A View From The Foothills

by Chris Mullin

  Thursday, 25 May

  My Private Secretary, Chris Brain, gently ticked me off for failing to show enough interest in the work of the Department. ‘You need to raise your profile,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you make more suggestions on the policy documents?’ I replied that I am entirely reconciled to my current (temporary) obscurity. I am following Richard Mottram’s advice on day one: ‘Choose two or three issues on which you might make a difference and don’t worry about the rest.’ The issues I have selected are leylandii trees, night flights and making the payment of housing benefit direct to landlords discretionary. If a fourth one comes along, I will gladly consider it, but I resolutely refuse to waste time ploughing through piles of paperwork to no effect whatever.

  When I die, I said, no one will ever remember that I was an undersecretary of state at the Department of Environment. One or two people may just recall that I once had some impact on the criminal justice system. They might remember A Very British Coup but no amount of activity in my present post will make the blindest bit of difference. On the contrary, favourable publicity would only upset my many superiors. So I propose to keep my head down and await rescue. If help doesn’t arrive, I will return to the world of select committees.

  Saturday, 27 May

  Sunderland

  A grey, drizzly day. We loaded up the car and, after lunch, set off for Melrose, where we are renting a cottage which is part of a little stable block on a small estate overlooking the beautiful River Tweed. It is entered through an elegant archway topped by a dovecote. On two sides, the garden is flanked by a huge field, the inhabitants of which include two donkeys, sheep, goats, pigs, eight geese, two turkeys and assorted breeds of chicken. A duck has recently given birth to a dozen tiny ducklings. In addition peacocks strut arrogantly around the estate, perching on fences and gates, sometimes right outside our window. The girls are over the moon. Within minutes of arrival they were leaning over the fence stroking the lambs and tearing up grass to feed the donkeys. Only two hours from home and yet we are on another planet.

  Tuesday, 6 June

  To the cramped offices of the Institute for Public Policy Research in Southampton Street to open a seminar on the future of aviation. The first time I have encountered representatives of the airlines around the same table as environmentalists. The word ‘sustainable’ was bandied around a lot, but there was no meeting of minds. An android from the London Chamber of Commerce spoke eagerly of a three-fold increase in demand for air travel in the south-east over the next 30 years and a five-fold increase in the regions which, he insisted, would have to be met if our economy was not to suffer. Someone from Transport 2000 pointed out that this meant three or four new airports the size of Heathrow would be needed by 2030. ‘We can’t afford to opt out of the “21st century”,’ said the android. ‘At this rate the 21st century won’t be worth living in,’ I replied.

  Wednesday, 7 June

  Number 10 are saying they will not, after all, stand in the way of our attempt to legislate on high hedges, providing we don’t seek a slot in the government’s programme. The plan is to draw up a bill which we will offer to someone who comes high in the ballot for private members’ bills. I have asked if I, rather than Michael Meacher, can make the announcement in the hope of being permitted a tiny footprint in the sand as a result of my otherwise fruitless year in office.

  The Man was on excellent form at Questions today knocking Hague back into his little box, but, alas, the triumph was overshadowed by the news of A Great Disaster. This morning our leader had been addressing the massed ranks of the Women’s Institute at Wembley. Middle England personified. It ought to have been his natural territory, but all went horribly wrong. He was heckled and slow-handclapped by these supposedly non-political ladies. True, those who misbehaved were only a tiny minority, but that is not how it will be portrayed. The Tories can’t believe their luck.

  Thursday, 8 June

  Opinions about the fallout from yesterday’s WI fiasco vary. Most of this morning’s papers gleefully portray the affair as a turning point.

  However, there are those who believe it has provided the Lords of Spin with some welcome come-uppance.

  ‘The end of Big Tent politics?’ asked Gary Gibbon, a Channel Four journalist who took me to lunch in St James’s. Gary thinks we will still win the election comfortably. I am not so sure. The Man is badly

  damaged and the regime has become so much of a one-man band that, if he goes down, we all will.

  ‘You’re a Blairite,’ said Diane Abbott, who is always pulling my leg. ‘Perhaps you can answer this: if the WI women don’t believe all this guff about motherhood and apple pie (and we know it’s not intended for us) what’s the point of it?’

  Friday, 9 June

  ‘It will be interesting to see what lessons Number 10 learns from the WI fiasco,’ remarked Yvette Cooper, who I had always taken to be ultra-loyal. ‘Will they conclude that it’s time to give up promoting the idea that Tony is friends with everyone and somehow floats above us? Or will they conclude that what is needed is even more effort to be nice to everyone?’

  Which course does she favour?

  ‘That he is a politician like the rest of us and should start acting accordingly.’

  Wednesday, 14 June

  This morning, the much-postponed meeting between the MPs for Putney and Windsor, Tony Colman and Michael Trend, and representatives of the airlines to discuss the night flights which plague the west of London. Officials have done all in their power to discourage action, but I persisted. We were given a long list of reasons why nothing could be done, of which the most ludicrous was high wind-speeds over China.

  Thursday, 15 June

  Awoke this morning feeling positively light-headed. For the first time since mid-January I am not on a Bill committee.

  To Number 10 for a meeting with The Man, one of a series he is doing with junior ministers. We sat around the Cabinet table for an hour. Just about everyone chipped in. When my turn came I said we were upsetting people on too many fronts and had to close some down. I mentioned postmasters, pensioners and teachers. ‘We are pouring money into education and most teachers hate us. We must stop all this hectoring and naming and shaming.’ At this The Man assumed a pained expression so I added, ‘And I can see one or two people nodding just in case anyone thinks I’m entirely isolated.’ At which point Mike O’Brien came in and backed me up. ‘That’s us finished,’ he said to me afterwards, but I doubt it. Afterwards, as we walked up Downing Street, Bruce Grocott said cheerfully, ‘There’s no point in wasting time complaining about the ingratitude of the electorate. Every minister who has ever been must have said to himself, “Here I am working my bollocks off and all everyone does is complain.”’ He added, ‘In politics it is useful to have an enemy. No good trying to appeal to everyone. About 60 per cent of the electorate will do.’

  Monday, 19 June

  A meeting with JP to discuss the huge bonuses awarded to the board of the Civil Aviation Authority on the basis of some not very exacting performance targets. JP was in belligerent mode. ‘Do you agree with this?’ he growled.

  ‘No,’ said I.

  ‘Then where’s your advice?’

  In vain did I explain that, before I could consider the matter, word reached me that he wanted to discuss it so I had stayed my hand.

  ‘So I saw it before you did?’ The question hung in the air. A hint that I am not on top of my brief? He did not press the point.

  ‘Well, what is your opinion then?’

  ‘I don’t like it any more than you do, but I don’t see that there’s anything we can do. It’s in their contracts. That’s the system we’ve signed up to.’

  ‘I thought we were supposed to be in politics to change systems.’

  At which JP turned his fire on the officials. What were the workers getting, he demanded. No one knew, but it was probably in the region of 3.5 per cent (as opposed to bonuses of between 28 and 32 per cent for the top brass). Gus Macdonald (w
ho JP takes seriously) said that bonuses of 35 per cent were not uncommon in industry and that, in any case, the CAA salaries were not large by the standards of the private sector. The workforce was highly paid and the top brass earned only between two and three times the average salary. Suddenly JP mellowed. He even resisted a suggestion that we should trim. If that’s what was in their contracts, so be it. For this year, he decreed, the bonuses should be paid in full. For the future, we would review the salary structure. The officials departed. The mood lightened. JP regaled us with an account of his recent trip to Nigeria. So far, he said, he had met 29 prime ministers and several heads of state, not to mention an Emir who had four wives and 40 children. Odd that he should be keeping count.

  Tuesday, 20 June

  Home after 2 a.m. I had to reply to the adjournment (one of three this week). After listening to a couple of messages on the answerphone, I let it play on while I got ready for bed. The tape played for about 20 minutes. Towards the end there was a long message from my old friend Joan Maynard. She’s been gone more than two years now, but there she was as though it were yesterday making arrangements for us to meet, but of course we will never meet again – ever.

  Wednesday, 21 June

  Lunch with the Vietnamese Ambassador on the tenth floor of the Royal Garden Hotel, Kensington. He bent my ear at length on his disappointment that no senior member of the British government had visited Vietnam since Labour took office. Their senior politicians have all been here, but (as he put it) the traffic is all one way. Moreover, their prime minister was denied a meeting with The Man. Apparently Downing Street asked, when the request was conveyed, ‘Does he have anything to announce?’ The Vietnamese were deeply affronted.

  This evening to Wellingborough (Labour majority 187) to speak for Paul Stinchcombe, one of the best and the brightest of the new intake. In a previous incarnation he was an overpaid barrister in Derry Irvine’s chambers where on his first day he overheard one of his new colleagues ask another, ‘How many crates of champagne can you fit into your Ferrari?’ He used to work with Cherie and is, for this reason, privy to some of the early secrets of the New Labour court. Both Tony and Gordon blamed Smith’s promised tax increases for the 1992 defeat. According to Paul, they were angry with Smith, who they reckoned had cynically calculated that he couldn’t lose either way. If we’d won and he became Chancellor, he’d have money to spend. If we lost, he’d replace Kinnock as leader. Paul said that The Man originally wanted Gordon to run against John Smith for leader. Paul believes that he will stand aside for Gordon halfway through the next Parliament. The plan always had been that Gordon should be first. Cherie told Paul, ‘Gordon’s married to the Labour Party. He’s got no other life.’

  Thursday, 22 June

  Dad’s 80th birthday. Sarah has made him a beautiful card which I posted on Tuesday. When I rang home, he had not seen it. Mum had put it aside and forgotten about it.

  Friday, 23 June Sunderland

  X, who has haunted me for eight years, was first in my surgery. He harangued me manically for 45 minutes before departing, calling me a gangster. He was followed by a fox-hunting obsessive and then by a couple who wanted me to get their grandchild into Farringdon school. Finally, a teacher from Sarah’s infant school, whose daughter had been offered a place at medical school in Newcastle, but was unable to fund her studies. Did I have any suggestions? Of late we don’t seem to have helped many constituents. In the old days we scored some big victories over the benefit agency and the housing department, but these days I increasingly find myself passing on letters explaining why nothing can be done. Our greatest victories usually involve helping people to move out of Sunderland, which doesn’t enable them to express their gratitude to me at the ballot box.

  Tuesday, 27 June

  With Yvette Cooper, I appeared before the Lords’ Science Select Committee which is investigating the effects of air travel on health. I mugged up carefully since I didn’t want to be shown up by Yvette, who is fearfully bright, but it passed off without incident. We were interrupted by a division, but only four of the peers went off to vote. When I asked the others why they weren’t voting, one replied, ‘We only vote when we have heard the arguments.’ How very civilised. I don’t suppose it will catch on at our end of the building.

  Wednesday, 5 July Noi Bai Airport, Hanoi

  A delicious little cameo. We had been told that the Vietnamese Prime Minister would be on the flight to Ho Chi Minh City, seated directly in front of me. In the event it turned out to be not the current Prime Minister, but his predecessor, Vo Van Kiet. Everyone was loaded onto the plane. The first two seats were conspicuously empty. From the porthole we could see a large black limo, with shaded windows, parked in front of the VIP lounge, but no sign of Mr Kiet. Suddenly the steps into the aircraft were driven away. Perhaps he wasn’t coming after all? But no. A new set of steps was driven into place. This one had a red carpet. From the aircraft an ironic little cheer went up. Pure Monty Python. The door of the VIP lounge opened and the official party emerged, Mr Kiet (with his mop of white hair) clearly visible in the middle. Surely, this veteran revolutionary wasn’t going to drive the 100 yards to the plane, à la JP. In Vietnam, however, anything is possible. Vietnamese politicians, of course, don’t have to reckon with the tabloids. Mr Kiet, however, was made of tougher stuff. The car was waved aside and he strode manfully across the tarmac. But to everyone’s surprise, the car followed and out got Mrs Vo Van Kiet, sporting a Pauline Prescott hairdo.

  Friday, 7 July Ho Chi Minh City

  About 150 officials turned up for the water seminar. The news that I am a son-in-law of Vietnam prompted a spontaneous round of applause. After the opening speeches I escaped to the Christina Noble Foundation, which looks after abandoned babies. Lovely little people with shiny faces, rescued from hunger and despair. It was all I could do to keep from bursting into tears. Then on to the Saigon Children’s Charity, run by a former teacher at Eton, which helps educate poor children and finds them work so they can support their families. I talked to Kieu, a little girl whose family lived in a shack on one of the stinking canals which the local authority is in the process of clearing. As a result they have been relocated to an area far away from the city centre. To carry on attending her classes, Kieu is cycling 20 km each way. Her mother, a cleaner, comes with her, at first sharing the same bike. Kieu has just had a giant stroke of luck. She has been offered a part-time job by the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank which will pay the stupendous sum of 50 dollars a month, for a four-hour day – more money than Kieu and her family have ever set eyes on.

  Le Van Si

  Suddenly I am out of the world of stratos dwellers and safe in the warm bosom of my extended family. Ngoc’s mother, despite her crippled back, is radiant in silk pyjamas. Hong and Vuong now run a karaoke bar (they were into video rental last time). Tam, once a slim little fellow, is now unrecognisably plump. Duy and Nhan, children when Ngoc left Vietnam, are now handsome young adults. The scented bush I planted in the little square outside Hong’s house during my last visit is flourishing. Brother-in-law Khanh’s recycling business is going well, though heavily indebted. Bau, reflecting her family’s improved fortunes, has put on weight since I last saw her. Dakla, who is Sarah’s age, a little princess – bright, beautiful and with a smattering of English. All in all, the fragile fortunes of the family – like those of the country – are on the up.

  Oh yes, one other piece of news. Mr Phuoc, whose family live five doors down from Hong and Vuong, was caught up in a huge financial scam – and shot by firing squad.

  Saturday, 8 July

  Ho Chi Minh City: a city of five, maybe six million people, almost entirely without public transport. The chaos is awesome. Much of the development is unregulated. Little metal-bashing factories have grown out of front or back rooms. Welding and banging is going on night and day alongside people trying to sleep and eat. This is how it must have been in England at the onset of the Industrial Revolution.

  The city
is a huge construction site, everywhere little palaces are rising amid the shacks and shanties. Every fourth or fifth house, or so it seems, is a café emitting loud music.

  On the outskirts the city is advancing remorselessly, gobbling up the little vegetable and fruit gardens; bypassing some, leaving them stranded. Islands of calm in the midst of the advancing chaos.

  Khanh took me to see Le Qua and his family, who I have been supporting since he lost both arms in an accident on a building site.

  They live down a maze of alleyways. Only Khanh knows the way. For the first time that I can remember, Mrs LQ smiles, though goodness knows she has little enough to smile about. She has had major surgery – for cancer – since we last met. Given her exhaustion and malnutrition her survival is a miracle. The Vietnamese health service must be better than I supposed. Above the doorway leading to the dark interior of the house, a photograph of Ngoc’s father has pride of place. He, after all, is their saviour. But for their chance meeting in the park Qua and his family would by now be destitute. As it is, their small economy is a miracle. He has managed to keep all his children in education, the oldest is now 21 and works part-time in a dentist’s reception. Mrs LQ still works at her sewing machine, earning a dollar and a half a day turning out pillow cases. Also, they have let out half their tiny house.

  They must have been desperate to do that. Strangers lurk behind the curtain that divides the front and back rooms. We stay about 30 minutes. There is not a lot to say, so vast is the gulf that separates their small world from mine. Before we leave Khanh discreetly slides them the 600 US dollars I have brought. They do not know that in the UK they have a bank account containing more than 3,000 dollars. Were I to hand it over all in one go it would break their small economy. I have not told them how the money was raised. About my sponsored walk and the many people, including the Prime Minister and half the Cabinet, who contributed. This is information too great to absorb. It is enough for them to know that I will provide them with an income every year, until the children are old enough to support their parents.