PERSPECTIVE UKNORTH
People and their profiles: dukes, archbishops, actors, writers, monks, oddbods, the garish, the gregarious - here they are in single file, chosen by chance, by inclination, or by necessity ... and all reflecting, one hopes, the essential, but indefinable, spark that makes one human being interesting to many. Geoffrey Mather
My secret briefing in the spirit of the times
Some time before a general election I was asked to find myself a senior Cabinet Minister and learn from him the Conservative Party strategy for the contest. I was then to brief the editor (of the Northern Daily Express).. No-one was to know that the meeting with the Cabinet Minister had taken place. It was all off the record. There would be no question of writing a wordr. The newspaper's regional strategy would be enhanced on what I reported back. So far, so bad.
I chose Mr. Selwyn Lloyd (who, at various times, held the offices of Foreign Secretary, Chancellor of the Exchequer, Lord Privy Seal, Leader of the House and Speaker of the Commons). He was sacked as Chancellor and Reginald Maudling followed him. We were not known to each other, though I had seen him often enough on television. He was passing through Manchester on a Sunday and I was to meet him at 2.30 in a designated room at the Piccadilly Plaza hotel.
I did so. As I arrived a couple of waiters were hauling in various bottles and glasses, and I assumed that I was part of some intimate party of medium size. Not so. We were alone, apart from the bottles. I was the party. "Before we begin," he said, "you do take a drink?" I did. Scotch would be fine. Mr .Lloyd seemed to be transferring the contents of a full bottle to a glass. He poured himself a generous measure and said "Cheers."
I said, "Cheers," and, upon observing his glass, found that much of the liquid had, by now, vanished down the right honourable gullet and into the right honourable stomach. I attempted to match this lusty display of manljness, although I am not, by nature, a Scotch drinker, being more incljned to proletarian brews. Mr .Lloyd filled up my glass and ignored his own. "Now," he said, "what do you wjsh to know?"
"The strategy," I said. "You know -tactics, so on. If we know what you are doing, we can organise ourselves jn the way of leader articles and features. I mean, if you chaps are going to concentrate on, for instance, housing, we can djg out the facts on housing and knock them into some shape before you actually get going." "Good idea," said Mr. Lloyd. "But drink up, there's a good chap." He poured two more large whiskies.
At this point I seem to remember, but only in retrospect, a conversation something like this: "The balance of payments js, of course, of particular concern and the exchange rate has to be watched. International issues wjll be of consequence, but it is in domestic affairs that we will find most controversy: housjng, health, roads, infrastructure, that kind of thing." I might be wrong. It might have been a totally different kind of summary .I have no means of knowing now, or then.
I ventured an opinion that whatever he had said was very revealing. Mr Lloyd took a long, thoughtful pull of his glass, handed the bottle to me and went on:
"Special relationships. We feel that is one of our strengths. The special relationship with the United States is one that no other party could emulate. It is important to people. They feel more secure." (Again, that is what I think he said. It might have been totally different.) I handed back the bottle and he filled his glass and mine. "What about" I said " - Communism?"
"Yes," he said. "you have put your finger on it." "Pardon?" I asked. "Quite so," he replied. Nothing else was forthcoming. Communism was my strong subject at the time. Unlike most people able to quote Stalin 's remark, "How many divisions has the Pope?" I knew the answer -"Tell my brother, Joseph, he will meet my divisions in heaven." I had reviewed a book containing those very words. I wanted to tell Mr. Lloyd this, but needed a better opportunity.
"The Eastern bloc," I said, trying to steer him towards Moscow again. "Much the same thing," he said. "Same thing actually." "You mean?"
" Absolutely ," he said. I did not think it was the same thing at all and was all for changing matters through the informed medium of our newspaper.
He asked whether I preferred malt. I said I did not mind much. What were we drinking? He swished the bit that remained around the bottom of the bottle and reached for another. "Malt," he said. "Ten years old."
"The pound," I said. "What about the pound?"
He said (I think) that the state of the pound was most important, not only to him but to the Prime Minister; not only to the Prime Minister but the nation. It was one of his constant obsessions. He considered its implications by day and by night, sitting or walking, eating or ... drinking? ...
He looked at my glass.
I do not quite know when I left him. The light seemed to be fading. When I arrived home I went straight to bed. I learned later that it was 4.30 pm.
"Well," said the editor briskly next day, "what did the great man say?" I said it was difficult to remember exactly, of course; this and that, Eastern bloc, Communism, balance of payments, housing and other domestic issues. Strong views. Firm purpose. Lines broadly set. Then I reeled off a great wodge of stuff I had read in that morning's Times leader column.
"Interesting," said the editor.
"Fascinating," I replied. The newspaper's strategy was not noticeably affected. I never saw Selwyn Lloyd again. I saw Cyril Smith in a kilt, but that is another story.
Geoffrey Mather © 2004
17 January, 2009