Breaking the Code

by Gyles Brandreth

  Tonight we had supper down the road with Peter and Sue.77 They were funny and generous as ever, but I couldn’t concentrate at all on the conversation around me. All I could think about was Chester. I’ve not told any of our friends (or family, other than Michèle, not even the children) what I’m up to. If it happens they’ll know soon enough.

  TUESDAY 12 MARCH 1991

  Dear Gyles,

  I am writing to confirm you are now down to the final three in our selection of a prospective candidate. The procedure for the final selection meetings will be as follows:

  a) Thursday 14 March, Executive Council Meeting, 7.00 p.m. at Rowton Hall Hotel.

  Each candidate after a brief social meeting with executive council members will be asked a few brief questions by the chairman, then asked to make a fifteen-minute presentation on how they are going to retain Chester at the next general election, followed by questions from members of the executive council. Once all three candidates have been presented a ballot will take place. If one candidate gets more than 50 per cent of the vote they may choose to forward only one candidate to the general meeting. If not, at least two candidates will be forwarded to the general meeting. b) Friday 15 March, General Association Meeting at Christleton Country Club, 7.00 p.m.

  If more than one candidate is presented then the procedure will follow that of the executive council. If only one is presented then they will be asked to make a speech, answer questions and there will be a vote on a motion proposing them as the next prospective candidate.

  At both meetings we would be delighted if your spouse could attend.

  Yours sincerely,

  Vanessa, Agent

  SATURDAY 16 MARCH 1991

  Well, if that wasn’t forty-eight hours that shook the world, it was certainly forty-eight hours that changed our lives.

  On Wednesday night we went to St Paul’s to see Nicholas Nickleby with Saethryd78 as The Infant Phenomenon. She was gorgeous. When she was on, I concentrated. The rest of the time, my head whirred with my speech, round and round it went, round and round. On Thursday (Michèle’s birthday, poor thing) we set off for Chester early and ensconced ourselves in ‘our’ room at the Grosvenor. (This is proving an expensive business.) At 6.45 p.m. we were at Rowton Hall Hotel, stomachs churning, smiles fixed. The other candidates appeared equally daunted: Sir Peter’s young man looked reassuringly unpromising, uncertain, ill-at-ease, but the woman looked – and was – formidable. She is called Jacqui Lait,79 she’s been on the circuit for years, she clearly knows her stuff. Her husband was even larger than her, bear-like, genial, supportive. Sir Peter’s candidate didn’t appear to have a spouse – another nail in his coffin. Vanessa said to me right away, ‘Sorry, you can’t go last this time. They’re on to you. We’re drawing lots.’

  For the first half-hour we sipped our orange juice and mingled. This we did (let’s face it) so much better than the others. Michèle was a star – smiling, laughing, gladhanding, moving down the aisles, not missing a single row. She looked the business. She did the business. At 7.30 the chairman called the room to order, the executive council took their seats (there must have been about eighty of them in all), and we, candidates and spouses, were escorted to a separate sitting-room on the other side of the hall. The local papers were waiting to take our pictures. We each had to do a sad shot in case we lost and a happy shot in case we won.

  The lots were drawn. I was second on. The speech went well. It was a bit of a toe-curler (‘If you choose me you will do me great honour. I promise I will do all in my power to do you proud’) but it had shape and purpose and the society of opportunity and as much local stuff as I could manage. The speech was fine, but the questions were a nightmare. Several I didn’t understand at all. There were councillors with points about local government that were utterly and completely beyond my ken. One of the first questions was about farm subsidies. I hadn’t a clue. I said, ‘I’ve written on my notes, “If you don’t know the answer tell them the truth” – I don’t know the answer, sir, but I’ll find out.’ It got a nice round of applause. But when I didn’t know the answer to the next question either, I realised I couldn’t play the same card twice so I just blathered and blustered and flannelled – and got away with it, just.

  When I was asked if the children would move to schools in the constituency, I said ‘No,’ but when when they said ‘Will you live in the constituency?’ I said ‘Yes, of course. Accessibility is everything. If you choose me tonight, I move in on Monday.’

  My turn done, we moved back to the sitting-room and Jacqui Lait went in. Michèle went to the loo and on the way back paused by the door to the hall. She came back and took me into a corner and said, ‘Don’t be very disappointed if you lose. She’s very, very good. She’s talking about Europe and she knows her stuff.’

  I must say when she emerged from the hall, Jacqui looked like a winner. She glowed. While they counted the votes, we stood around, laughing nervously, drinking coffee, making small talk, making banter, saying what a shame it was the three of us couldn’t share the constituency – and, in the moment, even meaning it. Then, quite suddenly, the chairman was struggling in on his sticks. He paused, breathless, looked around the group then shot his hand in my direction: ‘Congratulations. The vote was decisive. You are to be our prospective parliamentary candidate. Well done.’ The others shrunk back, faded instantly, began at once to make their excuses and go. We mumbled hollow commiserations as the chairman and Vanessa pulled us away and led us triumphantly back into the hall. With Michèle I stood on the little platform at the end of the room and surveyed the standing ovation. It felt very good.

  What felt best of all was getting back to our room at the Grosvenor and collapsing over a bottle of ludicrously expensive house champagne. I raised my glass to my birthday girl and she raised her glass to me. By George, we’d done it! Five years on the back benches, five years a junior minister, five years in Cabinet, with perhaps a brief spell in opposition along the way. That’ll see me through to sixty.

  We slept well and woke early. It was the lead story in the Daily Post: ‘TV STAR IS CHESTER CHOICE’. All day we scurried about, to the constituency office, to the local paper, to the Conservative club, back to the hotel, back to the office. I took calls, made calls, shook hands, slapped backs, even blew my first kiss at a passing baby. What I didn’t do, couldn’t do, should have done was make time to rewrite my speech, so when we reached the Country Club for the ‘coronation’ I was painfully aware that certainly a third of those in attendance (there were 200 plus) had heard everything I had to say only twenty-four hours before. I struggled on regardless, giving it word for word as I’d done on Thursday night, but with much less brio – the oomph had gone out of me somehow – and, apparently, in floods of tears. On the platform I was seated immediately between the Duke and Sir Peter, who both smoked throughout, and, from start to finish, thick plumes of smoke rose vertically (and viciously) straight up from the ends of their cigarettes bang into my eyes. It was a nightmare. My mouth was dry, my palms were wet, my eyes were streaming. But the crowd was kind. They seemed to think it was a triumph all the same.

  And now, it’s Saturday afternoon, we’re back in London, and – this is the odd bit, the bit I almost dare not admit – I feel flat already. What I’ve dreamt about for years, what I’ve striven for ruthlessly these past six months, I’ve got it. The prize is mine. And already I’m thinking, so what? (Aren’t human beings strange?)

  THURSDAY 21 MARCH 1991

  I slipped out of a fairly desultory DoE [Duke of Edinburgh] birthday meeting early to be on parade at the House of Commons for a five o’clock ‘briefing’ from Peter Morrison. Given that I wasn’t his choice, and he’s not really my type (and I’m certainly not his), he was as friendly as I could have wished. He marched me down to his subterranean office which was sparse but surprisingly spacious (‘I share it with a certain person,’ he smirked – I presume he meant Mrs T. – ‘that helps’) and we sat and looked at one another. The co
nversation didn’t exactly flow, but the gist of it was clear – and helpful: ‘You’ll need to spend about £2,000 a year of your own money on raffle tickets etc. and write an awful lot of notes. The troops like to get handwritten notes. Sometimes I do twenty a night. When the election’s called I’ll come down on day one to give you a send-off, then I’ll keep out of the way. It’s your show. Between now and then if there’s anything I can do, let me know. If you want my advice, never talk politics in the constituency. There’s nothing to be gained by it. On the great national issues, if you like, take the moral highground. You can’t go wrong. But on local issues, keep your head down. There are two sides to every argument. You can’t win, so don’t try. And anything to do with planning, don’t touch.’

  He spread his hands out on his desk and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Now I am on my way to Committee Room 14.’ Another smirk. ‘I am proposing to give my colleagues on the 1922 Committee a piece of my mind.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Loyalty.’

  SUNDAY 14 APRIL 1991

  It’s a month to the day since I was selected and of the past thirty days I have spent twenty in Chester and ten on the run – rushing up and down West Coast Mainline like a yoyo, attempting to earn a bit of a living while proving to my would-be constituents that I’m all theirs all hours of the day and night. I’m going everywhere, doing the lot – from the King’s School Lenten Service to the amateurs in The Gypsy Baron. Mostly it’s fun – and I am determined to do it well, make it work. The only oppressive part to date is the locals’ obsession with my being local too. Whether you’re good, bad or indifferent seems to be neither here nor there: your local roots are what really count. I’ve had the same conversation a hundred times. ‘Where do you come from?’

  ‘My father was born in Hoylake.’ Slight reassurance.

  ‘Where are your children at school?’

  ‘London.’ Faces fall. ‘But, of course, when I’m elected I’ll have to be in London much of the time and it’s important to keep the family together.’ Lips purse like a bitter walnut.

  ‘And where are you living now?’

  ‘In Whitefriars, Number 5 – next door to where Basil Nield and his sister used to live.’

  Sir Basil was MP here in the late forties.80 That reassures most of them – but the sharp ones with the angry little faces leave it a beat and then narrow their eyes and go in for the kill: ‘Yes, that’s where you’re renting, but where’s your real home?’

  In fact, Whitefriars is a great success, but it isn’t cheap. And the fares aren’t cheap. And Sir Peter’s £2,000 pa on raffle tickets turns out to be no exaggeration. And what am I earning at the moment? Not enough. This week: the Radio 2 programme on Monday and the speech in Workington on Thursday night.81 Help!

  MONDAY 22 APRIL 1991

  I’m sitting in the train travelling from Wolverhampton to Euston when I should be in Stratfford-upon-Avon having lunch with the Prince of Wales. What a ridiculous three days. On Saturday I drove from London to Stratford for the Shakespeare Birthday Celebrations – I did my stuff: it was fine. I drove on to Chester where I spent Sunday morning tramping the fields on a sponsored walk, went on the Dale Barracks to meet the lads in khaki, on to the police station to salute the boys in blue and on to evensong at All Saints Hoole to reassure one of our ageing activists that I am ‘spiritually sound’! This old bird had phoned the office to say that she was concerned that I might not have the right religious values – she’s heard rumours – so Gwyn,82 there and then, volunteered me to go to church with her! In fact she’s quite a sweet old thing in a Miss Marplish way and she’s loyal to the cause (she’s kept every one of the multifarious handwritten notes Sir Peter has sent to her over the past twenty years) and the service itself was a revelation: the church was packed, young, old, (many more young than old), families with children, all fresh-faced and bright-eyed with happiness, singing, swinging, praying, swaying, getting the key messages from the deaconess’s sermon flashed up onto a screen above the altar. It may not be what John Betjeman and I think of as evensong but it was impressive all the same. I then went on to the Newton Committee Meeting and finally dinner at Hoole Hall.

  Today I was up at the crack of dawn and racing down the motorway to get to Stratford in time for Prince Charles’s lecture when suddenly, alarmingly, thick black smoke began billowing from the engine. I moved straight onto the hard shoulder, jammed on the brakes, switched off the engine and waited for the belching smoke to subside. It did. I then laughed out loud. It’s all so silly – tearing hither and yon, and to what purpose? Anyway, for the first time ever the car phone came into its own. I called Jenny83 and she called the AA and within an hour I was being towed into Wolverhampton – not before the police had stopped to enquire what I was up to. The policeman recognised me and, when I told him where I had been going, he volunteered to get the police to look after the car while he would drive me personally to my royal luncheon engagement. He was quite pressing, and when I said no I think he was quite put out.

  TUESDAY 23 APRIL 1991

  I’m back on the train again. This morning the Youth and Sport Conference in WC1. This evening the Younger Women’s Supper Club in Chester. (I’m advised that the Younger Women are all supposed to be under fifty – and indeed they were when the group was formed. Now they are of riper years and several bring their mothers, who are comfortably into their seventies.) In the broadsheets Prince Charles gets plenty of coverage: ‘It’s almost incredible that in Shakespeare’s land one child in seven leaves primary school functionally illiterate.’ I think the Earl of Chester’s observations can be the springboard for my remarks to the Younger Women … David Owen is getting coverage too. Apparently ministers are ‘pressing for Owen to be given a government role’. Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to swing it on the doorstep.

  SATURDAY 27 APRIL 1991

  I had my ‘briefing’ with His Grace [the Duke of Westminster] yesterday. He looks permanently exhausted, but he has a nice manner, an engaging laugh, and he’s courteous, friendly and helpful – though it’s clear our relationship’s not going anywhere. I sit and ask him to tell me what’s what and I take notes while he explains that the government doesn’t understand the importance of hill-farming, the nonsense of set-aside, the dangers of leasehold reform, the plight of the TA. I realise that I’m a natural for the government as I don’t understand these things either! He must wonder why he’s having to bother with me. I know why I’m having to bother with him. He’s our President and he’s local royalty. They love him and all he represents. The activists get a physical thrill from simply saying the words ‘His Grace’. Working the room before last night’s dinner I said to several of them that I’d had a meeting with him during the day and I sensed as they held my hand they were conscious that they were holding the hand that had shaken the hand of the Duke of Westminster only hours before. The dinner – ‘Chester Meets the Brandreths’ – was fine, but my speech was too lightweight. They enjoyed the jokes, but they wanted (and didn’t get) some political punch and a Churchillian flourish.

  Today it’s been local election canvassing, plus the Litter Week Photocall, plus the Callin Court coffee morning, plus a couple of mortifying hours standing outside two desolate shopping parades accosting shoppers who don’t want to stop: they want to shop. It’s becoming clear to me that much of what I’m doing I’m doing not to woo the electorate and win over wavering votes but to keep our activists sweet, to boost their morale, to reassure them they’ve chosen the right man for the job.

  FRIDAY 3 MAY 1991

  ‘Any remaining likelihood of a June general election disappeared in the early hours of this morning.’ In fact, in Chester we didn’t do too badly. We gained one seat from the Lib Dems and the Lib Dems gained one from us and one from Labour. I started the day with a photocall for National Squint Week (no jokes, please) and then made my way to Mold for the Marcher Sound Jobline Launch – a complete waste of time. I went because the Welsh Secretary, David
Hunt,84 was going to be on parade and I thought it would be an opportunity to introduce myself and get a pic for the local paper. In the event when I had forced my way through the crowd to shake the great man’s hand he had no idea who I was or why I was there, and the photographers in attendance certainly didn’t want me cluttering up the shots.

  TUESDAY 14 MAY 1991

  Last night we were invited for supper with the Deputy Chief Whip!85 He has a charming house in Lord North Street, a charming wife called Cecilia (birdlike and delightful, with one of those deceptively daffy Kensington manners – don’t be fooled by the tinkly laughter…), and a charming, disarming way with him. Lots of quiet chuckling. They couldn’t have been more friendly or hospitable. He’d invited us because his is the constituency adjacent to ‘mine’ and he wanted to ‘mark my card’. Also at supper was another Cheshire MP, Neil Hamilton.86 Dry and droll. I was on best behaviour: didn’t drink, didn’t talk too much, and didn’t find it as alarming as I’d feared.

  I was grateful to the Goodlads too because my current acquaintanceship among MPs is pretty limited – though it does include Edwina [Currie], of course, who is in court this week suing The Observer over a film review which apparently likened her to a character who undermines her own marriage, sacrifices her children and resorts to murder to further her career. In the movie the part (a glamorous Euro-MP) is played by Charlotte Rampling and you might have thought that Edwina would be thrilled to be mistaken for Charlotte Rampling in any role – but no.