pause. Sometimes he would ask for views. When he did not, we waited to hear how he would deal with such and such a tricky demand.
‘Well,’ Willie would say. ‘If that’s what my colleagues think …’ Pause again. ‘Then,’ he would conclude triumphantly, ‘then that’s what they think.’ That was it. We moved on.
Behind this bluff act was a sharp and shrewd political calculator of a brain. Willie was never a detail man, but his instinct was superb. He sniffed the political wind and knew which way it was blowing.
In early 1982 Tony Marlow, the MP for Northampton North, asked me if I wished to join a tour of the Middle East to learn more about the Arab – Israeli conflict. Tony had already made a reputation as a parliamentary-thug-in-waiting, and was a fierce Palestinian partisan. He had ‘reckless’ and ‘trouble’ stamped through him like ‘Brighton’ through a stick of rock, but I accepted his invitation when he explained it was a large, all-party delegation. The trip was packed with incident.
I was fast asleep in our hotel in Beirut one night when we were suddenly told that Yasser Arafat, the leader of the PLO, would see us. We piled into cars and were driven to meet him. He was a small man, unshaven and soft-spoken, dressed in combat uniform and poised over a large map on a table. Coffee was served and Arafat spoke and invited questions. The meeting was memorable, not least because, for the first time, I was meeting someone generally considered in the UK to be a terrorist.
A hunchbacked secretary brought in a tray of tea in glass cups. He stumbled, and the tea spilled forward, spreading across the unfurled map Arafat was using to illustrate Palestinian land claims. Gently and systematically he began to mop up the tea as he was peppered with questions. Two Labour members of our group, Peter Snape and Dale Campbell-Savours, were pointed, even aggressive: when would the Palestinians recognise Israel? Arafat was unperturbed, and replied coolly to the effect that even if he knew, which he did not, he would hardly announce this to a random group of British backbench MPs. Richard Needham, a Tory, intervened, and said that he understood that Arafat was cross, but that meetings such as this did make an impact – even on him, a half-Jewish, half-Irish Earl.
Arafat blinked and looked at him: ‘How do I address a half-Jewish, half-Irish Earl?’ he enquired.
The irrepressible Snape could not resist it: ‘Kneeling,’ he said. ‘Kneeling.’
The room froze, but Arafat chortled and the rest of the meeting passed harmoniously.
A day or so later, we were driving towards Bethlehem when for some reason our convoy stopped. As it did so an Arab youth appeared on the brow of a hill just behind us and hurled a large rock through the air. I was talking to Ken Weetch, the Labour Member for Ipswich, when it hurtled between us at head height and crashed into the car. Not knowing what was happening we turned around, and as we did so gunshots rang out. An Israeli patrol was heading towards us and firing at the rock-thrower. We were caught in the crossfire. I threw myself to the ground beneath the car. Richard Needham and Dale Campbell-Savours crouched down on the back seat while Peter Snape also threw himself underneath the car and (entirely by chance, he claimed) found himself beside one of our attractive guides. It was a scary few moments, and only by good fortune were by-elections avoided.
The consensus was that the Palestinian boy was a clot, and the Israelis had overreacted. Richard Needham, a brilliant mimic, and Snape, ever ready for a joke, exacted their revenge. As we passed through Israeli customs they became Oberleutnant Needham and his faithful batman, Corporal Snape, in heavy German accents. It took ages to get through customs, and we were lucky not to end up in jail.
On 2 April 1982, Argentine armed forces invaded the Falkland Islands and established military control. The Commons met the next day, a Saturday, in an angry mood, incensed at this national humiliation. We forget now that immediately after the invasion Margaret Thatcher had her back to the wall. As she left Number 10 for the emergency session of Parliament she received a hostile reception from the crowd gathered in Downing Street. Other ministers, too, were booed and hissed as they drove into the Commons.
It was the first time I had seen the power of this assembly when it was aroused. The atmosphere was electric. I had not foreseen this. The government was clearly in trouble, and my assumption had been that Conservative ranks would close firmly behind a still relatively new prime minister. I was surprised at the extent to which they did not. The collective mood was one of real anger that the Falklands had been invaded and that the government had been too ill-informed or impotent to prevent it. These backbenchers, I saw, had a mind of their own. It was a vivid illustration of how the collective will of Parliament can shape policy-making. No one seeing or feeling that mood at close quarters could have been in any doubt that if the government was to survive, it would have to act forcefully and speedily.
The Prime Minister announced the despatch of a Task Force to recover the islands – and it was as well that she did. Amid rumours that the Foreign Office had received the plans of the invasion days earlier, the Commons that morning resembled mob rule. Michael Foot, the leader of the opposition, demanded the government prove that it was not responsible for the betrayal of the Falkland Islands. Sir Edward du Cann, the Chairman of the 1922 Committee, was astounded that we were so woefully ill-prepared. Nigel Fisher, a senior Conservative, said ministers had much to answer for to the country. John Silkin, Labour’s defence spokesman, told the Prime Minister, the Foreign Secretary and the Defence Secretary: ‘The sooner you get out the better.’
After the debate, in private meetings, Conservative backbenchers savaged senior ministers. Some criticism, albeit Delphically-phrased, had been aired in the Chamber, but it paled into insignificance beside the strength of the comments in the Tea Room and in the backbench committees.
As I sat in the train returning to Huntingdon, I was not sure the government would survive. We were, in any event, very unpopular at the time, and I was certain there would be ministerial blood shed. The Foreign Office team of Peter Carrington, Humphrey Atkins and Richard Luce did resign, although John Nott, the Defence Secretary, had his offer of resignation refused by Mrs Thatcher. Peter Carrington and his team were not, of course, solely to blame, but they judged – correctly, I think – that ministerial heads were needed, and they offered their own.
If the Cabinet had not sent the Task Force, Margaret Thatcher would not have survived as prime minister. She took a great risk, requiring huge nerve, but the alternative was certain catastrophe. I overheard a washroom conversation in which two Cabinet ministers denounced the expedition as ‘ludicrous’ and ‘a folly’ due to the lack of air cover for the fleet. It gave me a glimpse of the tension that existed at the heart of government.
Out of the bleak scenario of early April Margaret Thatcher fashioned her greatest triumph, and the political terrain was bulldozed into a new landscape. During those few weeks the martial nature of the British nation made itself clear: huge crowds waved off the Navy from Portsmouth, and even larger numbers welcomed it back. Every development of the conflict was pored over, the final success brought forth a tremendous feeling of national pride, and the iconic stature of ‘the Iron Lady’ was assured.
In January 1983, announcing that he did not wish to contest the forthcoming election, John Nott resigned as defence secretary, and there was a small reshuffle in which I was appointed an assistant whip. It was almost the last job announced in the changes, and one of the most junior. But I was thankful. A number of the 1979 intake had already joined the government, John Patten, Donald Thompson, David Mellor, Tristan Garel-Jones, Ian Lang and William Waldegrave among them, and I was relieved not to be overlooked again. I accepted the invitation from a public phone booth at King’s Cross station, en route to Huntingdon, responding to a message to phone Michael Jopling, the Chief Whip.
It was a modest promotion, and at first sight less exciting than being a departmental minister. I learned very quickly that this was an outsider’s
