Breaking the Code

by Gyles Brandreth

  How soon will I get to meet him? Will I get to meet him? Benny Hill is coming to the show today. That’s who the cast here all want to meet. He’s their kind of hero.

  WEDNESDAY 23 JANUARY 1991

  My third encounter with Tom Arnold. It’s the routine as before: I’m trundled up the back stairs, bundled along the corridor, ushered through his door into his cubby-hole as the clock strikes. (I imagine the secretary doesn’t come in because the room couldn’t fit three at a time.) Tom is as ever – charming, elusive, conspiratorial – but this time I’ve come prepared. No more pussy-footing, no more amiable small talk leading nowhere in particular. From my briefcase I produce a piece of paper and lay it on the table in front of him:

  To: Sir Thomas Arnold MP

  Coming from a large family, and as the chairman of a national body with affiliated associations in every English county, and as a director of a retail chain with thirty branches, I can claim links with many parts of the country.

  Specifically I have direct business or family ties with each of the following constituencies:

  Hertsmere

  City of Chester

  Croydon Central

  Brighton Pavilion

  Castle Point

  Chingford

  I live not far from Croydon, and my associations with Chester and Hertsmere are particularly close, as my father and his family come from the former and my sister and her family live in the latter.

  (Okay, so my father came from Hoylake, but Chester’s close. And if St Albans isn’t in the Hertsmere constituency it ought to be. And desperate times call for desperate measures.)

  Tom considered my list and offered a crooked smiled. ‘You’ve been doing your homework.’

  ‘I’m keen.’

  ‘I see.’ He lifted the telephone with one hand and put his finger to his lips with the other. He gave me a knowing look and narrowed his eyes. He murmured into the receiver, ‘Hertsmere? The list’s closed, isn’t it? Yes, thanks.’

  The upshot is this: I can send my CV to the constituency chairmen at Chester, Croydon, Brighton, Castle Point and Chingford and Tom has said he will send my details to the Central Office agents in the relevant areas with the recommendation that I be considered for an interview. I am to see Tom again on Wednesday 6 March at 11.00 a.m.

  At last, progress.

  MONDAY 28 JANUARY 1991

  The Duke of Edinburgh Birthday Committee meets. HRH will be seventy on 10 June and, with the Duke of Edinburgh’s Award Scheme, we’re planning a gala bash at Windsor Castle. Prince Edward is obergruppenführer. I propose Michael Caine as master of ceremonies and suggest we try Barbra Streisand for the cabaret, but it’s a large committee (there’s going to be a lot of talk) and it seems on the cabaret-front we’re already committed to Harry Connick Jr. (Who he?)67

  FRIDAY 1 FEBRUARY 1991

  Hundreds of Iraqis have been killed in the first real land battle of the war. It’s getting dawn-to-dusk coverage on radio and TV, and most nights I tune in briefly after the show. I didn’t tonight, because I went with Bonnie and Barbara and Brian to an end-of-run celebration at Joe Allen’s. We laughed a lot, gossiped, they talked about their plans. I got Barbara talking a bit about the Krays (‘they only ever killed their own’) but it was really showbiz-showbiz all the way. The war didn’t get a look-in. War in a distant land (even when our boys are involved) is not a topic much touched upon by the Wimbledon Theatre panto players – though I did make Barbara laugh telling her the story Beverley Nichols told me years ago.68 It was during the darkest days of the Second World War. John Gielgud69 went to stay with Beverley in the country and, on Sunday morning, Beverley got up early to fetch the papers from the village shop. Gielgud had got there first and was sitting in the kitchen surrounded by all the newspapers, with headline after headline blaring doom and gloom, news of setback and disaster on almost every front. Gielgud was ashen-faced, shaking his head in despair. ‘John, what on earth has happened?’ ‘The worst,’ wailed Gielgud, ‘Gladys has got the most terrible notices!’

  SATURDAY 9 FEBRUARY 1991

  ‘Iraqis morale wilts under allied onslaught.’ Mine has rather wilted too. And the country has disappeared beneath a blanket of snow.

  WEDNESDAY 13 FEBRUARY 1991

  Ash Wednesday. Mrs T.’s monetarist gurus have written to The Times warning of ‘a 1930s style depression’ and calling for interest rate cuts. Saddam pledges to talk to Moscow and fight on. And I go to Stratford-upon-Avon to meet Sooty – in person – at the Teddy Bear Museum. Once he’s got the glove on, Matthew Corbett suddenly becomes quite charismatic and Sooty (complete with water pistol aimed straight at the local press) is a true star. I present him with the ‘Teddy’, the Museum’s answer to the Oscar, a lifetime achievement award given to those bears who have ‘shaken paws with immortality’.

  FRIDAY 15 FEBRUARY 1991

  Kinnock sacks Short70 because she won’t keep quiet about the war. The jobless figures head for two million. And I head for Croydon where I’m addressing the Croydon Playing Fields Association and, incidentally, hoping to impress any Croydon Conservatives who happen to be in the audience. I sit with Bernard Weatherill,71 who is easy, urbane, chatty (reminds me of John Profumo) but clearly doesn’t see me as a political figure at all. Why should he?

  THURSDAY 21 FEBRUARY 1991

  Hallelujah! A letter from the City of Chester Conservative Association: ‘The shortlisting has now taken place and I am pleased to say that we would like you to attend an interview on the weekend of 1–3 March. The format of the interview will be questions from the chairman, a ten-minute speech by you without notes on a subject of your choice, followed by further questions from the Interview Panel.’ It is simply signed, ‘Vanessa. Agent.’

  I call her first thing. She sounds friendly, jolly and quite young. I ask to be booked in for the last slot of the weekend: 3.00 p.m. on Sunday the 3rd.

  By odd coincidence, tonight we’re going for dinner with the Nimmos72 – one of the last establishments in London (and certainly the only flat in Earl’s Court) where they still have liveried footmen waiting at table and the ladies retire to leave the gentlemen to their port and filthy stories. If it hadn’t been for Derek I wouldn’t have been to Chester even once. He goes there for the racing and, a few years back, suggested Michèle and I take a look at it as a possible location for another attraction like the Teddy Bear Museum. We went for a weekend and liked it a lot, but it was too far from London and the rents were ridiculous.

  I told Michèle about the interview and her first response was, ‘It’s fucking miles away!’ There wasn’t a second response.

  WEDNESDAY 27 FEBRUARY 1991

  I am writing this in the Reference Room on the first floor of the Chester Public Library. I am speaking in Harrogate tonight and I’ve come via here for a quick recess. I got the 7.25 from Euston, reached Chester at 9.57 and walked into and around the centre of the town. On the basis that the other candidates will be drawn from the Central Office list, veterans of the circuit with standard set-piece speeches, my aim is to wow them with my local knowledge – and I’ve got it all here now: the population, the workforce, the balance of services to manufacturing, the unemployment, the poll tax, the county structure plan, the Chester district plan, the proposed park & ride, the works. I’ve been through six months worth of the local paper – it’s as dreary and parochial as they come (and clearly hates us [Conservatives]) but it’s full of useful local guff. There’s nary a mention of the incumbent,73 lots on the Labour Euro MP74 and picture after picture of the Labour prospective candidate, a bearded teacher called David Robinson. I began by trawling the Rolls of the Freemen of the City of Chester (1392–1700) without much joy, but I’m feeling pretty good all the same. Leafing through Wills at Chester, look who I’ve found: ‘Elizabeth Brandreth, deceased, 1591.’ A forebear! Who could ask for anything more?

  THURSDAY 28 FEBRUARY 1991

  I’m going from Harrogate to York, from York to Birmingham, from Birmingham to Lon
don. ‘Bush calls Gulf ceasefire but warns Iraq not to fight back.’ ‘Major keen on June poll.’ Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be selected in March and elected in June? Who could ask for anything more?

  SUNDAY 3 MARCH 1991

  I’m on the train coming home from the initial interview. It went well. I was appallingly nervous, but I don’t think it showed. I came up last night and booked myself into the Grosvenor Hotel (owned by the Duke of Westminster who, I imagine, is about the only person who can actually afford to stay there: it’s very lush and very pricey). I ordered room service for supper and breakfast and lunch and just paced the room running and rerunning my speech. It was personal and passionate (and ridiculous – I know), but it felt as if it was doing the trick: ‘It’s been my ambition to represent a Cheshire seat in Parliament since I was a small boy. My father, my grandfather, my great-grandfathers going back to Dr Joseph Brandreth who first came to Chester in the 1770s were all born and bred in this part of the world…’ I played the local card for all it was worth, gave them my Iain Macleod story,75 did the family stuff, the visionary stuff, why I am a Conservative (‘Why we are Conservatives – we believe in building a better world, a world built on principles, the principles of freedom, independence, initiative…’) I went for a ralentando at the finish to tug at the heartstrings. ‘I believe passionately in the values of our party. I know and love the City of Chester. We have such a great cause. This is such a special constituency. How I would love to be your candidate.’ Well, I convinced myself anyway. And I liked them. And I think they liked me.

  MONDAY 4 MARCH 1991

  Vanessa has called. I’m through to the next round. They’re down from around two dozen to about six. There’s a candidates’ reception on Friday evening (‘for yourself and spouse, lounge suit’) hosted by the Association’s President – i.e. the Duke of Westminster – and a much fuller interview on Saturday. ‘This will take the form of a brief summary of your position on the Community Charge, followed by a fifteen-minute presentation on what would be in your manifesto for the election.’ I asked if I could again be the last one to be seen. She laughed and said yes. She’s rather plain and horsey, but there’s a gawky Carol Thatcher energy to her that I like. Tom Arnold’s office has also called. My meeting with him is postponed to Thursday, but I’m going to Central Office anyway today to pick up briefing material. As I write I can’t pretend to have much grasp of the detail of our policies, but it’s still only Monday…

  WEDNESDAY 6 MARCH 1991

  A rather drunken encounter with Wayne Sleep last night was followed by an extraordinarily indulgent lunch with John and Patti Bratby today. They took us to the Savoy to celebrate John’s retrospective at the National Portrait Gallery. Patti was in one of her favourite rubber rigouts and John was looking more like Raymond Briggs’s Father Christmas than ever. We had a wonderful window table overlooking the river and so much champagne that halfway through the main course John began to slide beneath the table – literally. Kaleidoscope was coming to interview him at 4.00 p.m. so Patti decided to take him up to bed for a recuperative snooze. He pottered off on her arm beaming benignly and waving to his public as he went.

  THURSDAY 7 MARCH 1991

  Castle Point, Brighton and Croydon Central don’t want to see me. Is this because they don’t like the look of my CV or because Sir Tom has warned them off me? I don’t know and I don’t ask. When I’m closeted with him today his manner is more conspiratorial than ever. ‘Mmm, mmm, it’s going well,’ he murmurs, sotto voce, ‘Going well. They seem to like you. So far. But it’s early days. Can’t be too careful. Mustn’t take anything for granted.’ He picks up the telephone and turns away from me and whispers urgently into it. A girl knocks on the door and hands him a document. It’s a speech by John Major. He glances around the room. Evidently this is very hush-hush.

  ‘This hasn’t been delivered yet, but there’s a phrase here I think you might find useful.’ He points to the headline and raises a triumphant eyebrow. ‘“A society of opportunity”. Mmm. That’s the line, isn’t it? A society of opportunity. What do you think?’

  ‘Good,’ I say. ‘Very good.’

  ‘Call me on Monday. Let me know how you get on.’

  FRIDAY 8 MARCH 1991

  This is my forty-third birthday and John Major’s hundredth day as Prime Minister. We are travelling to Chester on the 11.35 from Euston in the wake of the Ribble Valley by-election. The Lib Dems have overturned our majority of 20,000. ‘Setback to prospect of early election as Conservatives lose their tenth safest constituency.’ The recession and the poll tax are twin killers – but if I’ve got to explain away the one and justify the other, I will!

  SUNDAY 10 MARCH 1991

  It’s Mothering Sunday and if Chester went well I’ve got to put it down to the mother of my children. At the Friday night drinks with the Duke of Westminster – in the Venetian Suite of the Grosvenor Hotel – my darling girl was utterly fantastic. She looked exactly right; she played the part to perfection. She was better than the Princess of Wales would have been. She worked the room and they lapped her up. The chairman of the women’s committee was Russian-born and Michèle even managed to charm her in Russian. What a woman, what a wife! I tried not to overdo it – not altogether successfully. I said to the Duke (whom I met years ago, around the time of his twenty-first birthday, when I was sent to interview him for Woman magazine) ‘May I call you Gerald?’ which was certainly a mistake. He was easy-going and perfectly charming (great black bags under his eyes, cigarette constantly on the go), but I sensed he was wary of me, so after my first sortie with him I steered clear. I don’t think he’ll be voting for me, but I felt the others might.

  On Saturday the format was as before: fourteen inquisitors in a horseshoe around the candidate seated at a small card table. The Community Charge stuff was fine – I remembered all the figures and trotted out the Central Office brief.

  For my manifesto:

  I begin with first principles. I am a Conservative because I believe in freedom – individuality – choice – initiative. I know they can deliver what we want for ourselves and our children: a society that’s happier, healthier, more prosperous, more open – what John Major calls ‘a society of opportunity’. A society of opportunity, a compassionate society, a society that prospers and uses its prosperity to create a better quality of life for all.

  It felt as if it was working. Thank you, Sir Tom!

  I was okay-ish on the questions – except on farming. I’d done no homework on farming. I know nothing about farming. But that didn’t seem to matter. The room was with me. When it was over I made for the loo and when I emerged they were all coming out of the interview room. A couple of the women whispered ‘Well done!’ as they passed, and the chairman – on crutches, he’s ex-RAF, avuncular, Mr Pickwick meets Mr Punch – came struggling up, rather embarrassed, and said, ‘Good show – but I forgot to ask – anything I ought to know – skeletons in the cupboard – that sort of thing – need your word.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I tried to say it meekly. ‘I think you’ll be all right with me.’

  MONDAY 11 MARCH 1991

  We were still in bed with the early morning tea when Sir Tom called.

  ‘It’s going well. Going well. But I think you ought to go and see Sir Peter Morrison. I sense he’s got one or two reservations.’

  ‘But he’s never even met me!’

  ‘Exactly – needs a bit of reassurance. He’s not certain about your contribution to the party. Give his office a call and see if he can fit you in.’

  Then John Gummer called: ‘Peter Morrison will move hell and high water to stop you. He’s got his own man and doesn’t want you at any price.’

  At five o’clock, on the dot, I rang the doorbell at 81 Cambridge Street, SW1. Sir Peter opened the door and beamed. He could not have been more courteous. He is tall, fat, with crinkly hair, piggy eyes, a pink-gin drinker’s face, effortlessly patrician, a non-stop smoker and a proper Tory grandee. (I checked hi
m out in Who’s Who and the credentials are impeccable: Eton, Oxford, White’s, Pratt’s, son of Lord Margadale, his brother’s an MP, his sister is Woman of the Bedchamber to the Queen!) He introduced me to his secretary – ‘This is the real Member of Parliament for the City of Chester’ – and then we climbed the stairs to a little first-floor drawing room where he sat back on a sofa, glass in one hand, cigarette in the other, and I sat forward facing him, perched on the edge of my seat, willing him to see me as a surprisingly straight bat. Unfortunately he wouldn’t lead the conversation. I had to do the talking. I struggled. I asked him about the constituency and he answered in vague generalities. But he said there are going to be boundary changes that’ll make it safer. I asked him about the local press. ‘I never talk to them,’ he said with satisfaction. I asked him why he was giving up (he looks sixty, but he’s only forty-six): ‘When you’ve been a Minister of State, deputy chairman of the party, worked with the Prime Minister at No. 1076 and you know you’re not going to get into the Cabinet – and I’m not – it’s time to do something else. If I get out now I’ve got time for a second career. I’m going into business, going to make some money.’ After about half an hour we’d both run dry and he was getting restless, so up I got and off I toddled. He wished me luck and said if it went my way in the final round, he’d do whatever he could to help. I don’t know what was gained by the encounter, except he will have discovered I don’t have green skin and I own at least one sober suit as well as all those ghastly jumpers.