by Chris Mullin
Backbench Members of Parliament
Ann Clwyd, Jean Corston (chairman), Helen Jackson, Tony Lloyd, Andrew Mackinlay, Chris Mullin, Bridget Prentice, Gordon Prentice, Doug Hoyle (representing the Lords)
Home Affairs Select Committee, 2001–3
David Cameron, Janet Dean, Humfrey Malins, Chris Mullin (chairman), Bridget Prentice, Gwyn Prosser, Bob Russell, Marsha Singh, Tom Watson, Angela Watkinson, David Winnick
Foreign and Commonwealth Office, 2003–5
Jack Straw MP, Secretary of State
Ministers
Denis MacShane MP (Europe)
Chris Mullin MP (Africa)
Mike O’Brien MP/Douglas Alexander MP (Trade)
Bill Rammell MP (United Nations/Latin America)
Liz Symons (Middle East) (Lords)
Officials Sir Michael Jay, Permanent Secretary
Tom Fletcher, Bharat Joshi, Private Secretaries to CM; Kay Stokoe, Caron Rohsler, Assistant Private Secretaries
John Williams, Chief Press Officer
Sunderland Office
Pat Aston and Graham March
Significant others
Hilary Armstrong MP, Chief Whip
Tony Banks MP
David Blunkett MP, Home Secretary 2001–04
Tony Benn MP (retired 2001)
Hilary Benn MP, Secretary of State for International Development 2003–07
John Gilbert, a former defence minister, now in the Lords
Geoff Hoon MP, Secretary of State for Defence 1999–2005
Alan Haworth, Secretary of the Parliamentary Labour Party, now in the Lords (not to be confused with MP of the same name)
Gil Loescher, UK-based American academic seriously injured in the bombing of the UN HQ in Baghdad, August 2003
Clive Soley, Chairman of the Parliamentary Labour Party, 1997– 2001, now in the Lords
Family
Nguyen Thi Ngoc, wife of CM
Nguyen Thi Hanh, sister-in-law of CM
Sarah (b. 1989) and Emma (b. 1995) Mullin, children of CM
Liz and Patricia Mullin, sisters
David Mullin, brother
Leslie and Teresa Mullin, parents
CHAPTER ONE
1999
Wednesday, 28 July 1999
St Bede’s Terrace, Sunderland
A message from Kate Garvey at Number 10. I am to expect a call from The Man within the next 15 minutes. In the event it was more than an hour before the phone rang. ‘I want you to go to Environment,’ he said. My heart sank. Of all the possibilities, I never anticipated being on John Prescott’s team.* I asked what my responsibilities would be and he replied that he didn’t yet know, but would be talking to JP tomorrow. I asked what the options were and he replied vaguely that it might involve ‘something in the housing area’. Perhaps sensing my lack of enthusiasm he said this was only a starting job. ‘If you make a success of it, you can work your way up.’ He didn’t ask whether or not I wanted it and rang off saying, ‘We may want you to come through the door of Downing Street tomorrow.’
I rang Alan Meale in the hope of finding out what the job might entail. His wife, Diana, answered the phone and said, ‘He’s been bumped.’
‘Who’s got his job?’
‘You have.’
Even so, she was friendly and gave me Alan’s mobile number, saying he was in a pub in Millbank. I decided to wait until tomorrow before ringing. I then called Michael Meacher who was as upbeat and cheerful as ever. He said that JP, contrary to what I had supposed, was a good man to work for and that there was a good spirit in the Department.
To bed, feeling miserable at the thought of the avalanche of tedium to come.
Thursday, 29 July
Awoke early wondering if I could pluck up the courage to say No. At 8.30 I rang Kate Garvey and asked to speak to The Man. She replied that he was in a meeting, but advised me to get on the earliest train ‘since he will want to see you’.
She was burbling about how wonderful it was that I was to be a minister. I said very slowly, ‘My – instinct – is – to – decline.’
It took a second or two for the penny to drop and then she sort of skidded to a halt. ‘In that case he will want to talk to you in the next few minutes.’
Sixty seconds later the phone rang, an operator asked me to stand by … I waited … The operator said stand down. ‘He will ring later this morning.’ That’s that, I thought.
A tremendous sense of relief. Ngoc came down. ‘I’m no longer a minister,’ I said cheerfully. Ngoc looked a bit dismayed. Secretly I suspect she likes the idea, although she has no concept of what it entails. I went upstairs to have a bath feeling relaxed. Life had returned to normal. I would continue to occupy the little niche I had carved for myself in Parliament. The holidays were safe. Weekends with the family would be uninterrupted.
The Man rang at 9.30. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Because I will disappear without trace. Besides, I don’t get on well enough with John to make a success of it.’
‘I promise I won’t lose sight of you. You are the one person on the backbenches who most obviously should be a minister.’ He went on to explain that being a minister was very different from being a backbench MP. ‘You can’t be a minister of state at once, but I have you in mind for something in home affairs, the Foreign Office or international development.’ It might only be a matter of months, he added.
I thought he wouldn’t much care, but he obviously did. ‘We get on well, don’t we?’
I assured him that we did.
‘You have drive, energy. It would be a waste to stay on the backbenches being a wise man.’
‘Are you saying that the job is still open?’
‘I am.’
‘Well since you put it like that…’
Suddenly I was a minister again.
To Number 10 to be anointed, walking as nonchalantly as possible past a battery of cameras.
The Man was on the terrace deep in discussion with JP so I sat outside the Cabinet Room chatting to Bruce Grocott, who quoted advice which Cabinet Secretary Richard Wilson had given recently in a symposium for junior ministers: First, be sure to demonstrate to the civil servants that you have a good relationship with the Secretary of State [difficult in my case], then they will be less inclined to go over your head. Second, remember, you are not going to be there for long so don’t try to put the world to rights – have just two or three modest aims.
To which Bruce added a third which might come in handy in my case, ‘If you have the ear of the Prime Minister, play it up.’
Bruce remarked that the present system of annual reshuffles was crazy. ‘There is massive inbuilt insecurity. Ministers, who may not be there in a year, are on top of a civil service which is permanent and who have nothing more to worry about than who gets what gong. The chances of moving anything more than 0.1 per cent are slim.’
We were joined by Gisela Stuart and Beverley Hughes, who are also joining the government. They, needless to say, were overjoyed.
While we were sitting there JP came out. He was about to walk past when, by way of an afterthought, it occurred to him that he ought to go through the motions of welcoming us, not least since two of us – Bev and I – are in his department.
I was then ushered in. The Man was in the small sitting room adjacent to the Cabinet Room. My audience lasted about ten minutes.
He said how glad he was to have me on board, adding that Dennis Skinner would have been a good minister, if only he’d been willing to take responsibility. I said I was apprehensive. ‘People have been known to disappear without trace into Environment.’
‘At the moment,’ he said cheerfully, ‘they are coming out rather fast.’ (Four of the eight ministers have been sacked or reshuffled.) I said that I would miss the parliamentary committee. He asked who was likely to replace me and said it was important to get someone suitable. This is probably the last time our paths will cross until I’m sacked or reshuffled – most junior ministers do
not have access to the Prime Minister. He shook my hand warmly. ‘Don’t forget me,’ I said. He promised not to, but we shall see.
I stood around in the hall outside the Cabinet Room chatting to Bruce and Alastair Campbell, who said that yesterday, despite the fact that the hacks had been watching all exits, The Man had managed to slip out of Downing Street and over to his room at the House in order to spare The Dismissed the ordeal of having to walk past the cameras.
Alastair said how unpleasant it was. A ‘nightmare’ was the word The Man used when he rang last night. Alastair told the story, which I heard before, of how after the election the Downing Street switchboard had confused Brian Donohoe with Bernard Donoughue and as a result Brian had been a minister for about four seconds. By now there were three other new ministers assembled: Gisela, Bev and David Hanson. We formed up into a line and went out and stood before the cameras and then walked out of Downing Street, chased by a young woman from the Press Association, who kept asking how happy we were. I couldn’t bring myself to respond.
Bev and I shared a taxi up Victoria to Eland House. All the while her mobile phone kept ringing with people offering congratulations. For her this was a big moment. For me it is something of a humiliation. I have done what I always said I would never do, traded the little niche I had built for myself on the backbenches for the Department of Folding Deckchairs.
Our private secretaries were waiting for us at the Department. Mine is a pleasant young woman called Jessica, who exudes competence and good sense. She took me upstairs to my office on the sixth floor, previously occupied by Nick Raynsford, who has been promoted. The walls are hung with old prints of Woolwich and large photos of the Millennium Dome. I have a staff of four, all bright young people. David, the diary secretary, Shayne and Nicola, assistant private secretaries. They all refer to me as ‘Minister’.
I am also entitled to a car and a driver. Entirely pointless since, as I pointed out, the 159 and 3 buses will continue to run past my door, even though I am a minister. Jessica, who cycles in from Brixton, was sympathetic, but explained that the situation is a little more complicated than I might suppose. For a start, red boxes cannot be transported by public transport. Secondly, there will be times when a vote is called without warning and we will need to get to the House quickly. Thirdly, I might be glad of a lift home at 3 a.m. after an adjournment debate.
She also explained that the funding of the government car pool is geared to encourage maximum use of the car. The drivers are on a low basic wage and are heavily dependent on overtime. So, if I accept a driver, he will be hanging around all day doing nothing and hating me for not giving him enough to do. A trap I must avoid at all costs. (Later, I discussed this crazy situation with Keith Hill, who has the office next door. He is in charge of making sure the Department lives up to its green rhetoric. We agree that use of official cars is the obvious place to start. For the time being I intend to do without, although I shall make no public statements for fear of being accused by my colleagues of showing them up. And also because I may, eventually, be forced to retreat.)
Jessica explained that ministers must always be contactable. I will, therefore, need a mobile phone, a pager and a fax at home. I offered mild resistance, but I fear I shall have to give way on this before long. The first of what will no doubt be many little defeats at official hands.
While we were talking the door opened and in strolled JP. He made a little show of being pleased to see me. The word ‘delighted’ even escaped his lips, although his demeanour suggested otherwise.
‘Thank you for having me,’ I said as he walked towards the door.
‘Glad you decided to join us,’ he said dryly. The sarcasm remained in the air long after he had departed. Of course, he must know that I turned down the wretched job.
My induction over, I walked down Victoria Street to the House.
Outside Westminster Abbey I ran into Frank Field, who wished me well but said what a shambles the reshuffle had been. He claimed that seven members of the Cabinet had been to see The Man and said they would not be moved and that, faced with this display of solidarity, he had simply backed down. Frank also confirmed that the government car service was a job creation scheme. He said that, when he was a minister, he had even been collected by car from Birkenhead, just to give the driver something to do.
Home on the 20.00, feeling very depressed. The hardest part of the next few days will be keeping a straight face as the congratulations come in.
Friday, 30 July
Sunderland
Jessica faxed through a draft list of my proposed responsibilities – aviation, housing, science, planning … to crown all they include air traffic control. A few days ago I was sitting listening to Helen Liddell being pounded from all sides and thanking heavens that it was her rather than me. Now it is. It’s like a bad dream.
Saturday, 31 July
Everyone, except me, seems happy about my appointment. Lily at the paper shop says it will be good for Sunderland. A man called out from a car, as I went to get the papers this morning. I notice that most of the congratulations seem to come from people who know nothing about politics. Those who do – including one or two of the more perceptive commentators (Michael White, Paul Linford) – are more cautious. They know I had a better job in my last incarnation.*
Glorious weather. We lunched in the garden and then our neighbour, Peter, and I picked up the litter in the street.
Sunday, 1 August
Awoke at 3 a.m., still worrying that I have traded my self-respect and the respect of others for the lowliest rung on the political ladder – and one which has not the slightest influence over anything that matters. If I was to get out now, I could still retain my place on the select committee and on the parliamentary committee. I lay awake until six compiling a resignation letter.
Monday, 2 August
London is bathed in a Bangkok-style haze of exhaust fumes, temperature approaching 30 degrees centigrade. Our first meeting of ministers. JP in benign mode, wearing a blue short-sleeved shirt, slumped in an armchair, one leg over the side. He did most of the talking, much of it stream of consciousness but there were occasional moments of lucidity. We had a problem with transport and, he said, everyone was under an obligation to help out. ‘When Tony decided to make transport a priority, he didn’t bring resources with it.’ He added, ‘And the one thing that might have raised some cash – a congestion tax – Tony isn’t happy about.’
Michael Meacher remarked, ‘We are challenging deeply held attitudes, but we have to stick to our guns.’
JP said modestly that he himself had to change. ‘I just get angry.’
Keith Hill, an ex-whip, said the rebellion over air traffic control was building up steam. We had to head it off.
The unions were playing the ‘safety card’, but we were doing what everyone wanted us to do by separating safety from operations, said JP. Tony Benn, who made a hostile intervention the other day, had done something similar when he was in charge of North Sea oil.
‘Benn’s a hypocrite,’ he added, pointing for some reason at me.
A stream of visitors. Among them Richard Mottram, the Permanent Secretary. A genial, easy-going grammar school boy in his mid-fifties. He assured me that, contrary to rumour, JP is a good man to work for and, if anything, too soft. I told him I’d turned the job down at first and he seemed surprised.
I also raised the car pool. Needless to say he has his own driver and car in which he travels in most days from Blackheath. I put it to him that we couldn’t credibly hope to persuade the Great British Public to abandon the motor car if ministers and senior civil servants were being driven everywhere. He was decent enough to concede there is an issue, but I sensed he was in no hurry to resolve it.
We discussed my rag bag portfolio. ‘What would make you happy?’ he asked.
‘How about giving me countryside?’ In exchange, I offered to surrender anything. He suggested giving planning to Bev. I cheered up at once. Afterwards Je
ssica congratulated me on my first victory.
Back to Sunderland on the 20.00 from King’s Cross.
Wednesday, 4 August
We packed up the car and set off for London, stopping on the way for a picnic at Chatsworth, where the children played in the maze. Emma fell in the pond. We drove to London in torrential rain, arriving in Brixton at the flat just before midnight only to discover that the living room was in an inch of water (caused by a blocked drain) which had been lying for four days, giving off a foul odour.
Thursday, 5 August
Brixton Road
An hour pressing newspaper onto the living room carpet. At 9.30
Jessica rang to ask when I was coming in. There was a definite tone of disapproval in her voice. I explained about the flood, but her tone suggested it was no excuse.
Much of the day was taken up with official briefings by groups on my various responsibilities – aviation, water, science. On the first two I surprised myself by managing to ask some reasonably intelligent questions, but by the time we got to the third my eyes glazed over. The news that I am in charge of science at Environment would be the cause of much hilarity among any surviving witnesses from my schooldays to my failure to come to grips with even the simplest scientific concept. Someone up there is playing a cruel joke.
Graham Allen, the Department’s whip, came in to discuss how we are going to handle the proposed part-privatisation of air traffic control. He suggested an early meeting with Gwyneth Dunwoody and some of the other dissidents. He also suggested getting a Labour Party pager, which I am not so keen on. Perhaps, if it makes him happy, I could get one and leave it switched off in a drawer.
Graham offered one other piece of advice: ‘Don’t make jokes about air traffic control. Above all do nothing to imply to dissidents that you are sympathetic to their case.’ Helen Liddell, he said, had kept her head down and ploughed on regardless. That was exactly the right approach. Which only goes to show how much I have to learn about being a minister. I thought her performance was perfectly disastrous and that a smile or two would have gone a long way to lighten her load. I discussed this afterwards with Nick Raynsford and was relieved to find that he agreed with me.
