My satisfaction was soured only by the increasing signs of economic problems to come. During those two years I had been so preoccupied with Treasury responsibilities that I had turned down a number of opportunities to deliver the sort of philosophical lectures that identify politicians with a particular credo. At the time I had no hesitation in refusing them. I was busy, and believed there would be many future invitations and ample time ahead to set out my ideas. Had I realised how my career was about to accelerate I might have acted differently. As it was, I delivered only one speech, to the Audit Commission in mid-1989, in which I tried to indicate that at least one Conservative felt that the public services performed a valuable role. This was a slightly dissenting voice to come from the Treasury, and was a trailer for the public service reforms that I was later to introduce.
As chief secretary to the Treasury, I came to know Margaret Thatcher much better. Since my role was to restrain public spending we were generally on the same side in most arguments. But we did have one fierce row. Short’s Brothers, a large aerospace company in Northern Ireland, was an important local employer in an area of massive unemployment. It had huge debts, and Tom King, the Northern Ireland Secretary, and I were keen to sell it to Bombardier, a Canadian aerospace company, in order to save jobs. They would not buy it without a substantial dowry, but to my astonishment Margaret objected to the terms of the deal I proposed. She summoned me to Downing Street, where in front of her Principal Private Secretary Andrew Turnbull we had a two-hour confrontation that began coolly, turned frosty, and ended in fierce rowing. I felt her attacks on me were unjust. I had concluded the two most successful public spending rounds for years, and was now accused of not being concerned about taxpayers’ money. Neither of us gave any ground, and I returned to the Treasury determined to resign if I was overruled. The next day, Margaret asked for further figures to justify my case, and then accepted it. But it had been a close call.
Yet again, a reshuffle was about to show that Margaret did not bear grudges over fierce arguments.
CHAPTER SIX ‘What’s the Capital of Colombia?’
I HAD BEEN WIDELY TIPPED for a move from the Treasury to my own department, but the promotion I was given surprised everyone – except me; the whips’ mafia had worked with its customary effectiveness. Three days before the reshuffle I had been warned by Tristan Garel-Jones that the Prime Minister intended to appoint me foreign secretary. I scoffed, and told him to lie down with an aspirin until he felt better. But I was not confident he was wrong. It was the sort of thing the whips would know, and he seemed very certain. I spent an uncomfortable weekend brooding on the prospect.
Norma was horrified. Of all the jobs in government the Foreign Office was the one she least wanted me to have, and the one for which I was least prepared. Moreover, I enjoyed being chief secretary. I had been in the job for two years, and felt thoroughly on top of it. It was flattering to be tipped for promotion, but I would have preferred to consolidate my position at the Treasury. I knew also that such a dramatic promotion would explode for good the contemporary wisdom that I had no enemies in politics. I knew that success could breed resentment, and that I would also be a sitting duck for the fire any commentator, colleague or opponent might henceforth care to direct at me.
The reshuffle began on Monday, 24 July 1989. Whitehall is a veritable grapevine on such days, and I kept in touch with colleagues by phone. Peter Brooke was followed into Number 10 by Ken Baker – self-evidently a change of party chairman. John Gummer, Cecil Parkinson and Nick Ridley were followed by Chris Patten. Others were said to have gone in privately, through the Cabinet Office. It was a substantial reshuffle but appeared to be without a pattern. Something was wrong, but I did not know what. I sat in the Treasury wondering and waiting.
Since I had been promoted in three of the past four years, I was an aficionado of reshuffles. I knew they began with the most senior Cabinet appointments, which were usually finished by lunchtime. So I expected to hear in the morning if I was to be moved. Lunchtime came – and went. Geoffrey Howe hadn’t been moved, and I hadn’t been summoned. Two o’clock. Three o’clock. I had put a bottle of champagne in the fridge in the hope of remaining in the Treasury. As 3 o’clock passed I asked Carys Evans, my Private Secretary, to fetch it with some glasses. As it was opened, the phone rang.
Carys looked up. ‘It’s Charles Powell,’ she said. ‘Would you please go and see the PM?’
Mrs Thatcher was in her study with Andrew Turnbull, her Principal Private Secretary. She looked fresh, and there was a bloom on her cheeks that I had often seen before. It meant she was relaxed, not on guard, in company with which she was comfortable – and about to bestow a favour. Charles had been smiling too when he showed me upstairs. My heart sank.
‘John,’ she said, ‘hold on to your seatbelt. You are the centrepiece of my changes. Geoffrey has moved on, and I want you to be foreign secretary.’
If I had not been prepared, I am not sure how I would have reacted. As it was, I demurred – for my sake and hers. I believed I owed it to her.
‘Prime Minister, I’m very flattered. But is this a good idea?’
‘I’m very sure it’s a good idea. Why shouldn’t it be?’ She made some disparaging noises about the Foreign Office – not just in connection with its attitude towards Europe. ‘I want someone there who thinks as I do.’
‘Aren’t there others better qualified?’ I said. ‘Douglas Hurd? Nigel Lawson?’
She waved a hand dismissively. No words were necessary.
I persisted. ‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea from your point of view. People will assume I’m there just to carry out your bidding. That won’t be good for either of us. I won’t be offended if you think again.’
She wasn’t having it – and if I’d said no it would have seemed like funk. And how could one possibly turn down such a glittering prize so happily offered? It would certainly have been ungracious. She would have been embarrassed, disappointed and, I think, hurt. My resistance to the appointment melted. Clearly the matter was decided, and there was no alternative Cabinet job left. I remembered the old adage: You don’t negotiate with prime ministers, you say ‘yes’ or you say ‘no’ and take the consequences. I thanked her. We chatted. And I left the room as foreign secretary.
In the corridor I met Charles. He was grinning. ‘What’s the capital of Colombia?’
‘Bogotá,’ I said. ‘Bogotá, Charles. I’ve been there. Years ago.’
I returned to my office at the Treasury to find that the Whitehall bush telegraph had excelled itself. My Private Office and advisers had gathered and a globe of the world had been sellotaped to the top of a bottle of champagne.
The Treasury was agog with excitement, but the atmosphere in my office was part celebration and part wake. Nigel Lawson did not join us, and as I sipped my champagne my mind kept turning to him. How was he feeling? He and Geoffrey had confronted Margaret before Madrid, and Geoffrey had now been moved. And Nigel, who had been chancellor for six years – what would be his next move? The office of foreign secretary, which surely he might have coveted, had been denied him and given to one of his junior ministers.
I had little time to reflect on this. Soon Stephen Wall, who was to be my Principal Private Secretary at the Foreign Office, and Andrew Burns, the Chief Press Officer, came to see me to discuss the preliminary press handling of my appointment.
Afterwards, I returned to the Commons. I knew my appointment would be controversial. As I walked across New Palace Yard I met Norman Fowler, my old boss
