The Downing Street Years, 1979-1990

BACKGROUND TO THE 1990 LEADERSHIP CAMPAIGN

In 1975 I was the first candidate for the leadership of the Conservative Party to challenge an existing leader under the rules which had been instituted by Sir Alec Douglas-Home a decade earlier. Having entered the field as a rank outsider, I won the leadership in an open contest. So I am the last person to complain about having to meet a challenge to my own leadership. But the circumstances of 1990, when Michael Heseltine challenged me, were very different. I had won three general elections and lost none, whereas Ted Heath had lost three out of four. I was a sitting prime minister of eleven and a half years in office, whereas Ted was a newly-defeated Opposition leader. The beliefs and policies which I had pioneered in Britain were helping to remould world affairs. And our country was at that moment on the verge of war in the Gulf.

Of course, democracy is no respecter of persons, as my great predecessor, Winston Churchill, learned when having led Britain through her supreme struggle against the Nazi tyranny and in the midst of negotiations crucial to the post-war world order, he was defeated in the 1945 general election. At least, however, it was the British people who dismissed him from office. I was not given the opportunity to meet the voters — and they were not able to pronounce on my final term of office, except by proxy.

The 1965 procedure for electing the Tory leader was, by unwritten convention, not intended for use when the Party was in office. Theoretically, I had to be re-elected every year; but since no one else stood, this was a formality. Ever since Michael Heseltine flounced out of the Cabinet in January 1986, however, he had kept up a constant if unavowed campaign to replace me. Inevitably, as problems mounted in late 1988 and 1989, closer attention was paid to the precise details of the system.

I have already described the growth of political discontent in the summer and autumn of 1989. Of its causes, the most important was the economy, as high interest rates had to be applied to curb the inflation which Nigel Lawson’s policy of shadowing the deutschmark had generated. This aggravated what would otherwise have been more manageable problems, such as the agitation over the community charge — a running sore which would get much worse the following year. There was also a hard core of opposition to my approach to the European Community, though this was very much a minority view. And there was, of course, a range of back-benchers who for various idiosyncratic reasons, or because they had been denied or removed from office, would be happy to line up against me. There was even talk of one of them putting up for the leadership as a ‘stalking horse’ for the real contender, Michael Heseltine, lurking in the wings.

In fact, Sir Anthony Meyer decided to mount a challenge for reasons of his own in 1989, and there had to be a contest. Mark Lennox-Boyd, my PPS, George Younger, Ian Gow, Tristan Garel-Jones (a Foreign Office Minister of State), Richard Ryder (Economic Secretary) and Bill Shelton constituted my campaign team who quietly identified supporters, waverers and opponents. They did their job well. I did not myself campaign and no one seriously thought that I should. The results were by no means unsatisfactory. I won 314 votes, Sir Anthony Meyer 33. There were 24 spoilt ballots and 3 abstentions. But the contest had revealed, as George Younger told me, a certain amount of discontent.

Accordingly, I increased the amount of time set aside in my diary for meeting back-benchers. I made more frequent visits to that fount of gossip, the Commons tea-room. I also began regular meetings with groups of back-benchers, usually recruited according to region so as to ensure a wide spectrum of views. At these meetings, which usually took place in my room in the House, I would ask everyone around the table to speak their mind and then come in at the end to answer point by point. There was frank speaking on both sides — on one occasion a back-bencher told me it was time for me to go. I may not have complied, but I did listen.

But no amount of discussion or attention to personal sensitivities could compensate for the political situation in the summer of 1990. High community charge bills made Conservative MPs anxious about their seats. Inflation and interest rates were still high. Divisions in the Parliamentary Party and the Government over Europe sharpened as the pace of the federalist programme accelerated. The rank and file of the Party was still with me, as they would show at the 1990 Party Conference, indeed perhaps stronger than ever in their support. But too many of my colleagues had an unspoken contempt for the party faithful whom they regarded as organization fodder with no real right to hold political opinions. And in the event, no one would seriously listen to them — though they were formally consulted and pronounced heavily in my favour — when it came for my fate to be decided.

For my part, I remained confident that we could ride out these difficulties and win the next election. High interest rates were already doing their work in bringing down inflation, whatever the headline RPI figures showed. I was only waiting for signs that the money supply was firmly under control before cutting interest rates — and continuing to cut them even if that would entail a changed parity in the ERM. At the end of April I had my first serious discussion with the Policy Unit about policies that might be in the next manifesto. And that summer I had discussions with colleagues on setting up manifesto policy groups. My Party Conference speech in October 1990 raised the curtain on just a little of this, outlining proposals for privatization, training vouchers (and hinting at education vouchers), and increasing the number of grant-maintained schools. I had not decided when we would go to the country. But I wanted to be ready for the summer of 1991.

I had also been thinking about my future beyond the next election. There was still much that I wanted to do. Most immediately, we had to defeat Saddam Hussein and establish a durable security framework for the Gulf. The economy was fundamentally strong, but I wanted to overcome inflation and recession and restore a stable framework for growth. I thought there was a good prospect of mopping up communism in central and eastern Europe and establishing limited government under law in the new democracies. Above all I hoped to win the battle for my kind of European Community — one in which a free and enterprising nation-state like Britain could comfortably flourish. But I also knew that the wider framework of international relations which was needed in the post-Cold War world — one in which international bodies like the UN, the GATT, the IMF, the World Bank, NATO and the CSCE held the ring, while nation-states and international commerce were left to their own proper spheres of activity — would not be built in a day. This was a substantial long-term programme.

My problem was the lack of a successor whom I could trust both to keep my legacy secure and to build on it. I liked John Major and thought that he genuinely shared my approach. But he was relatively untested and his tendency to accept the conventional wisdom had given me pause for thought. For reasons I have explained, however, no other candidate found greater favour with me.[118] Given time, John might grow in stature, or someone else might emerge. So, both because of the scale of the challenges and my uncertainty over the succession, I did not wish to step down before the next election.

Nor, however, did I seriously intend to go ‘on and on’. I thought that about two years into the next Parliament would be the right time to leave. Of course, even then it would be a wrench. I felt as full of energy as ever. But I accepted that one day it would be my duty to leave No. 10, whether the electorate had demanded it or not.

What would not persuade me to depart, however, was the kind of argument put to me by Peter Carrington over dinner at his house one Sunday evening in April 1990. Denis was not there: he was away for the weekend. Peter argued that the Party wanted me to leave office both with dignity and at a time of my own choosing. I took this to be a coded message: dignity might suggest a rather earlier departure than I would otherwise choose. Peter was, I suspect, speaking on behalf of at least a section of the Tory establishment. My own feeling was that I would go ‘when the time was ripe’. I reflected that if the great and the good of the Tory Party had had their way, I would never have become Party leader, let alone Prime Minister. Nor had I the slightest interest in appearances nor in the trappings of office. I would fight — and, if necessary, go down fighting — for my beliefs as long as I could. ‘Dignity’ did not come into it.

GEOFFREY HOWE’S RESIGNATION

The restiveness of Tory back-benchers was transformed into open panic by the Eastbourne by-election later in October. Ian Gow’s old seat went to the Liberals with a swing of 20 per cent. The opinion polls also looked bad. Labour had a substantial lead. This was not a happy background to the Rome summit which I attended over the weekend of 27–28 October.[119] Yet even as I was fighting a lone battle in Rome, Geoffrey Howe went on television and told Brian Waiden that we did not in fact oppose the principle of a single currency, implying that I would probably be won round. This was either disloyal or remarkably stupid. At the first Prime Minister’s Questions on my return, I was inevitably asked about his remarks. I countered Opposition taunts by saying that Geoffrey was ‘too big a man to need a little man like [Neil Kinnock] to stand up for him’. But I could not endorse what he had said.

And my difficulties were just beginning. I now had to stand up in the House and make my statement on the outcome of the Rome summit. I duly stressed that ‘a single currency is not the policy of this Government’. But this assertion — which I considered essential — had two important qualifications. The first was that our own proposal for a parallel or ‘common’ currency in the form of the hard ecu might evolve towards a single currency. The second was a form of words, which ministers had come to use, that we would not have a single currency ‘imposed upon us’. And, inevitably, there were differing interpretations of precisely what that delphic expression meant. Such hypothetical qualifications could be used by someone like Geoffrey to keep open the possibility that we would at some point end up with a single currency. That was not our intention, and I felt there was a basic dishonesty in this interpretation. It was the removal of this camouflage which — if any single policy difference mattered — probably provided the reason for Geoffrey’s resignation.

I said in reply to questions that ‘in my view [the hard ecu] would not become widely used throughout the Community — possibly most widely used for commercial transactions. Many people would continue to prefer their own currency.’ I also expressed firm agreement with Norman Tebbit when he made the vital point that ‘the mark of a single currency is not only that all other currencies must be extinguished but that the capacity of other institutions to issue currencies must also be extinguished.’ My reply was: ‘This Government believes in the pound sterling.’ And I vigorously rejected the Delors concept of a federal Europe in which the European Parliament would be the Community’s House of Representatives, the Commission its Executive, and the Council of Ministers its Senate. ‘No, no, no,’ I said.

This performance set Geoffrey on the road to resignation. Exactly why is still unclear, perhaps to him, certainly to me. I do not know whether he actually wanted a single currency. Neither now or later, as far as I am aware, did he ever say where he stood — only where I should not stand. Perhaps the enthusiastic — indeed uproarious — support I received from the back-benchers convinced him that he had to strike at once, or I would win round the Parliamentary Party to the platform I earlier set out in Bruges.

No matter what I had said, however, Geoffrey would sooner or later have objected and gone. By this time the gap between us, unlike the rows I had with Nigel Lawson, was as much a matter of personal antipathy as of policy difference. I have explained how Geoffrey reacted when I asked him to leave the Foreign Office.[120] He never put his heart into the Leadership of the House. In the Cabinet he was now a force for obstruction, in the Party a focus of resentment, in the country a source of division. On top of all that, we found each other’s company almost intolerable. I was surprised at the immediate grounds of his resignation. But in some ways it is more surprising that he remained so long in a position which he clearly disliked and resented.

I heard nothing of Geoffrey on Wednesday (31 October). On Thursday morning at Cabinet I took him to task, probably too sharply, about the preparation of the legislative programme. I was slightly curious at the time that he had so little to say for himself. Afterwards, I had lunch in the flat, worked on my speech for the debate on the Loyal Address, had a short meeting with Douglas Hurd about the situation in the Gulf, and then went off to Marsham Street where, in the cellars beneath the DoE/Department of Transport complex, the Gulf Embargo Surveillance unit was operating. I had not been there long when a message came through that Geoffrey wanted urgently to see me back at No. 10. He intended to resign.

I was back there at 5.50 p.m. for what turned out to be almost a rerun of Nigel Lawson’s resignation. I asked Geoffrey to postpone his decision till the following morning: I already had so much to think about — surely a little more time was possible. But he insisted. He said that he had already cancelled the speech he was due to give that evening at the Royal Overseas League, and the news was bound to get out. So the letters were prepared and his resignation was announced.

In a sense it was a relief he had gone. But I had no doubt of the political damage it would do. All the talk of a leadership bid by Michael Heseltine would start again. Apart from myself, Geoffrey was the last survivor of the 1979 Cabinet. The press were bound to draw disparaging attention to my longevity. It was impossible to know what Geoffrey himself planned to do. But presumably he would not remain silent. It was vital that the Cabinet reshuffle, made necessary by his departure, should reassert my authority and unite the Party. That would not be easy, and indeed the two objectives might by now be in conflict.

I could not discuss all this with my advisers immediately, however, because I had to host a reception at No. 10 for the Lord’s Taverners, the charitable organization with which Denis was involved. But, as soon as I could, I broke away and went to my study where Ken Baker, John Wakeham and Alastair Goodlad, the Deputy Chief Whip, who was standing in for Tim Renton, got down to discussing what must be done.

I already knew my ideal solution: Norman Tebbit back in the Cabinet as Education Secretary. Norman shared my views on Europe — as on so much else; he was tough, articulate and trustworthy. He would have made a superb Education Secretary who could sell his programme to the country and wrong-foot the Labour Party. We could not reach him that night but made contact the following morning (Friday 2 November), and he agreed to come in and discuss it. As I feared, he would not be persuaded. He had left the Cabinet to look after his wife and that duty took precedence over all else. He would give me all the support he could from outside, but he could not come back into Government.

When Norman left, Tim Renton, the Chief Whip, now back in London, came in. He had undoubtedly breathed a sigh of relief that Norman was not coming back. He now argued strongly that William Waldegrave — who was on the left of the Party — should join the Cabinet. William was slim, cerebral and aloof — a sort of Norman St John Stevas without jokes — and he seemed likely to be even less of an ally. But I had never kept talented people out of my Cabinets just because they were not of my way of thinking, and I was not going to start even now. I asked him to take on the Department of Health.

But I still wanted a new face at Education, where John MacGregor’s limitations as a public spokesman were costing us dear in an area of great importance. So I appointed Ken Clarke — again not someone on my wing of the Party, but an energetic and persuasive bruiser, very useful in a brawl or an election. John MacGregor I moved to Geoffrey’s old post as Leader of the House. The appointments were well received. Although my preferred strategy of bringing back Norman had failed, my objective of uniting the Party seemed to be succeeding.

Any prospect of a return to business as usual, however, was quickly dispelled. I spent Saturday 3 November at Chequers working with my advisers on my speech on the Address, which had, of course, now assumed a new importance in the light of Geoffrey’s resignation. That evening Bernard Ingham rang through to read me an open letter Michael Heseltine had written to his constituency chairman. It was ostensibly about the need for the Government to chart a new course on Europe. In fact, it was the first tentative public step in the Heseltine leadership bid. Sunday’s papers (4 November) were accordingly full of stories about the leadership. They also contained the first opinion poll findings taken after Geoffrey’s departure. Unsurprisingly, they were very bad. Labour was shown in one to be 21 per cent ahead. I spent the day working on another speech — on the environment — which I was to deliver on Tuesday in Geneva.

On as many Monday mornings as possible I used to meet Ken Baker and the Central Office team to look through the diary for the week ahead. Over lunch I would also discuss the political situation with Ken, the business managers and some other Cabinet colleagues. That Monday we talked about almost everything except what was on everyone’s mind — whether or not there would be a leadership contest.

This was still far from certain. A feeling was now evident in the British press that Michael had perhaps overplayed his hand in his open letter. If he did not now stand, he would be accused of cowardice. If he did stand, he would probably lose — despite the tremors over Geoffrey’s departure. Most people felt that he would have been better chancing his luck after a general election, which my enemies hoped and expected I would lose.

This was the background to the discussion I had with Peter Morrison, my PPS, and Cranley Onslow, Chairman of the ‘22, on Tuesday afternoon (6 November) after a short visit to Geneva to address the World Climate Conference. We were all concerned that the speculation about the leadership was doing the Party and the Government great harm. It seemed best to try to bring matters to a head and get the leadership campaign — if there was to be one — out of the way quickly. The contest had to take place within twenty-eight days of the opening of the new parliamentary session, but it was up to the leader of the Party in consultation with the Chairman of the ‘22 to name the precise date. Accordingly, we agreed to bring forward the date for the closing of nominations to Thursday 15 November, with the first ballot on Tuesday 20 November. This meant that I would be away in Paris for the CSCE summit when the first ballot — if there was one — occurred. The disadvantage, of course, would be that I would not be at Westminster to rally support. But Peter Morrison and I did not in any case envisage that I would canvass on my own behalf. As things turned out, this may have been a wrong judgement. But it is important to understand why it was made.

First, it would have been absurd for a prime minister of eleven and a half years’ standing — leader of the Party for over fifteen years — to behave as if she were entering the lists for the first time. Tory MPs knew me, my record and my beliefs. If they were not already persuaded, there was not much left for me to persuade them with. Prime ministers can seek to charm and be sure to listen: I had been listening week after week to MPs’ grumbles; but I could not now credibly tell an MP worried about the community charge that I had been convinced by what he said and intended to scrap the whole scheme. Nor would I have dreamt of doing so. Thus there were strict limits on any canvassing I could usefully do to maximize my vote. A challenger like Michael, however, could promise promotion to those out of office as well as security for those already in it; he would be the beneficiary of all the resentments of the back-benchers.

Second, I felt that, as in 1989, the most effective campaign would be carried out by others on my behalf. In Peter Morrison I considered that I had an experienced House of Commons man who could put together a good team to work for me. Peter and I had been friends ever since he entered the House. He had been one of the first back-benchers to urge me to stand in 1975. I knew that I could rely on his loyalty. Unfortunately, the same quality of serene optimism which made Peter so effective at cheering us all up was not necessarily so suitable for calculating the intentions of that most slippery of electorates — Conservative MPs. I also envisaged, of course, that Peter would have other heavyweights in my team, including George Younger who had done such a good job in 1989.

The debate on the Address would give me an opportunity to renew my authority and the Government’s momentum. So I put extra effort into work on the speech. On the day itself (Wednesday 7 November), I was helped by yet another feeble attack from Neil Kinnock whose latest metamorphosis as a market socialist I mocked in the line: ‘The Leader of the Opposition is fond of talking about supply-side socialism. We know what that means: whatever the unions demand, Labour will supply.’ But I also had to deal with the more delicate issue of Geoffrey’s resignation. And that had hidden traps.

In his resignation letter Geoffrey had not spelt out any significant policy differences between us. Instead, he had concentrated on what he described as ‘the mood I had struck… in Rome last weekend and in the House of Commons this Tuesday’. I therefore felt entitled to point out in my speech that ‘if the Leader of the Opposition reads my Rt. Hon. and learned friend’s letter, he will be very pressed indeed to find any significant policy difference on Europe between my Rt. Hon. and learned friend and the rest of us on this side.’

That was true as far as it went, and it supplied my immediate needs. The debate went quite well. But it soon became clear that Geoffrey was furious about what I had said. He apparently felt that there were substantial points of difference on policy between us, even if he had not so far managed to articulate what they were. We had reached nothing more than a lull before a political storm that was to rage ever more strongly.

At the end of Thursday’s Cabinet (8 November), we took the unusual step of adjourning for a political session, civil servants leaving the Cabinet Room. Ken Baker warned of the likelihood of extremely bad results at the Bootle and Bradford North by-elections. Things turned out as he feared. The worst result was in Bradford, where we slumped to third place. Early the next morning (Friday 9 November), Ken telephoned me to discuss these results which I had, as usual, stayed up to see. I put on a brave face, saying it was no worse than I expected. But it was bad enough, and at the wrong time.

What really set the political commentators talking, however, was a statement that day by Geoffrey that he would ‘be seeking an opportunity in the course of the next few days to explain in the House of Commons the reasons — of substance as well as style — which prompted [his] difficult decision’. The speculation that Michael Heseltine would stand naturally increased over the weekend. Indeed, politics entered one of those febrile nervous phases in which events seem to be moving towards some momentous but unknowable climax almost independent of the wishes of the actors. And there was little I could do about any of this. I soldiered on with my arranged programme in the constituency on Saturday (10 November) and at the Cenotaph Remembrance Day Service on Sunday (11 November).

On Monday (12 November), as the previous week, there was only one subject on our minds at my morning ‘Week Ahead’ meeting with Ken Baker and at the subsequent lunch with colleagues — and again, significantly, none of us really wished to talk about it. No one knew as yet what Geoffrey would say, or even when he would say it. But never had a speech by Geoffrey been so eagerly awaited.

I delivered my own speech at the Lord Mayor’s Banquet in Guildhall that evening, striking a deliberately defiant note. But words now began to fail me. I employed a cricketing metaphor which that evening drew warm applause but which would later be turned to my disadvantage:

THE LEADERSHIP CAMPAIGN OPENS

I had now learned that Geoffrey would speak in the House the following day, Tuesday 13 November, about his resignation. I would, of course, stay on after Questions to hear him.

Geoffrey’s speech was a powerful Commons performance — the most powerful of his career. If it failed in its ostensible purpose of explaining the policy differences that had provoked his resignation, it succeeded in its real purpose which was to damage me. It was cool, forensic, light at points, and poisonous. His long suppressed rancour gave Geoffrey’s words more force than he had ever managed before. He turned the cricketing metaphor against me with a QC’s skill, claiming that my earlier remarks about the hard ecu undermined the Chancellor and the Governor of the Bank of England: ‘It is rather like sending your opening batsmen to the crease only for them to find, the moment the first balls are bowled, that their bats have been broken before the game by the team captain.’ He persuasively caricatured my arguments of principle against Europe’s drift to federalism as mere tics of temperamental obstinacy. And his final line — ‘the time has come for others to consider their own response to the tragic conflict of loyalties with which I have myself wrestled for perhaps too long’ — was an open invitation to Michael Heseltine to stand against me that electrified the House of Commons.

It was a peculiar experience listening to this bill of particulars, rather like being the accused during a prosecutor’s summing up in a capital case. For I was as much the focus of attention as was Geoffrey. If the world was listening to him, it was watching me. And underneath the mask of composure, my emotions were turbulent. I had not the slightest doubt that the speech was deeply damaging to me. One part of my mind was making the usual political calculations of how I and my colleagues should react to it in the lobbies. Michael Heseltine had been handed more than an invitation to enter the lists; he had been given a weapon as well. How would we blunt it?

At a deeper level than calculation, however, I was hurt and shocked. Perhaps in view of the irritability that had been the coin of my relations with Geoffrey in recent years, I was foolish to be so pierced. But any ill-feeling between us had been expressed behind closed doors, even if news of it had sometimes leaked into political gossip columns. In public, I had been strongly supportive of him both as Chancellor and as Foreign Secretary. Indeed, the memory of the battles we had fought alongside each other in Opposition and in the early 1980s had persuaded me to keep him in the Cabinet as Deputy Prime Minister when a closer attention to my own political interests on Europe, exchange rates, and a host of other issues would have led me to replace him with someone more of my way of thinking.

Yet he had not been similarly swayed by those memories. After living through so many difficult times and sharing so many policy successes, he had deliberately set out to bring down a colleague in this brutal and public way. And with what result? It was not yet certain what would happen to me. Whatever it was, however, Geoffrey Howe from this point on would be remembered not for his staunchness as Chancellor, nor for his skilful diplomacy as Foreign Secretary, but for this final act of bile and treachery. The very brilliance with which he wielded the dagger ensured that the character he assassinated was in the end his own.

The following morning (Wednesday 14 November) Cranley Onslow telephoned to say that he had received formal notification of Michael Heseltine’s intention to stand for the leadership. Douglas Hurd now proposed my nomination; John Major seconded it; this was intended as a demonstration of the Cabinet’s united support for me. Peter Morrison quickly had my own leadership team up and running, though some people subsequently suggested that this was too energetic a metaphor. The key figures were to be George Younger, Michael Jopling, John Moore, Norman Tebbit and Gerry Neale. MPs would be discreetly asked their views so that we knew who were supporters, waverers and opponents. Michael Neubert was to keep the tally. Opponents would not be approached again, but waverers were to be called on by whichever member of the team seemed most likely to be persuasive.

It was agreed that I would use press interviews as the main platform for me to set out my case. So on Thursday evening (15 November) I was interviewed by Michael Jones of the Sunday Times and Charles Moore of the Sunday Telegraph. Nor did I back away from the European issue which Geoffrey’s speech had reopened. Indeed, I said that a referendum would be necessary before there was any question of our having a single currency. This was a constitutional issue, not just an economic one, and it would be wrong not to consult the people directly.

When the nuts and bolts of my campaign were explained to me, they sounded fine. Unfortunately, it was not clear how much time some of the main members of my team could give to the campaign. Norman Fowler had been approached by Peter and agreed to be part of it, but then dropped out immediately, claiming past friendship with Geoffrey Howe. George Younger, about to become Chairman of the Royal Bank of Scotland, was heavily involved in his business affairs. Michael Jopling too bowed out. John Moore was not always in the country. Subsequently, a number of my younger supporters in the ‘No Turning Back Group’ of MPs, alarmed at the way my campaign was going, drafted themselves as helpers and pulled out every stop. Their help was welcome; but why had it become necessary? This should have been a warning sign. But the campaign played on, and I carried on with the arrangements already in my diary, spending Friday 16 November on a visit to Northern Ireland.

Meanwhile, Michael Heseltine’s campaign was in full swing. He had promised a fundamental review of the community charge and was talking about transferring the cost of services like education to central taxation. I had already noted in the House that this could mean an extra 5 pence on income tax or large cuts in other public spending — or a budget deficit just when we had enjoyed four years of surplus and had redeemed debt.

I now pressed home the attack on Michael’s approach in a Times interview with Simon Jenkins where I drew attention to Michael’s long-standing corporatist and interventionist views. This appeared on Monday and was promptly criticized in some circles as being too aggressive. But there was nothing remotely personal about it. Michael Heseltine and I disagreed fundamentally about all that is at the heart of politics. MPs should be reminded that this was a contest between two philosophies as well as between two personalities. It was a sign of the funk and frivolity of the whole exercise that they did not want to think anything was at stake apart from their seats.

On Saturday evening 17 November Denis and I had friends and advisers to dinner at Chequers — Peter Morrison, the Bakers, the Wakehams, Alistair McAlpine, Gordon Reece, the Bells, the Neuberts, the Neales, John Whittingdale and of course Mark and Carol. (George Younger could not attend because he had another engagement in Norfolk.) We had an enjoyable dinner, and then got down to business. My team gave me a run down on the figures which seemed quite favourable. Peter Morrison told me he thought he had 220 votes for, 110 against and 40 abstentions, which would be an easy win. (To win in the first round I would need a majority of at least 15 per cent of those entitled to vote.) Even allowing for a ‘lie factor’, then, I would be all right. But I was not convinced, telling Peter: ‘I remember Ted thought the same thing. Don’t trust our figures — some people are on the books of both sides.’ Everybody else seemed to be far more confident, and indeed spent their time discussing what should be done to unite the Party after my victory. I hoped they were right. Some instinct told me otherwise.

AT THE CSCE SUMMIT IN PARIS

The next day (Sunday 18 November) I departed for the CSCE summit in Paris. It marked the formal — though sadly not the actual — beginning of that new era which was termed by President Bush a ‘new world order’. In Paris far-reaching decisions were taken to shape the post-Cold War Europe which had emerged from the peaceful defeat of communism. These included deep mutual cuts in conventional armed forces within the CFE framework, a European ‘Magna Carta’ guaranteeing political rights and economic freedom (an idea I had particularly championed), and the establishment of CSCE mechanisms to promote conciliation, to prevent conflict, to facilitate free elections, and to encourage consultations between governments and parliamentarians.

As usual, I had a series of bilateral meetings with heads of government. The Gulf was almost always at the forefront of our discussions, though my mind kept turning to what was happening back in Westminster. On Monday (19 November) I had breakfast with President Bush, signed on behalf of the United Kingdom the historic agreement to reduce conventional forces in Europe, attended the first plenary session of the CSCE, and lunched with the other leaders at the Elysée Palace. In the afternoon I made my own speech to the summit, looking back over the long-term benefits of the Helsinki process, emphasizing the continued importance of human rights and the rule of law, pointing to their connection with economic freedom, and warning against any attempt to downgrade NATO which was ‘the core of western defence’. I later talked with the UN Secretary-General about the situation in the Gulf before entertaining Chancellor Kohl to dinner at the British Embassy.

It was characteristic of Helmut Kohl that, unlike the other leaders I had met, he came straight to the point, namely the leadership election. He said it was good to talk about these difficult issues rather than bottle them up. He had been determined to devote this evening to me as a way of demonstrating his complete support. It was unimaginable that I should be deprived of office.

Given that the Chancellor and I had strong differences on the future course of the European Community and that my departure would remove an obstacle to his plans — as, indeed, proved to be case — this was big-hearted of him. With a more serpentine politician, I would have assumed this to be merely insurance against my victory. But Chancellor Kohl, whether as ally or opponent, was never devious. So I was very moved by his words, and by the real warmth of his feeling. I tried to overcome my confusion by explaining the peculiarities of the Tory leadership electoral system, but he said that my account only confirmed his suspicion that the system was quite mad. By now I had concluded he had a point. Then, somewhat to my relief, the conversation turned to the prospects for the IGCs and economic and monetary union, where Chancellor Kohl seemed willing to make compromises, at least on timing. Whether anything more would have come of it than from earlier assurances I cannot say; but I like to think it would have done.

The following day I would know the results of the first ballot. Peter had spoken to me on the telephone on Monday evening, and he was still radiating confidence. It had already been arranged that he would come out to Paris to be there to give me ‘the good news’, which would be telephoned through to him from the Whips’ Office. It had also been agreed precisely what I would do and say in the event of various eventualities — ranging from an overwhelming victory to a defeat on the first round. Knowing there was nothing more I could do, I threw all my energies on Tuesday into more meetings with heads of government and the CSCE proceedings. In the morning (Tuesday 20 November) I had talks with President Gorbachev, President Mitterrand and President Ozal, and lunch with the Dutch Prime Minister, Ruud Lubbers. After lunch I had a talk with President Zhelev of Bulgaria who said that President Reagan and I shared the responsibility for delivering freedom to eastern Europe and no one would ever forget that. Perhaps it took the leader of a country which had been crushed for decades under communist terror to understand just what had happened in the world and why.

The afternoon’s session of the CSCE closed at 4.30. After tea and some discussion with my advisers of the day’s events, I went upstairs to my room at the residence to have my hair done. Just after 6 o’clock I went up to a room set aside for me to await the results. Bernard Ingham, Charles Powell, our ambassador Sir Ewen Fergusson, Crawfie and Peter were there. Peter had a line open to the Chief Whip, and Charles had another to John Whittingdale back in London. I sat at a desk with my back to the room and got on with some work. Although I did not realize it then, Charles received the results first. Out of my sight, he gave a sad thumbs down to people in the room, but waited for Peter to get the news officially. Then I heard Peter Morrison receive the information from the Whips’ Office. He read out the figures: I had 204 votes, Michael Heseltine 152, and there were 16 abstentions.

‘Not quite as good as we had hoped,’ said Peter, for once a master of understatement, and handed a note of the results to me. I quickly did the sums in my head. I had beaten Michael Heseltine and achieved a clear majority of the Parliamentary Party (indeed, I got more votes in defeat than John Major later won in victory); but I had not won by a margin sufficient to avoid a second ballot. If I had held two votes that in the event had gone to Michael, I would have beaten him by the required amount. But there was little point now in making precise calculations on the consequences of the want of a nail. A short silence followed.

It was broken by Peter Morrison’s trying to telephone Douglas Hurd’s room in the residence but finding that Douglas was on the line to John Major in Great Stukeley, where the Chancellor was recovering from an operation to remove his wisdom teeth. A few minutes later we got through to Douglas who at once came along to see me. I did not need to ask for his continued support. He declared that I should stand in the second ballot and promised his own, and John Major’s, support. He proved as good as his word, and I was glad to have such a staunch friend by my side. Having thanked him and after a little more discussion I went down, as previously planned, to meet the press and make my statement:

Douglas followed me and said:

I went back upstairs to my room and made a number of telephone calls, including one to Denis. There was little to be said. The dangers were all too obvious, and the telephone was not right for a heart-to-heart discussion of what to do. Anyway, everyone in London knew from my statement that I would carry on.

I changed out of the black wool suit with its tan and black collar which I was wearing when the bad news came through. Although somewhat stunned, I was perhaps less distressed than I might have expected. The evidence is that whereas other outfits which evoke sad memories never see the light of day again, I still wear that black wool suit with the tan and black collar. But now I had to be in evening dress for dinner at the Palace of Versailles, before which a ballet was to be performed. I sent ahead to President Mitterrand warning him that I would be late and asking that they start without me.

Before leaving for Versailles, I went in to see my old friend Eleanor (the late Lady) Glover at whose Swiss home I had spent so many enjoyable hours on holiday and who had come round from her Paris flat to comfort me. We talked for just a few minutes in the ambassador’s sitting-room. Her maid, Marta, who was with her, had ‘seen it in the cards’. I thought it might be useful to get Marta on the campaign team.

At 8 o’clock I left the embassy with Peter Morrison to be driven at break-neck speed in a big black Citroën with outriders through the empty Paris streets, cleared for Presidents Bush and Gorbachev. But my mind was in London. I knew that our only chance was if the campaign were to go into high gear and every potential supporter pressed to fight for my cause. Again and again, I stressed this to Peter: ‘We have got to fight.’ Some twenty minutes later we arrived at Versailles where President Mitterrand was waiting for me. ‘Of course we would never have started without you,’ the President said, and with the considerable charm at his command, he accompanied me inside as if I had just won an election instead of half-losing one.

It will be imagined that I could not give the whole of my attention to the ballet. Even the dinner afterwards, always a memorable event at President Mitterrand’s table, was something of a strain. The press and photographers were waiting for us as we left, and they showed a special interest in me. Realizing this, George and Barbara Bush, who were just about to leave, swept me up to come out with them. It was one of those little acts of kindness which remind us that even power politics is not just about power.

From Paris the arrangements were now being made for my return to London. I would attend the signing ceremony for the Final Document of the summit but cut out the previously planned press conference so as to get back to London early. A meeting had been arranged with Norman Tebbit and John Wakeham immediately on my return, and they would be joined later by Ken Baker, John MacGregor, Tim Renton and Cranley Onslow. Meanwhile, three trawls of opinion were being made. For my campaign team Norman Tebbit would assess my support in the Parliamentary Party; Tim Renton would do the same for the whips; and the Cabinet would be canvassed by John MacGregor. This last task was, in fact, meant to be the responsibility of John Wakeham, whom I had decided to involve much more closely in my campaign; but because he was preparing for an announcement on electricity privatization, he delegated it to John MacGregor.

I now know that this was the time when other ministers back in London were preparing to abandon my cause. But I knew nothing of that when I went to bed late that Tuesday night. My first inkling of what was taking place came the next morning when my Private Office told me that in accordance with my request they had telephoned Peter Lilley — a card-carrying Thatcherite whom I had appointed to succeed Nick Ridley at Trade and Industry in July 1990 — to ask him to help with the drafting of my speech for that Thursday’s No Confidence debate. Peter had apparently replied that he saw no point in this because I was finished. Coming from such a source, this upset me more than I can say. It was going to be even more difficult than I had imagined in my worst nightmares.

CONSULTATIONS ON RETURN TO DOWNING STREET

I arrived at No. 10 just before midday (Wednesday 21 November). At Peter Morrison’s suggestion, I had agreed that I should see members of the Cabinet one by one on my return. The arrangements were made as soon as I got back to London where first appearances were deceptive. The staff of No. 10 clapped and cheered as I arrived; a thousand red roses had arrived from one supporter; and as the long day wore on a constantly increasing flow of other bouquets lined every corridor and staircase.

I went straight up to the flat to see Denis. Affection never blunted honesty between us. His advice was that I should withdraw. ‘Don’t go on, love,’ he said. But I felt in my bones that I should fight on. My friends and supporters expected me to fight, and I owed it to them to do so as long as there was a chance of victory. But was there?

After a few minutes I went down to the study with Peter Morrison where Norman Tebbit and John Wakeham soon joined us. Norman gave me his assessment. He said that it was very difficult to know how my vote stood with MPs, but many would fight every inch of the way for me. My biggest area of weakness was among Cabinet ministers. The objective must be to stop Michael Heseltine, and Norman thought I had the best chance of doing so. I was quite frank with him in return. I said that if I could see the Gulf crisis through and inflation brought down, I would be able to choose the time of my departure. In retrospect, I can see this was a kind of code assuring them that I would resign not long after the next election.

But we had to consider other possibilities. If Michael Heseltine was unthinkable, who could best stop him? Neither Norman nor I believed that Douglas could beat Michael. Moreover, much though I admired Douglas’s character and ability, and grateful as I was to him for his loyalty, I doubted whether he would carry on the policies in which I believed. And that was a vital consideration to me — it was, indeed, the consideration that prompted me to look favourably on John Major. What of him? If I withdrew, would he be able to win? His prospects were, at best, still uncertain. So I concluded that the right option was for me to stay in the fight.

John Wakeham said that we should think about the wider meeting just about to start. I should prepare myself for the argument that I would be humiliated if I fought. It was the first time I was to hear the argument that day; but not the last. John, himself, was inclined to reject this logic — he said that one was never humiliated by fighting for what one believed in — at least while it was still hypothetical.

Norman, John, Peter and I then went down to the Cabinet Room where we were joined by Ken Baker, John MacGregor, Tim Renton, Cranley Onslow and John Moore. Ken opened the discussion by saying that the key issue was how to stop Michael Heseltine. In his view, I was the only person who could do this. Douglas Hurd did not want the job badly enough, and in any case he represented the old wing of the Party. John Major would attract more support: he was closer to my views and had few enemies, but he was short of experience. Ken said that two things were needed for my victory: my campaign needed a major overhaul and I must give an undertaking to look radically at the community charge. He advised against a high-profile media campaign.

John MacGregor then spoke. He said that he had done his trawl of Cabinet ministers who in turn had consulted their junior ministers. He said that there were very few who were proposing to shift their allegiance, but the underlying problem was that they had no faith in my ultimate success. They were concerned that my support was eroding. In fact, I subsequently learnt that this was not the full picture. John MacGregor had found a large minority of Cabinet ministers whose support was shaky — either because they actually wanted me out, or because they genuinely believed that I could not beat Michael Heseltine, or because they favoured an alternative candidate. He did not feel able to convey this information frankly in front of Tim Renton, or indeed of Cranley Onslow, and he had not managed to contact me with this information in advance. This was important because if we had known the true picture earlier in the day, we might have thought twice about asking Cabinet ministers individually for their support.

The discussion continued. Tim Renton gave a characteristically dispiriting assessment. He said that the Whips’ Office had received many messages from back-benchers and ministers saying that I should withdraw from the contest. They doubted if I could beat Michael Heseltine and they wanted a candidate around whom the Party could unite. He said that the trend was worsening, but conceded that with the vote five days away support could be won back by a better focused campaign fought by the younger members.

But then came the rest of his message. He said that Willie Whitelaw had asked to see him. Willie was worried that I might be humiliated in the second ballot — it was touching that so many people seemed to be worried about my humiliation — and feared that even if I won by a small margin, it would be difficult for me to unite the Party. He did not want to be cast in the role of a ‘man in a grey suit’. But, if asked, he would come in and see me ‘as a friend’.

Cranley Onslow then gave his assessment. He said that he brought no message from the committee that I should stand down — the reverse, if anything, was true; but nor did they wish to convey any message to Michael Heseltine. In effect, with the ballot going ahead and the result uncertain, the ‘22 was declaring its neutrality. Cranley gave his own view that the quality of a Heseltine administration would be inferior to one led by me. As for issues, he did not believe that Europe was the main one: it would not be crucial in a general election. Most people were worried about the community charge and he hoped that something substantial could be done about that. I intervened to say that I could not pull rabbits out of a hat in five days. John MacGregor supported me: I could not now credibly promise a radical overhaul of the community charge, no matter how convenient it seemed.

John Wakeham said that the big issue was whether there was a candidate with a better chance of beating Michael Heseltine. He saw no sign of this. Everything, therefore, hung on strengthening my campaign which could only succeed if all my colleagues fought hard for me. Both Ken Baker and John Moore gave their views about the people I needed to win over. Ken noted that those who feared that I could not win were my strongest supporters — people like Norman Lamont, John Gummer, Michael Howard and Peter Lilley. John Moore stressed that I needed complete commitment from ministers, particularly junior ministers, in order to succeed. Norman Tebbit came in at the end. Like Cranley, he believed that Europe had faded as an issue in the leadership campaign: the only other major policy issue was the community charge where Michael’s promise of action was proving particularly attractive to MPs from the North-West. In spite of this, however, Norman declared firmly that I could carry more votes against Michael, provided that most of my senior colleagues swung behind me.

The message of the meeting, even from those urging me to fight on, was implicitly demoralizing. Though I had never been defeated in a general election, retained the support of the Party in the country, and had just won the support of a majority of the Party in Parliament, the best thing to be said for me, apparently, was that I was better placed than other candidates to beat Michael Heseltine. But even this was uncertain since my strongest supporters doubted I could win, and others believed that even if I succeeded in that, I would be unable to unite the Party afterwards for the general election. And hanging over all this was the dread much-invoked spectre of ‘humiliation’ if I were to fight and lose. I drew the meeting to a close, saying I would reflect on what I had heard. In retrospect, I can see that my resolve had been weakened by these meetings. As yet I was still inclined to fight on. But I felt that the decision would really be made at the meetings with my Cabinet colleagues that evening.

Before then I had to make my statement in the House on the outcome of the Paris summit. Leaving No. 10 I called out to the assembled journalists in Downing Street: ‘I fight on, I fight to win,’ and was interested to see later on the news that I looked a good deal more confident than I felt.

The statement was not an easy occasion, except for the Opposition. People were more interested in my intentions than in my words. Afterwards, I went back to my room in the House where I was met by Norman Tebbit. It was time — perhaps high time — for me to seek support for my leadership personally. Norman and I began to go round the tea-room. I had never experienced such an atmosphere before. Repeatedly I heard: ‘Michael has asked me two or three times for my vote already. This is the first time we have seen you.’ Members whom I had known well for many years seemed to have been bewitched by Michael’s flattery and promises. That at least was my first reaction. Then I realized that many of these were supporters complaining that my campaign did not seem to be really fighting. They were in a kind of despair because we had apparently given up the ghost.

I returned to my room. I now had no illusion as to how bad the position was. If there was to be any hope, I had to put my whole campaign on a new footing even at this late stage. I therefore asked John Wakeham, whom I believed had the authority and knowledge to do this, to take charge. He agreed but said that he needed people to help him: physically, he had never entirely recovered from the Brighton bomb. So he went off to ask Tristan Garel-Jones and Richard Ryder — both of whom had been closely involved in the 1989 leadership campaign — to be his chief lieutenants.

I now saw Douglas Hurd and asked him formally to nominate me for the second ballot. This he agreed to do at once and with good grace. Then I telephoned John Major at home outside Huntingdon. I told him that I had decided to stand again and that Douglas was going to propose me. I asked John to second my nomination. There was a moment’s silence. The hesitation was palpable. No doubt the operation on John’s wisdom teeth was giving him trouble. Then he said that if that was what I wanted, yes. Later, when urging my supporters to vote for John for the leadership, I made play of the fact that he did not hesitate. But both of us knew otherwise.

I now went to the Palace for an audience with the Queen at which I informed her that I would stand in the second ballot, as indeed I still intended to do. Then I returned to my room in the House to see the Cabinet one by one.

THE VIEWS OF THE CABINET

I could, of course, have concentrated my efforts for the second ballot on winning over the back-benchers directly. Perhaps I should have done. But the earlier meetings had persuaded me that it was essential to mobilize Cabinet ministers not just to give formal support, but also to go out and persuade junior ministers and back-benchers to back me. In asking for their support, however, I was also putting myself at their mercy. If a substantial number of Cabinet colleagues refused their backing, there could be no disguising the fact afterwards. I recalled a complaint from Churchill, then Prime Minister, to his Chief Whip that talk of his resignation in the Parliamentary Party — he would shortly be succeeded by Anthony Eden — was undermining his authority. Without that authority, he could not be an effective prime minister. Similarly, a prime minister who knows that his or her Cabinet has withheld its support is fatally weakened. I knew — and I am sure they knew — that I would not willingly remain an hour in 10 Downing Street without real authority to govern.

As I have said, I had spoken to Douglas Hurd and John Major already, though I had not directly sought their views about what I should do. I had already seen Cecil Parkinson after returning from the tea-room. He told me that I should remain in the race, that I could count on his unequivocal support and that it would be a hard struggle but that I could win. Nick Ridley, no longer in the Cabinet but a figure of more than equivalent weight, also assured me of his complete support. Ken Baker had made clear his total commitment to me. The Lord Chancellor and Lord Belstead, Leader of the Lords, were not really significant players in the game. And John Wakeham was my campaign manager. But all the others I would see in my room in the House of Commons.

Over the next two hours or so, each Cabinet minister came in, sat down on the sofa in front of me and gave me his views. Almost to a man they used the same formula. This was that they themselves would back me, of course, but that regretfully they did not believe I could win.

In fact, as I well realized, they had been feverishly discussing what they should say in the rooms off the Commons Cabinet corridor above my room. Like all politicians in a quandary, they had sorted out their ‘line to take’ and they would cling to it through thick and thin. After three or four interviews, I felt I could almost join in the chorus. Whatever the monotony of the song, however, the tone and human reactions of those who came into my room that evening offered dramatic contrasts.

My first ministerial visitor was not a member of the Cabinet at all. Francis Maude, Angus’s son and Minister of State at the Foreign Office, whom I regarded as a reliable ally, told me that he passionately supported the things I believed in, that he would back me as long as I went on, but that he did not believe I could win. He left in a state of some distress; nor had he cheered me up noticeably.

Ken Clarke now entered. His manner was robust in the brutalist style he has cultivated: the candid friend. He said that this method of changing prime ministers was farcical, and that he personally would be happy to support me for another five or ten years. Most of the Cabinet, however, thought that I should stand down. Otherwise, not only would I lose; I would ‘lose big’. If that were to happen, the Party would go to Michael Heseltine and end up split. So Douglas and John should be released from their obligation to me and allowed to stand, since either had a better chance than I did. Then the solid part of the Party could get back together. Contrary to persistent rumours, Ken Clarke at no point threatened to resign.

Peter Lilley, obviously ill at ease, came in next. From the message I had received in Paris, I knew roughly what to expect from him. He duly announced that he would support me if I stood but that it was inconceivable that I would win. Michael Heseltine must not be allowed to get the leadership or all my achievements would be threatened. The only way to prevent this was to make way for John Major.

Of course, I had not been optimistic about Ken Clarke and Peter Lilley for quite different reasons. But I had written off my next visitor, Malcolm Rifkind, in advance. After Geoffrey’s departure, Malcolm was probably my sharpest personal critic in the Cabinet and he did not soften his criticism on this occasion. He said bluntly that I could not win, and that either John or Douglas would do better. Still, even Malcolm did not declare against me. When I asked him whether I would have, his support if I did stand, he said that he would have to think about it. Indeed, he gave the assurance that he would never campaign against me. Silently, I thanked God for small mercies.

After so much commiseration, it was a relief to talk to Peter Brooke. He was, as always, charming, thoughtful and loyal. He said he would fully support me whatever I chose to do. Being in Northern Ireland, he was not closely in touch with parliamentary opinion and could not himself offer an authoritative view of my prospects. But he believed I could win if I went ahead with all guns blazing. Could I win if all guns did not blaze? That was something I was myself beginning to doubt.

My next visitor was Michael Howard, another rising star who shared my convictions. Michael’s version of the Cabinet theme was altogether stronger and more encouraging. Although he doubted my prospects, he himself would not only support me but would campaign vigorously for me.

William Waldegrave, my most recent Cabinet appointment, arrived next. William was very formal. I could hardly expect more from someone who did not share my political views. But he declared very straightforwardly that it would be dishonourable for someone to accept a place in my Cabinet one week and not support me three weeks later. He would vote for me as long as I was a candidate. But he had a sense of foreboding about the result. It would be a catastrophe if corporatist policies took over, which, of course, was another way of saying that Michael Heseltine should be held at bay.

At this point I received a note from John Wakeham who wanted an urgent word with me. Apparently, the position was much worse than he had thought. I was not surprised. It was hardly any better from where I was sitting.

John Gummer bounced in next. His position was, on the face of it, not easy to predict. He was a passionate European, but he apparently shared the same general philosophy of government as I did. In fact I was mildly curious as to how he would resolve this tension. But he reeled off the standard formula that he would support me if I decided to stand, but as a friend he should warn me that I could not win, and so I should move aside and let John and Douglas stand.

John Gummer was followed by Chris Patten. Chris and I had worked together for many years from the time when he was Director of the Conservative Research Department until I brought him into the Cabinet in 1989. He had a way with words, and perhaps this had too easily convinced me that he and I always put the same construction upon them. But he was a man of the Left. So I could hardly complain when he told me that he would support me but that I could not win, and so on.

Even melodramas have intervals, even Macbeth has the porter’s scene. I now had a short talk with Alan Clark, Minister of State at the Ministry of Defence, and a gallant friend, who came round to lift my spirits with the encouraging advice that I should fight on at all costs. Unfortunately, he went on to argue that I should fight on even though I was bound to lose because it was better to go out in a blaze of glorious defeat than to go gentle into that good night. Since I had no particular fondness for Wagnerian endings, this lifted my spirits only briefly. But I was glad to have someone unambiguously on my side even in defeat.

By now John Wakeham and Ken Baker had turned up to speak to me, and their news was not good. John said that he now doubted whether I could get the support of the Cabinet. What I had been hearing did not suggest that he was wrong. He added that he had tried to put together a campaign team but was not succeeding even at that. I had realized by now that I was not dealing with Polish cavalrymen; but I was surprised that neither Tristan Garel-Jones nor Richard Ryder were prepared to serve as John’s lieutenants because they believed I could not win.

Tristan Garel-Jones had, of course, served on my campaign team the previous year when my position was not seriously under threat. Nonetheless, I could not find it in my heart to be really disappointed in him now. His view of Conservative politics had always been that the line of least resistance is the best course, and I suppose he was only being consistent. But it was a personal as well as a political blow to learn that Richard, who had come with me to No. 10 all those years ago as my political secretary and whom I had moved up the ladder as quickly as I decently could, was deserting at the first whiff of grapeshot.

Ken Baker went on to report that the position had deteriorated since we had spoken that morning. He had found between ten and twelve members of the Cabinet who did not think I could win. And if they thought that, there would not be enough enthusiasm to carry the day. Even so he believed that I should carry on. But he floated Tom King’s suggestion — which I was myself to hear from Tom a little later — that I should promise to stand down after Christmas if I won. The idea was that this would allow me to see through the Gulf War. I could not accept this: I would have no authority in the meantime and I would need all I could muster for the forthcoming battles in the European Community.

After John and Ken had left, Norman Lamont came in and repeated the formula. The position, he said, was beyond repair. Everything we had achieved on industry and Europe would be jeopardized by a victory for Michael Heseltine. Everything but Robertson Hare’s ‘Oh Calamity.’

John MacGregor now appeared and somewhat belatedly gave me the news that I lacked support in the Cabinet which he had felt unable to convey to me earlier in the day. He too eschewed any originality and stuck by the formula. Tom King said the usual things, though more warmly than most. He added the suggestion trailed by Ken Baker that I should offer to stand down at a specific date in the future. I rejected this suggestion, but I was grateful for the diversion.

In all the circumtances, it was a relief to see David Waddington enter and sit down on the sofa. Here was a steadfast friend but, as I quickly saw, one in the deepest distress. All David’s instincts were to fight on. For him the argument that battle should not be joined because defeat was likely had none of the attraction that it did for some of his colleagues. It was not an evasion, nor a disguised threat, nor a way of abandoning my cause without admitting the fact. It was a reluctant recognition of reality. But as a former Chief Whip — and how often in recent days had I wished that he still held that office — he knew that support for me in the Cabinet had collapsed. David said that he wanted me to win and would support me but could not guarantee a victory. He left my room with tears in his eyes.

The last meeting was with Tony Newton who, though clearly nervous, just about managed to get out the agreed line. He did not think I could win, etc., etc. Nor, by now, did I. John Wakeham came in again and elaborated further on what he had earlier told me. I had lost the Cabinet’s support. I could not even muster a credible campaign team. It was the end.

I was sick at heart. I could have resisted the opposition of opponents and potential rivals and even respected them for it; but what grieved me was the desertion of those I had always considered friends and allies and the weasel words whereby they had transmuted their betrayal into frank advice and concern for my fate. I dictated a brief statement of my resignation to be read out at Cabinet the following morning. But I said that I would return to No. 10 to talk to Denis before finally taking my decision.

I was preparing to return when Norman Tebbit arrived with Michael Portillo. Michael was Minister of State at the DoE with responsibility for local government and the community charge. He was beyond any questioning a passionate supporter of everything we stood for. He tried to convince me that the Cabinet were misreading the situation, that I was being misled and that with a vigorous campaign it would still be possible to turn things round. With even a drop of this spirit in higher places, it might indeed have been possible. But that was just not there. Then another group of loyalists from the 92 Group of MPs arrived in my room — George Gardiner, John Townend, Edward Leigh, Chris Chope and a number of others. They had a similar message to Michael. I was immensely grateful for their support and warmth, and said that I would think about what to do. Then at last I returned to No. 10.

RESIGNATION

I went up to see Denis on my return. There was not much to say, but he comforted me. He had given me his own verdict earlier and it had turned out to be right. After a few minutes I went down to the Cabinet Room to start work on the speech I was to deliver in the following day’s No Confidence debate. My Private Office had already prepared a first draft, conceived under very different circumstances. Norman Tebbit and — for some reason — John Gummer came in to help. It was a mournful occasion. Every now and again I found I had to wipe away a tear as the enormity of what had happened crowded in.

While we worked on into the night, Michael Portillo returned with two other last-ditchers, Michael Forsyth and Michael Fallon. They were not allowed to see me as I was engrossed in the speech. But when I was told that they had been sent away, I said that I would naturally see them, and they were summoned back. They arrived about midnight and tried in vain to convince me that all was not lost.

Before I went to bed that night I stressed how important it was to ensure that John Major’s own nomination papers were ready to be submitted before the tight deadline if indeed I stood down. I said that I would sleep on my own resignation, as I always did with important matters, before making my final decision; but it would be very difficult to prevail if the Cabinet did not have their hearts in the campaign.

At 7.30 the next morning — Thursday 22 November — I telephoned down to Andrew Turnbull that I had finally resolved to resign. The private office put into action the plan already agreed for an Audience with the Queen. Peter Morrison telephoned Douglas Hurd and John Major to inform them of my decision. John Wakeham and Ken Baker were also told. I cleared the text of the press statement due to be issued later in the morning, spent half an hour of rather desultory briefing with Bernard, Charles and John for Questions in the House, and then just before 9 o’clock, went down to chair my last Cabinet.

Normally, in the Cabinet anteroom ministers would be standing around in groups, arguing and joking. On this occasion there was silence. They stood with their backs against the wall looking in every direction except mine. There was a short delay: John MacGregor had been held up in the traffic. Then the Cabinet filed, still in silence, into the Cabinet Room.

I said that I had a statement to make. Then I read it out:

The Lord Chancellor then read out a statement of tribute to me, which ministers agreed should be written into the Cabinet minutes. Most of that day and the next few days, I felt as if I were sleepwalking rather than experiencing and feeling everything that happened. Every now and then, however, I would be overcome by the emotion of the occasion and give way to tears. The Lord Chancellor’s reading of this tribute was just such a difficult moment. When he had finished and I had regained my composure, I said that it was vital that the Cabinet should stand together to safeguard all that we believed in. That was why I was standing down. The Cabinet should unite to back the person most likely to beat Michael Heseltine. By standing down I had enabled others to come forward who were not burdened by a legacy of bitterness from ex-ministers who had been sacked. Party unity was vital. Whether one, two or three colleagues stood, it was essential that Cabinet should remain united and support their favourites in that spirit.

Ken Baker on behalf of the Party and then Douglas Hurd as the senior member of the Cabinet made their own short tributes. I could bear no more of this, fearing I would lose my composure entirely, and concluded the discussion with the hope that I would be able to offer the new leader total and devoted support. There was then a ten-minute break for courtesy calls to be made to the offices of the Speaker, the Leader of the Opposition and the Leader of the Liberal Party (Jim Molyneaux of the Unionists could not be contacted) and a statement was accordingly issued at 9.25 a.m.

The Cabinet meeting then resumed. It was almost business as usual. This ranged from matters of the utmost triviality — an unsuccessful Fisheries Council ruined by incompetent Italian chairmanship — to matters of the greatest importance, the decision to increase our forces in the Gulf by sending a second armoured brigade. Somehow I got through it by concentrating on details, and the formal Cabinet ended at about 10.15 a.m. But I invited ministers to stay on. It was a relief to have more or less normal conversation on what was uppermost in our minds, namely the likely outcome of the second ballot, over coffee.

After Cabinet I signed personal messages to Presidents Bush and Gorbachev, European Community and G7 heads of government, and a number of Gulf leaders. Douglas and John were by now busily organizing their campaigns, both of them having decided to stand.

Later I worked on my speech for the afternoon debate. By this time I was beginning to feel that a great weight had been lifted from me. A No Confidence debate would have been a taxing ordeal if I had been fighting on with so many of the Cabinet, junior ministers and back-benchers against me. Now that I had announced my departure, however, I would again enjoy the united support of the Tory Party. Now it would be roses, roses, all the way. And since this would be my last major parliamentary performance as Prime Minister, I determined to defend the achievements of the last eleven years in the same spirit as I had fought for them.

After a brief Audience with the Queen I returned to No. 10 for lunch. I had a quick drink with members of my staff in the study. I was suddenly conscious that they too had their futures to think about, and I found myself now and later comforting them almost as much as they sought to comfort me. Crawfie had begun the packing. Joy was sorting out outstanding constituency business. Denis was clearing his desk. But I had more public duties to perform. I held my normal briefing meeting for Questions and then left for the House at just before 2.30 p.m.

GRAND FINALE

No one will ever understand British politics who does not understand the House of Commons. The House is not just another legislative body. On special occasions it becomes in some almost mystical way the focus of national feeling. As newspaper comments and the reflections of those who were present will testify, I was not alone in sensing the concentrated emotion of that afternoon. And it seemed as if this very intensity, mingled with the feelings of relief that my great struggle against mounting odds had ended, lent wings to my words. As I answered Questions my confidence gradually rose.

Then I sat down to draw breath and listen to Neil Kinnock make his opening speech in the No Confidence Debate. Mr Kinnock, in all his years as Opposition leader, never let me down. Right to the end, he struck every wrong note. On this occasion he delivered a speech that might have served if I had announced my intention to stand for the second ballot. It was a standard, partisan rant. One concession to the generosity that the House feels on such occasions (and that his own back-bencher, Dennis Skinner, no moderate and an old sparring partner of mine, was about to express in a memorable intervention) might have exploited the discomfiture that was palpably growing on the Tory benches. It might have disarmed me and eroded the control that was barely keeping my emotions in check. Instead, however, he managed to fill me and the benches behind me with his own partisan indignation and therefore intensified the newfound Tory unity — in the circumstances a remarkable, if perverse, achievement.

The speech which I then rose to deliver does not read in Hansard as a particularly eloquent one. It is a fighting defence of the Government’s record which replies point by point to the Opposition’s attack, and which owes more to the Conservative Research Department than to Burke. For me at that moment, however, each sentence was my testimony at the bar of History. It was as if I were speaking for the last time, rather than merely for the last time as Prime Minister. And that power of conviction came through and impressed itself on the House.

After the usual partisan banter with Opposition hecklers, I restated my convictions on Europe and reflected on the great changes which had taken place in the world since I had entered No. 10. I said:

My final reflection was on the Falklands and Gulf Wars, the second of which we were just then gearing up to fight.

Such was my defence of the record of the Government which I had headed for eleven and a half years, which I had led to victory in three elections, which had pioneered the new wave of economic freedom that was transforming countries from eastern Europe to Australasia, which had restored Britain’s reputation as a force to be reckoned with in the world, and which at the very moment when our historic victory in the Cold War was being ratified at the Paris conference had decided to dispense with my services. I sat down with the cheers of my colleagues, wets and dries, allies and opponents, stalwarts and fainthearts, ringing in my ears, and began to think of what I would do next.

BOWING OUT

But there was one more duty I had to perform, and that was to ensure that John Major was my successor. I wanted — perhaps I needed — to believe that he was the man to secure and safeguard my legacy and to take our policies forward. So it was with disquiet that I learnt a number of my friends were thinking of voting for Michael Heseltine. They distrusted the role which John Major’s supporters like Richard Ryder, Peter Lilley, Francis Maude and Norman Lamont had played in my downfall. They also felt that Michael Heseltine, for all his faults, was a heavyweight who could fill a room in the way a leader should. I did all I could to argue them out of this, not only in personal conversation but also at the lunch to which I invited my supporters on Monday. In most cases I was successful.

Before then, however, I was to spend my last weekend at Chequers. I arrived there on Saturday evening, travelling down after quite a jolly little lunch with the family and friends at No. 10. On Sunday morning Denis and I went to church, while Crawfie filled a Range Rover with hats, books and a huge variety of personal odds and ends which were to be delivered to our house in Dulwich. Gersons took away our larger items. Denis and I entertained the Chequers staff for drinks before lunch to say farewell and thank you for all their kindness over the years. I had loved Chequers and I knew I would miss it. I decided that I would like to walk round the rooms one last time and did so with Denis as the light faded on that winter afternoon.

From the time that I had announced my resignation, the focus of public interest naturally switched to the question of who would be my successor. As I have said, I did all that I could to rally support for John without publicly stating that I wanted him to win. From about this time, however, I became conscious that there was a certain ambiguity in his stance. On the one hand, he was understandably anxious to attract my supporters. On the other, his campaign wanted to emphasize that John was ‘his own man’. A joke — made in the context of remarks on the Gulf — about my skills as a ‘back-seat driver’ provoked a flurry of anxiety in the Major camp. It was, unfortunately, the shape of things to come.

However, I was truly delighted when the results came through — John Major 185 votes, Michael Heseltine 131 and Douglas Hurd 56. Officially, John was two votes short; but within minutes Douglas and Michael had announced that they would support him in the third ballot. He was effectively the new prime minister. I congratulated him and joined in the celebrations at No. 11. But I did not stay long: this was his night not mine.

Wednesday 28 November was my last day in office. The packing was now all but complete. Early that morning I went down from the flat to my study for the last time to check that nothing had been left behind. It was a shock to find that I could not get in because the key had already been taken off my key-ring. At 9.10 I came down to the front hallway. (I was due shortly at the Palace for my final Audience with the Queen.) As on the day of my arrival, all the staff of No. 10 were there. I shook hands with my private secretaries and others whom I had come to know so well over the years. Some were in tears. I tried to hold back mine but they flowed freely as I walked down the hall past those applauding me on my way out of office, just as eleven and a half years earlier they had greeted me as I entered it.

Before going outside and with Denis and Mark beside me, I paused to collect my thoughts. Crawfie wiped a trace of mascara off my cheek, evidence of a tear which I had been unable to check. The door opened onto press and photographers. I went out to the bank of microphones and read out a short statement which concluded:

I waved and got into the car with Denis beside me, as he has always been; and the car took us past press, policemen and the tall black gates of Downing Street, away from red boxes and parliamentary questions, summits and party conferences, budgets and communiqués, situation rooms and scrambler telephones, out to whatever the future held.