by Chris Mullin
‘This must never happen again,’ I said.
‘Tell him that. I’ll arrange for you to come in and see him when all this is over.’
Steve Byers was in the Tea Room. ‘It’s serious,’ he said. He reckoned that we are looking at a rebellion of 160-plus. ‘Tony knows he’s damaged and that he’s tested loyalty too far. I’ve said to Sally Morgan if he looks like throwing in the towel, call me at once.’ Steve added that he was in the Strangers’ Bar last night and it was full of Gordon’s people, Charlie Whelan included. ‘They scent blood,’ he said.
Out in the Library Corridor I came across Jean who is beginning to wobble. She had just seen Hilary, who was mightily upset. Until now they had been taking Jean for granted. Hilary told her that The Man would be devastated to find Jean in the wrong lobby. An audience has been arranged for 7.30 p.m. We arranged to reconvene at eight and compare notes.
7.00 p.m.
I decided the time had come to try and dig myself out of the hole I’ve got myself into. Armed with a list of telephone numbers for the movers and shakers in the constituency I repaired to a phone booth (my office walls are paper thin) and began to work the phones, starting with Paul Watson, Charles Bate and John Donnelly. I explained that this had become an issue of confidence and there was a danger of regime change here, never mind in Iraq, whereupon they all said they would back me if I were to change my mind. I then called Sam Glatt and John Hargrave to whom I had categorically asserted, as recently as last Friday, that in the absence of a second resolution I would not be supporting the government. They were unimpressed by my assertion that The Man could fall if this went wrong. ‘He’s not indispensable,’ said Sam. Sue Lane said likewise.
8 p.m., Strangers’ Cafeteria
Jean says that The Man had pleaded with her to stay on board and that was what she had now decided to do.
8.45 p.m., Upper Corridor South
A message to ring Fraser Kemp, who said the whips were anticipating that the rebellion could be within four or five votes of a majority of Labour backbenchers, with 25–30 Members who aren’t saying what they proposed to do. He had been asked by Keith Hill to request that I think again. I tracked down Tommy Wright and Dave Allan, expecting them to be pragmatists, but they weren’t. ‘A lot of people in Sunderland respect you,’ said Tommy urging me not to throw it away. Dave Allan was blunter: ‘It’s not just Blair’s integrity that’s at stake, it’s yours too.’ That did it. I telephoned Fraser saying I was sticking to my guns. Within minutes I received a call inviting me to an immediate meeting with the Chief Whip.
9.15 p.m., Chief Whip’s office
Hilary was affable, but left me in no doubt that my intransigence would do me no good with The Man. ‘He’ll be very hurt,’ she said. ‘He has a high regard for you.’ Roughly translated this means that I can forget any aspiration I may have (does she know?) to return to government if I set foot in the wrong lobby tonight. I explained that I had telephoned as many of the movers and shakers in my party as I could find and most of them were urging me to stand firm. Hilary, who knows Sunderland well, responded that my constituents would be in favour of the government’s stand by a margin of two to one. My neighbour, Bill Etherington, was already in the rebel lobby, so it was only fair that those in favour of war should be represented, too. Finally, she deployed her most devastating weapon: ‘If Tony goes, he’ll take the entire Cabinet with him and there will be a general election.’ I said I didn’t think that was very likely, but she seemed to think it was a possibility. On my way back to my room I came across Clare Short in the Library Corridor, looking miserable and much the worse for wear, propped up by Dennis Turner.
10.00 p.m., the Aye Lobby
As I made my way through the throng to vote for the amendment and against the government, who should I come face to face with but The Man, who was, of course, heading resolutely in the other direction. He affected not to notice, but I am sure he did. The Lib Dems and the Nationalists were there in force but, despite promises to the contrary, there were only a handful of Tories. No sign of Roger Gale, who only days ago assured me that there would be many more Tory rebels next time around. It is clear that the rebellion is not as large as the whips had been predicting (a lot of people have been talked out of it in the final hours), but it is still enormous – 139 Labour Members have defied the whip. Nothing will ever be the same again.
Wednesday, 19 March
To the meeting of the parliamentary party, where The Man, looking mightily relieved, put in a brief appearance to offer thanks for his deliverance. He also thanked Hilary for the brilliance of the whipping operation, which, as Jean remarked afterwards, was somewhat rubbing people’s noses in it.
Geoff Hoon addressed the gathering. As with the Afghan war, he was at pains to assure us that the utmost care would be taken over targets, although this time round he managed to avoid any glib talk about ‘astonishingly accurate bombing’. He did, however, assure us that the brilliance of the technology would ensure that the missiles were accurate to within a few metres. Afterwards, I reminded him that, during the Balkan war, several missiles had landed in the wrong country, never mind hitting the wrong target. ‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘but they didn’t explode.’ (Small consolation if ten tons of cruise missile intended for the country next door come crashing through your roof.) There were questions about depleted uranium, cluster bombs, land-mines and historic sites, to each of which Geoff offered soothing replies. Nothing ever seems to ruffle him. Later, in the queue for tea, I asked if he was concerned about a downward spiral of revenge and chaos, if (as many anticipate) the Iraqi regime collapses too quickly. Yes indeed, he said cheerfully. The Americans had devised a name for exactly that scenario – ‘catastrophic success’.
I asked Dave Hanson if The Man would really have gone if a majority of Labour Members had voted against him. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Only if he had lost the motion.’ As I suspected, Hilary was over-egging the pudding. Thank goodness I didn’t fall for it.
What a difference a day can make. The Man, who obviously enjoyed his first good night’s sleep for weeks, is transformed. Gone is that dehydrated, haunted look of yesterday. Instead, at the parliamentary committee this afternoon, he was positively light-headed. Ann Clwyd remarked upon a rumour that Tariq Aziz had defected which somehow got twisted into a joke about Robin Cook’s defection.
‘Robin’s not going to Baghdad,’ said The Man.
‘Is Robin going to Baghdad?’ JP, whose mind had obviously been elsewhere, suddenly sprang to life. Whereupon everyone fell about.
Tony Lloyd brought us all back to order: ‘Is this the healing process?’
‘Sorry,’ said The Man. ‘My fault. I apologise,’ but he was still laughing.
We discussed the momentous events of the past two days. At least it wasn’t like the 1980s, said The Man; he had always believed that it ought to be possible to disagree without reaching for the old betrayal thesis. The party was more mature these days. Most people were reasonable once they understood there was another side to the argument. Even as he spoke, outside in Parliament Square, we could hear the baying crowds laying siege to Carriage Gates.
Thursday, 20 March
Awoke to news that the attack on Iraq has begun with a hit on a ‘leadership target’ in the south of Baghdad. Also, there was an interview with Hans Blix, who made it clear that he wasn’t at all happy with the course of events. He was, he said, curious to know whether Iraq actually has anthrax and nerve gas (aren’t we all?). If they do, he asked, why didn’t they own up? It would have resulted in a loss of face, but it would have saved the regime. He said that much of the intelligence material with which his inspectors had been supplied turned out to be inaccurate and, in the case of the supposed attempt to obtain uranium from Niger, documents had been falsified (who by, he didn’t say). Blix maintained the inspectors were making progress and that the Iraqis, latterly at least, had been co-operating.
To the Boothroyd Room in Portcullis House f
or a meeting of the Liaison Committee, where a wonderful, hilarious, shameless discussion took place about the extent to which select committees should travel club class. It was triggered by Alan Williams’s very sensible proposal that all short-haul flights to Europe and the east coast of the USA should be by premium economy. Whereupon a forest of objections were raised. Gwyneth Dunwoody said there were sound medical reasons why she had to travel club on any flight longer than two hours. She illustrated her argument with reference to some recent fact-finding she had undertaken in China, adding that the Chinese had not been particularly helpful when it came to catering for her demands.
‘Even the Chinese want her dead,’ chuckled Michael Mates wickedly.
Nicholas Winterton expressed concern that to travel by economy would diminish our status. Status is something with which Sir Nicholas is frequently preoccupied. He went on, ‘It’s not the food, it’s the sort of people …’ ‘He doesn’t want to meet his constituents,’ remarked Michael Mates to general merriment.
‘You’re totally missing my point,’ huffed Sir Nicholas.
Someone pointed out, as if it were some sort of clinching argument, that Sir Patrick Cormack, who is even grander than Sir Nicholas, refused to fly anywhere by anything less than club.
On and on the discussion went. There were learned interventions on wind speeds, civil service comparators, seat sizes. At times one might have been forgiven for thinking that the very fate of parliamentary democracy itself was in the balance. Goodness knows what our constituents would have made of it all.
It was brought to an end by Edward Leigh. We weren’t doing ourselves any good spending 30 minutes on this subject, he said. We should bear in mind that we were spending a million pounds of public money. He added that Nick Winterton’s comments were pompous and ridiculous – those were his very words. One could almost hear the expulsion of wind as Sir Nicholas visibly deflated.
The Carriage Gates have been sealed for much of the day as relays of school children, protesting against the war, blocked the traffic in Parliament Square, hurling themselves against the police lines. All week long the sound of their chanting, occasionally drowned by the racket from a police helicopter, has been audible throughout the building. The gates were still sealed at seven o’clock as I made my way, via the tunnel under Westminster Bridge Road, to the tube station. On the way I passed Robert Jackson. ‘Nice to feel relevant again,’ he said cheerfully gesturing towards the chanting protesters.
Joyce Quin was on the train. She complained that a post office in her constituency was threatened with closure as a result of government insistence that pensions and benefits are to be paid directly into bank accounts. The postmistress was telling everyone it was the fault of the government. ‘We’ve done a lot of good things,’ she said, ‘but the bad is beginning to outweigh the good.’
Sunday, 23 March
Sunderland
To Mount Grace Priory where we picnicked in the sunshine. Emma asked Ngoc, ‘Mum, what does “sue” mean?’ Ngoc explained that a person who considered themselves to have been sinned against – as many in Sunderland do – could take their case to a lawyer and that, if successful, they would receive compensation. ‘What does compensation mean?’
‘Money.’
Later, Ngoc remarked to Emma that she was lucky to have an older sister to play with. Yes, replied Emma, except that Sarah has a lot of homework and so there is not enough time to play.
‘You will have to talk to Sarah’s school about that,’ said Ngoc.
To which, quick as a flash, the Nugget replied, ‘Don’t worry, Mum, I will sue them.’
American prisoners have been put on show on Iraqi television, which has led to a big bout of hypocrisy about war crimes and breaches of the Geneva Convention. Never mind that for the past week our media have been displaying hooded Iraqi prisoners of war with hands behind their backs and guns to their head – to say nothing of what has been going on at Guantanamo Bay and Bagram Airbase for the last year or more. Somehow it’s different when they do it to us.
Monday, 24 March
Among this morning’s mail, two letters of resignation from the party.
One from Mac McCarthy, a long-standing member of St Michael’s branch, and the other from Dick and Gwen Ellison, stalwarts from Hendon. I have replied gently reminding them that, as they demanded, I voted against the war and that it makes my position more difficult if I am promptly abandoned by those whose position on the war is the same as mine.
It is becoming clear that the war isn’t going to plan. Resistance is unexpectedly stiff and the Iraqis do not seem to be as keen to be liberated as we had been led to expect. The Man gave a sober, factual statement this afternoon, full of words like ‘difficulties’, ‘tragedies’, ‘accidents’. He was heard mainly in silence apart from sporadic sniping from the likes of Harry Cohen, calling ‘What about civilians?’ and muttering about Guantanamo Bay every time Iraqi mistreatment of our prisoners was mentioned.
Wednesday, 26 March
Andy McSmith, a lobby journalist, told an amusing tale about a head teacher in Islington who went chasing after pupils who had walked out of school in protest against the war. ‘Do your parents know what you are doing?’ she demanded of the child leading the uprising. Of course they did. She was talking to the daughter of Tariq Ali.
A party of children from Thornhill School visited. Pat, by some extraordinary alchemy, managed to conjure them up gallery tickets for Prime Minister’s Questions and I showed them the terrace and Westminster Hall. On our way through Speaker’s Court who should we run into but The Man? On his way to Washington with Jack Straw.
The bombproof Jaguar was waiting, engine running, door open. A
police outrider had already gone ahead to stop the traffic. Special Branch men hovered, whispering into invisible microphones. Alastair Campbell, loitering in the background, relaxed and cheerful as ever, winked. The Man couldn’t have been nicer. He shook hands with each of the kids, chatted for a minute, posed for a photo and went on his way. As for the kids, it made their day. So much goodwill for such little effort.
Later, in the Central Lobby, I came across Anji Hunter, The Man’s former PA. She is now a big shot at BP. Relations with Gordon have much improved during the last nine months, she said. Gordon had been particularly supportive during the recent difficulty. (Why might that be? Has he been given reason to believe that he will shortly inherit?) Anji confirmed that Alastair keeps a diary. ‘In tiny writing on foolscap sheets, three or four a day.’ At last, an eyewitness.
Friday, 28 March
The Americans – or was it us? – have bombed another market in Baghdad, this time killing at least 50 people and maiming hundreds of others. The evening television news is full of weeping, screaming, angry Iraqis. As usual official spokesmen are lying or obfuscating. Cambodia, Iraq (last time around), Kosovo, Afghanistan, it’s always the same. They never own up. I am so glad I voted against this lousy, rotten war.
Monday, 31 March
Today’s Mirror carries a large picture of a little, curly-haired, Iraqi girl called Sarah, in Disney pyjamas, looking for all the world as if she is asleep, lying on her back in a Baghdad mortuary. According to the report, she was one of four children from the same family, two died and the other two have yet to regain consciousness. More victims of Geoff Hoon’s ‘astonishingly accurate bombing’?
I went along to a little briefing that Geoff was giving in an upper committee room. He is so laidback it isn’t true. No matter what he is asked about – cluster bombs, dead children, friendly fire – he always
responds in the same complacent drawl. I suppose it’s a talent up to a point, but Geoff carries it too far. One has the impression he could sell anything to anyone. ‘How come one of our “astonishingly accurate missiles” seems to have hit a bus in Syria?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ chortled Geoff as though it were a source of amusement (five people are reported to have died). ‘I’m still trying to get to the bo
ttom of that. Maybe the CIA know something which cannot be vouchsafed.’ Surely the CIA could be persuaded to confide in the British defence secretary. Or am I being naive?
Tuesday, 1 April
This morning there are reports that American soldiers in Iraq have killed at least seven (it turned out to be 11) women and children after raking a minibus with gunfire. The official line is that it failed to stop after repeated warnings, but fortunately there was a journalist present who says no warning was given.
‘What did you think of Geoff Hoon last night?’ asked Betty Williams, in the Tea Room. She went on, ‘I was upset at how relaxed he was. At least Tony Blair looks as though he feels the weight of the responsibility he is carrying, but Geoff doesn’t.’
So it isn’t just my imagination.
I rang Dad. There is always a great kerfuffle while he finds his hearing aid, but he seems to be managing okay. Goodness knows how they are going to cope when Mum comes back from hospital. ‘Maybe we’ll have to go into a home,’ he said. I tried to assure him that wouldn’t be necessary, if only they would accept help, but whether they will or not remains to be seen. Liz, who I spoke to later, said that Dad kissed Mum’s hand when he visited her in hospital today. He must know that the end is in sight.
Wednesday, 2 April
A photo on the front of today’s Guardian shows a distraught Iraqi, grieving over the body of his mother. He is said to have lost 15 relatives, including six children. So far there is no sign that the Iraqis are all that grateful to their liberators. Is it any wonder?
