An Unexpected MP by Jerry Hayes Read Free Book Online Page A

Parliament is no different from any other: they all have their factions. In Thatcher’s days it was between ‘wet’ and ‘dry’. This was because she would have the habit of writing ‘wet’ in the margins of papers or memos from ministers that she thoroughly disagreed with. So those of us on the One Nation side of the party were branded the wets. She is alleged to have said that I was so wet that you could shoot snipe off me.
    It wasn’t long before I was approached to join a group called the Lollards. We were called this because we met in Bill van Straubenzee’s Church Commissioners’ flat at Lambeth Palace. The idea was that we would do battle for the party committees with the dries, whose grouping in those days was called the 92. This was founded by Sir Patrick Wall at his home in 92 Cheyne Walk. We both had slates. For us it was a bit of a waste of time as there were more of them, they were better organised and we were a delightful shambles. I remember trying to persuade some of our wealthier and more patrician members to vote for these committees which in reality had very little influence. The excuses were wonderfully laid-back. ‘So sorry, old boy, country house party … My dear chap, gota bit of fishing laid on.’ And that was the problem: we wets coasted by knowing that the Thatcher machine, like Amazon forest loggers, moved on relentlessly, slashing and burning as we indigenous peoples had our way of life gradually destroyed.
    But we Lollards weren’t into plotting. Well, not very effectively. We moaned and groaned to each other that the wets were gradually being driven out of Cabinet: Sir Ian Gilmour, Mark Carlisle and Norman St John-Stevas for starters.
    Norman was a lovely man. Very bright, very arch, delightfully camp, with a razor-sharp wit. No pretty waiter was safe. What did for him was his waspish humour. The Lady began to tire of his little nicknames for her – ‘the immaculate misconception’ … ‘Attila the Hen’ … ‘She who must be obeyed’. Once, at a meeting, she suggested that they finish early as she and Norman were going to the opera and he needed more time to get ready than she did. He had a wonderful collection of Queen Victoria’s stockings, which he kept in his bathroom.
    To be honest, the only committee that really mattered was the 1922, the Tory backbench trade union. They would have regular meetings with the Lady and were so stuffed with her supporters that it was no more than a love-in. Sir Edward du Cann (whom I rather liked) was the chairman. He was a serious operator, but unfortunately got rather tied up with Tiny Rowland’s business, Lonrho, which Ted Heath described as the ‘unacceptable face of capitalism’. I once had lunch with Rowland’s biographer Tom Bower, who wrote biographies of the likes of Maxwell and Al Fayed.
    ‘Who did you like least?’ I asked.
    ‘Oh, Tiny. He used to have people killed in Africa.’
    I am not suggesting for one moment that Edward knewor condoned any of this. If he had had the slightest suspicion he would have been out of that company faster than a flasher’s mac.
    Du Cann was beautifully smooth. Listening to one of his speeches was like wiping your arse with silk. He was also very obliging. The joke was that if you asked him the time he would coo, ‘And what time would you want it to be, dear boy?’ Once, I shocked the grandees by rushing back for an unexpected vote straight from the gym, still in Lycra. Some of the old boys were apoplectic with indignation. Edward just sidled up and said, ‘How delightful you look, dear boy.’
    He once told me how Harold Macmillan had invited him in to discuss the possibility of his joining the government. Edward expressed concern about needing to earn some money (like me, he was always fairly broke). In times of difficulty, Mac always poured a large sherry. Du Cann joined the government.
    Over the years he attracted rather a bad press, somewhat unfairly. But he was always kind and