flying away.
I turn up the TV, which is now showing an image of the No. 10 door. I’m suddenly aware that the private office is now full of people. George stands next to me. Kate is in tears. I put my arm around her shoulder as we watch.
It’s obvious from the moment he walks out of the front door that he is resigning. Sam wouldn’t be there if he wasn’t going. He looks at his calm authoritative best. When it comes to the section of his speech saying he will steady the ship, but he can’t be the captain who sails to the next port, a big banner flashes up on the bottom of the screen: ‘Cameron Resigns’. He gets to the final sentences about loving his country and he begins to choke up, just about getting to the end without crying. He turns, takes Sam’s hand and walks inside.
Thirty seconds later, they are back in the private office. There’s a spontaneous round of applause that goes on for well over a minute. DC makes his way to the door of his office. He is standing eighteen inches away from me. He waves his hands to silence people and it takes a long moment for them to stop.
He makes a small speech about this being the best team he could hope to have and how we have all done an amazing job. He turns to go into his room and Sam follows. The door closes.
They come out a few minutes later and I stand up. He gives me a big hug and I feel the tears well up in my eyes. I think it’s the first time there has been meaningful physical contact between us. Sam comes and gives me a hug, too, ‘Craig …,’ she says – and there’s no need to fill in the blank.
Kate suggests a few of us go over to Inn the Park in St James’s Park for some breakfast and we troop across. The sun is shining. Squirrels are darting around. Tourists are oblivious, as they take selfies. The world is still turning …
I check in with the Stronger In team. They are in a pub in Smithfield. I suggest to the group who have had most to do with them that we head over.
It’s a tiny pub, with most people spilled out into the sunshine. Will is wearing a hoodie. Others are still in yesterday’s clothes. I hug them and commiserate one by one. Most are well on the way to being pissed. I buy a round. It’s a cash-only pub, so I run across to a cashpoint. The barman is a sweet, but almost comic character. At least three times in my ninety minutes there, he attempts to carry a stack of glasses and drops them on the floor – each time emerging with a massive dustpan and brush to sweep it up.
I feel I don’t want to hang around too long. People will start to get morose. I’ve also just had a maximum of ten minutes’ sleep. If I drink anything, I will collapse.
As I am about to leave, Gisela Stuart, Boris Johnson and Michael Gove hold a press conference. I stay to watch Boris. It looks more like a funeral to me than a celebration. Someone says, ‘They’ve been caught with their pants down.’ I walk out before Gove speaks – I don’t think I can stand to see his elaborate and fatuous nonsense. I cling to a sense that they are regretting what they have done, and that surely Boris wishes he had a time machine to go back to the point where he wobbled and go the other way.
I get an Uber back to No. 10. Sturgeon is giving a press conference. She is straight out of the traps saying a second independence referendum should be on the table, adding menacingly, ‘And it is on the table.’ I find myself thinking she now has a compelling case – the rest of the UK has taken a decision that Scotland rejected. That decision will have a demonstrable impact on Scotland and its place in the world. Of course, she is going to struggle now with questions over Scotland’s deficit, would they really want to join the Euro, and should there now be a ‘hard border’ between Scotland and England – but she’s spotted her opportunity.
I pop into No. 10, but there’s not much more to do. A call comes through from Merkel. I notice there’s very little addressing the sadness of the situation. Perhaps she doesn’t know what to say. The closest she gets is, ‘What is painful to me is that young people failed to turn out in numbers to vote.’ Quite.
I think I will collapse if I don’t get some sleep. I grab a couple of hours and then make my way to pick up my kids.
Life goes on.
I feel sad and sanguine. I’ve been fighting for a long time – a big part of me feels released.
DC texts:
Couldn’t really put into words today how much I appreciate all you have done. Would have lost it. Be proud and strong. We were fighting a good fight. All love dc.
I text back:
Thank you. Not just for saying that – but for an amazing few years. I was happy to fight for and with you time after time. Craig.
AFTER
Chapter 33
Like Jokers at an Auction
I’M INUNDATED WITH supportive texts. It’s lovely to know that people care. Most are of the ‘can’t believe that just happened, hope you are OK’ variety. My standard response is: ‘I’m fine. Pretty sanguine. It appears we don’t live in the country I thought we did.’
Over the weekend, I reflect a little with the PM. He clearly believes there was little more we could have done: ‘I failed fighting for something I believed in.’
He also thinks that he miscalculated – believing that ‘reasonable sceptics’ would be for In. He is staggered by the number of people who never argued for exit but then took up the cause.
Stephen Gilbert calls. He sounds very down. All I want to let him know is that he fought valiantly. He obviously wonders what on earth he nearly killed himself for. Both of us say we were notic
ing that it was starting to affect our health.
I text a few people to ask if they are OK. Most come back saying they feel very sad.
I have bad moments, but there’s the compensation of relief. At least it is over.
After the ground rush of the previous few days, the week passes in slow motion.
There’s a sense of the leading Brexiteers fleeing the scene of the crime. Some make clear the £350 million claim was never really serious. Boris’s weekly column seems an exercise in pure denial. He asserts the referendum wasn’t really about immigration. He also suggests we can have access to the free market, without any need to follow the rules or have free movement.
Janan Ganesh describes Michael Gove and Boris Johnson as looking like ‘jokers at an auction whose playfully exorbitant bid for a vase had just been accepted with a chilling smash of the gavel.’
The Vote Leave campaign seems to disappear in a puff of smoke. No one is around to answer questions about what they did or what happens next.
Our 8.30 meetings continue – though a little more sparsely attended than before. Plans are made to ensure machinery is in place for Brexit. The PM is clear the decisions are for his successor, but there’s a duty to make sure they have the advice they need from the outset. He asks the Cabinet Secretary to move immediately to set up a new team, drawing on the Cabinet Office, the Foreign Office, the Treasury and the Department of Business. This team will need to be led by and staffed by the civil service’s best and brightest.
DC remains as good-humoured as ever. He reads out one of the many notes he has received. It’s from a rabbi, who says the section of the Torah that Jews are being directed to at present is the time when Moses is rejected by his people. DC puts on an affectionate accent and quotes, ‘Against Moses!’ And then, ‘You are a true mensch … it is the fate of leaders not to be valued and not to be thanked.’
It’s time to go through to Cabinet. I walk into the room and look across at Michael Gove. His face is crimson, looking like he may be about to have a coronary. Once again, he seems to be engaged in the most elaborate performance as events take place around him. He grabs his pen with excessive vigour, scribbles and underlines ferociously. When he turns the page he takes the fabric bookmark and lays it down along the spine of the notebook with excessive care. Occasionally he places his elbows on the table, his palms pressed against each other, and drums his fingers together, varying the tempo. No one else is so fidgety or seems to draw this much attention to themselves.
