Much has been written about the 1987 general election campaign and conflicts between the Prime Minister and Central Office, but we never really looked like losing. I spent almost every day travelling from constituency to constituency in the north of the country. On one trip to Huddersfield some West Indians invited me into their home where they were watching cricket and drinking rum – more attention being paid to the latter activity than the former. On leaving I asked the detective who was keeping an eye on me, ‘What are those curious plants in the front garden?’ ‘Cannabis, sir,’ he replied.

The result of the election in Ribble Valley was very satisfactory:

D. Waddington (Conservative) 30,136

M. Carr (SDP/Alliance) 10,608

G. Pope (Labour) 8,781

Conservative majority 19,528

The Conservatives had won handsomely in the country, so the Friday after polling day, 12 June, was a day of anxious waiting. I had some idea of what might happen to me. I did not think for one moment that I would be sacked, but having been a Minister of State for so long I was bound to be moved. It seemed to me there were only two possibilities. I was going to be either Chief Whip or Solicitor-General. John Wakeham had told me that after the 1983 general election he had motored home from his constituency on the Friday and had just got into the house at 10 p.m. when he received a call from No. 10, so I was expecting a call at about that time; and at ten precisely the telephone rang and the Prime Minister invited me to be Chief Whip. She asked me to get to London as soon as possible so that we could discuss ministerial changes the following morning, and I threw a few things in to a bag, said goodbye to Gilly and set off in the car. I arrived in London at about 1.30 a.m. and went to bed a happy man.

I later learned from Nigel Lawson that I was second choice for Chief Whip. The Prime Minister wanted John Major, but Nigel wanted him in his Treasury team as Chief Secretary and Nigel won the day. When I went in to No. 12 on the Saturday morning someone had forgotten to put away John Wakeham’s notes and in those my name appeared as a possible Solicitor-General. Whether John Major would have become Prime Minister had he spent a sizable part of the 1987 parliament as Chief Whip is extremely doubtful. If I had been made Solicitor-General I certainly would not have become Home Secretary.

I saw the Prime Minister at 9 a.m. on the Saturday and then set to work with John Wakeham on the middle-rank and junior ministers. Later in the day we had another meeting with the Prime Minister. Willie Whitelaw was there and after a while he told the Prime Minister she looked tired out and should pack it in until Monday. She agreed, very reluctantly.

Two good tales about the 1987 election should be recorded: the first concerned Ian Gilmour who failed to turn up for his own count at Amersham. When asked why, he said he had forgotten the way to the Town Hall. The other story is of a misfortune suffered by Dr Alan (later Sir Alan) Glyn at Windsor & Maidenhead. He asked a group of Young Conservatives to come to his hotel in the morning to go canvassing with him. They duly turned up but there was no Dr Glyn. Eventually a search party went up to his room. There was no immediate sign of him, but there was an old-fashioned wardrobe lying face down on the floor and the team set about restoring it to an upright position. Underneath it they discovered the good doctor. In the middle of the night he had set off to go to the lavatory but instead of going through the door in to the bathroom he had found his way in to the cupboard. The cupboard had fallen over trapping him inside and he had spent the rest of the night there.

No. 12 Downing Street is at the far end of Downing Street from Whitehall at the top of the steps leading down to St James’s Park. It was once the Colonial Office and in the anteroom is a copy of Elizabeth Longford’s biography of Wellington in which she records that in that very anteroom took place the only meeting between Wellington and Nelson. Nelson was waiting to see the Secretary for War and for the Colonies, Lord Castlereagh, only a few days before he set out to join HMS Victory at Portsmouth and sail south for his last battle.

As Chief Whip I was following some very illustrious predecessors. Ted Heath had helped the Tory Party to survive the Suez debacle of 1956 and Francis Pym had masterminded Britain’s entry in to the European Community in 1973. Disraeli had once remarked that the government Chief Whip required ‘consummate knowledge of human nature, the most amiable flexibility and complete self-control.’ I was not sure that that sounded like me.

My secretary and right-hand-man was to be Murdo Maclean. Murdo had become secretary to the Chief Whip in 1978 and only two others had held the post before him. The first was appointed in 1917 when Lloyd George was Prime Minister, and his salary was paid by Conservative Central Office. When, in 1923, a Labour government came along the Labour Party wanted to keep the same man on but could not afford to pay him. So by the stroke of a pen he was transformed into a civil servant.

The job of a Chief Whip’s secretary is very unusual. He forms an important part of ‘the usual channels’ and has to spend much of his time frequenting the various bars in the Palace of Westminster trying to strike deals with the Opposition to facilitate the progress of parliamentary business. For two years before I arrived on the scene life had been complicated for Murdo because the Opposition Chief Whip with whom most of the negotiating had to take place was Derek Foster – a member of the Salvation Army who did not drink. Michael Cox, Derek Foster’s predecessor, had been a very different cup of tea (if I may use a somewhat inapposite metaphor) and the business had been transacted in a most convivial atmosphere.

My team in the Office could not have been better. My deputy was David Hunt, very efficient and superb when it came to sorting out the detailed work of the office. After him came Bob Boscawen, the old soldier who hopefully could ensure the good behaviour of the old and bold on the back benches, and then Tristan Garel-Jones, known for his guile and subtle stratagems. There was not much subtlety about David Lightbown who came next in seniority. He was the heavyweight whom no troublemaker would willingly meet on a dark night.

Mark Lennox-Boyd was skilled in the handling of the well-born, and Tony Durant of those who had had fewer advantages. Michael Neubert was utterly dependable in any circumstances. Stephen Dorrell, Richard Ryder and Alan Howarth were the intellectuals of the office and Kenneth Carlisle, Peter Lloyd and David Maclean the workers. Altogether a very balanced outfit.

Throughout the Thatcher years the office had been used as a training ground for those whom it was thought had the qualities to become departmental ministers, and most of those I have named soon got promotion. We had some strange customers to deal with on the back benches and strange customers often need strange treatment. Nick Budgen, who in the 1983–7 parliament had for a short time been a whip, was invited to attend a whips’ dinner. Before it took place he voted against the government. An outraged Lightbown told him he was no longer welcome at the dinner, and that, although he had already paid, late cancellation meant there would be no refund. We never quite got the measure of Elizabeth Peacock, another one who caused us trouble. Tristan suggested that we might get her vote one night if we used a bit of flattery. We all contributed to the purchase of a dozen roses. It did not do a ha’porth of good. Clasping them to her bosom she sailed off – into the wrong lobby.

At about the same time a little cartoon appeared in one of the dailies which neatly illustrated the public’s idea of Whips Office tactics. Three MPs are entering the ARGHHH lobby with their arms behind their back plaited like rope.

One of our more unusual backbenchers was Anthony Beaumont-Dark. One of his constituents asked me how he was getting on as an MP. With a note of admiration, almost veneration in her voice she added: ‘I knew him years ago you know, when he was plain Mr Dark.’ She obviously thought he had been awarded the ‘Beaumont’, probably by the Queen personally. One night shortly afterwards I went to look at the tape before going into dinner, and there I read the ominous announcement: ‘The pound has fallen against the Dark.’

The government Chief Whip has extraordinary influence with ministers, even Cabinet ministers. Shortly after I got the job my agent rang up and said that she had organised a big event in the constituency in July and badly needed a Cabinet minister to come and speak. I said that it was impossibly short notice but I would do my best. I sat down at my desk and extended an invitation to four Cabinet ministers, realising I had no time to wait for each to refuse in turn before writing to the next one. It was a long shot but perhaps one of the four might feel sorry for me and accept. By return of post I received acceptances from all four and had to think of good excuses for not wanting three of them.

Most troublesome from a whipping point of view was the Local Government (Finance) Bill which paved the way for the abolition of domestic rates and the introduction of the community charge. It seemed so right at the time to get rid of rates and introduce a system which would make virtually everyone who benefited from local government services pay something towards their cost. With only 20 million of the 35 million people who voted in local elections paying a penny towards its cost, it was not surprising that councils that spent like sailors were triumphantly re-elected. The poll tax (as the community charge came to be called) undoubtedly contributed to the downfall of Margaret Thatcher, but in my belief it was not the introduction of a flat rate charge which sunk us. It was a combination of Treasury-driven cuts in the rate support grant and gross overspending by local authorities. At the time of the 1987 election the level of community charge forecast for Ribble Valley was £178. That I had no difficulty in defending; but by 1989 the estimated charge had already risen to £300 and further increases were forecast. What at first had been marketable no longer was.

But these problems were still in the future. What we had to cope with in the 1987–8 session was not the fear that the Treasury would reduce its contribution to local government just when local expenditure was rocketing out of control. Our fear was that rebellious Tory MPs who felt that a flat rate charge was unfair and that there should be a charge that went up in bands according to the value of a person’s property would derail the legislation. In April 1988 the so-called Mates amendment was debated at the report stage of the Bill and it was only with a lot of work that we managed to contain the revolt and see the amendment defeated. Even so, I was not exactly happy that twenty-three Conservatives voted against the government and our majority sank from 101 to 25.

After the shooting at Hungerford in August 1987, Douglas Hurd introduced a very controversial Firearms Bill. The committee stage was taken on the floor of the House under a guillotine (or timetable) motion. At about midnight the guillotine came down with literally hundreds of amendments undebated. Michael Colvin rose and asked the Deputy Speaker whether the House was entitled to have a separate vote on each one of them. The reply from the Chair was in the affirmative and Dennis Skinner, who was as usual sitting in the chamber in the corner seat below the gangway looking for an opportunity to make a nuisance of himself, could not believe his luck. He proceeded to call for a division on amendment after amendment. Michael was a very nice man and his death was a great loss to Parliament, but on this occasion he had made himself far from popular and I told him that if he was wise he would go home. He made his getaway, but there was no getaway for us. For hours we were in the chamber voting on amendment after amendment and would have been there much longer had not the Deputy Speaker agreed after the first few divisions to implement the rule which enables an amendment to be declared lost on sufficient members rising to their feet to indicate beyond doubt their opposition to it. Chief Whips are not popular if they require the Parliamentary Party to spend the night bobbing up and down like this, and I was almost as unpopular as Michael Colvin as a result of this incident.

The most anxious exercise in my first year was the handling of Richard Shepherd’s Private Members’ Bill to reform the law on official secrets. He had come high up in the ballot so if his Bill got a second reading, it would go straight into committee. That meant that there would be the opportunity for prolonged and detailed debate on every aspect of the work of the security service. It was not being fanciful to fear that members might wittingly or unwittingly disclose details of the service’s activities. But MPs are very jealous of their right to introduce legislation and nothing was likely to annoy our backbenchers more than the government setting out to destroy Richard Shepherd’s Bill before it had hardly got started. I decided that I had no choice but to whip the Party to vote against the Bill on second reading and there was no point in half measures. We had to make absolutely certain that the Bill would be defeated in spite of the sympathy a large part of the Party had for Richard, if not for the Bill. So we did something which was almost without precedent. We imposed a three line whip which put the outcome beyond doubt. Of course, I had to take a fair amount of stick in the debate. At one point David Owen, who as an ex-Foreign Secretary should have known better, said in his elegant way: ‘It is the day for the Patronage Secretary to get stuffed.’ But stuffed I was not; and the Party soon forgave me. In due course the government introduced its own measure to put the security service on a statutory footing.

In the summer of 1988 a reshuffle took place which infuriated the press and members of the lobby in particular. After we in the office had spread the story that there was to be no reshuffle until September we sprung one on them in July. Arrangements were made in complete secrecy and with the minimum of discussion with Cabinet ministers, and the announcement was made without a single leak. Martin Fletcher wrote in The Times that:

Also in that summer some crackpot decided that a government motion should be tabled incorporating a loyal address to the Queen drawing attention to the tercentenary of the Glorious Revolution of 1688. No one consulted me, the motion appeared on the order paper on a day on which the Party was not whipped – and the motion was debatable. Tony Benn seized what was an obvious opportunity to cause us maximum embarrassment and rose to speak on the motion, and after an hour or so it was clear that there was going to be a vote which could easily lead to a government defeat. Such a result would be construed as an insult to the Queen but would be even clearer evidence of the Chief Whip’s incompetence.

But where were the Conservatives needed to support the motion? Everywhere it seemed, except in the Palace of Westminster. A lot had, I knew, gone to the Carlton Club for the One Nation Group summer cocktail party. I could not leave the House but ready at hand were Gilly and Paddy Hunt, my deputy’s wife. Off to the Carlton Club they went and descended on the party goers. ‘Back to the House,’ they said, ‘quick, sharp,’ and back they came. One Tory MP was reported as saying: ‘The wives were brilliant. They sorted out the problem and were more competent at it than their husbands.’ Prudently he asked that his name should not be disclosed.

Leading up to the reshuffle Peter Brooke as Party Chairman and I had had three or four meetings with the Prime Minister over supper on a Sunday night. On one such occasion, we sat down to eat, but after a few minutes the Prime Minister said: ‘It does seem unfair; here are we enjoying ourselves and poor Denis is having supper all alone upstairs in the flat.’ Peter Brooke and I, taking what we thought was a pretty broad hint, told her to invite him down. The PM thanked us and said she could guarantee that Denis would not say a word when we were talking about the reshuffle. Denis then came down and on the whole was pretty good but at one stage he could not contain himself. ‘Oh surely not so-and-so. You were only saying the other day, Margaret, what a complete wimp he was.’

When it came to discussing ministerial appointments one thing was quite apparent and that was that the Prime Minister liked a pretty face; once or twice she had to be discouraged when she wished to see some good-looking fellow promoted who was known throughout the Parliamentary Party to be pretty useless. Indeed, there was a time when her eyes lighted on a minister who for a time she talked of as a possible successor. He was a fine-looking chap but no one else thought that he was anything like up to the job. I am talking of an interesting foible; I am not suggesting, for one moment, that she was not perfectly capable in the ordinary course of events of picking competent people to fill posts.

One of the things I remember about the 1988–9 session was the great egg fiasco. Edwina Currie started a rumpus when she told the press that all eggs contained salmonella or something to that effect. Backbenchers were told by their chicken farmers that she was going to bankrupt the lot of them and there were many demands that she should be removed from the government without delay. Kenneth Clarke, her Secretary of State, argued strongly that she had said no more than the truth but eventually he recognised, like everyone else, that she had to go. I rarely made a note of anything that went on in Cabinet, but I did scribble down this exchange. Kenneth Clarke presented to Cabinet a report which comprised a very lengthy list of types of food which his department considered carried a health risk. Top of the list in terms of risk came precooked chicken, soft cheese and raw eggs. Nick Ridley, anxious as always to ridicule the experts, said this was very strange as he only ate precooked chicken, soft cheese and raw eggs. For once the Prime Minister, who was extremely fond of Nick, did not come to his support. ‘You are not a pregnant woman,’ she said sternly and we moved swiftly to the next item on the agenda.

In February 1989 I sat on the front bench as John Major in his capacity as Chief Secretary replied to a debate on economic policy. He reminded the House of the state of the country ten years earlier in February 1979 and read slowly from a newspaper, holding it up carefully so that the Opposition could see what it was. ‘Hospitals blockaded, docks closed by pickets,’ he intoned, and then went on, ‘food stocks running low, NUPE to select patients for treatment.’ All the while he was barracked by the Opposition. ‘The Daily Telegraph, ho! ho! Was that the best you could find?’ ‘Yes,’ replied John. ‘It was the only paper published that day. The rest were shut down by strike action.’ I thought then that he was learning and one day might make it.

Meanwhile Gilly had established herself in the affections of the staff at No. 12 and was doing a great job ‘supplying’ in the words of one press article ‘the laughter while her husband twists the arms.’ She was also busy helping to found SANE (Schizophrenia a National Emergency).

On a Sunday at about the end of June 1989 Gilly and I went off to lunch at Chequers. It was quite a big party and when we went into lunch I found that I was sitting on the Prime Minister’s left and a prominent businessman, who had donated a great deal of money to the Conservative Party, was on her right. On his right was Gilly. As soon as lunch started the PM leaned over the man’s back and, tapping Gilly on the shoulder, signalled that she wanted her to keep the fellow entertained. She then turned to me and told me what was on her mind.

In his memoirs, Nigel Lawson says that Geoffrey was not expecting to be moved from the Foreign Office because right up to the last moment I was consulting him about the reshuffle, asking him whom he wished to have as his junior Foreign Office minister responsible for Europe. This is simply not correct. What happened was that Geoffrey rang me at my home to say that he knew a reshuffle was in the offing and was most anxious that Lynda Chalker should not be moved from looking after the European side of things in the Foreign Office. I, having been asked by the Prime Minister to say nothing of her intentions, could hardly have told him that there was no point in his worrying about Lynda because he would not be in the Foreign Office with her; so, having made one or two non-committal remarks, I got him off the line. Geoffrey later said that, in his view, I should have told him what was going on, but my first loyalty was to the Prime Minister and I was not free to do so. I do, however, understand what a shock it must have been when at nine o’ clock on Monday morning (24 July) he was called to No. 10 and told he was no longer to be Foreign Secretary. I gather from what the Prime Minister later said that she offered him the post of Lord President of the Council and Leader of the House of Commons, but Geoffrey wanted time to consider and asked if he could have till mid-morning to give his reply. Eventually he returned to Downing Street and was offered and accepted the posts of Deputy Prime Minister and Leader of the House of Commons. The Prime Minister also agreed to his having the use of Dorneywood which was apparently not being much used by Nigel Lawson.

That evening, Norman Tebbit said the ministerial changes were disastrous – not because of the removal of Geoffrey from the Foreign Office, but because of the weakness of the DTI team, the inability of one minister to make up his mind about anything and the disloyalty of another. ‘Otherwise,’ he said ‘the Party is pleased.’ If he was right, he did not stay right for long.

The next day the storm broke. The talk in the lobby was all of Geoffrey agreeing to stay only when the Prime Minister had promised to take away Dorneywood from Nigel Lawson. That was a part of the story which I did not want to see come out. It made Geoffrey look petty, and it made the Prime Minister look mean in refusing to allow Geoffrey to remain at Chevening which she knew he loved. And it gave the impression to the world at large that there was too much interest in who was to have the grace and favour houses at the Prime Minister’s disposal and not enough in the jobs to be done. Then Bernard Ingham did not help matters by telling the lobby, in response to questions, that the title of Deputy Prime Minister did not really mean anything at all. Geoffrey would have no powers as such and certainly would not be responsible for British government policy when Margaret was out of the country. Everyone knew from experience that Bernard’s blunt answers echoed his boss’s views. She was far too honest to pretend that the title of Deputy Prime Minister, which she had offered at my suggestion but against her better judgement, meant anything very much when it clearly did not.

In September 1989 Gilly and I went to Amalfi for a week’s holiday. I soon learned that nowhere in the world can a Chief Whip escape his Prime Minister. The very first night I was called to the phone. Tony (Lord) Trafford, who in July had been appointed Minister of State in the Department of Health to pilot the NHS reforms through the Upper House, had died. The Prime Minister wanted to know who should replace him. We had a series of calls from her throughout the week and my reputation with those running the hotel was greatly enhanced. But Tony’s death was a very sad event. He was the unflappable consultant physician at Brighton Infirmary who had looked after John Wakeham and Margaret Tebbit after the Brighton bombing.

I had an unnerving experience when I arrived in Blackpool for the Party Conference. I walked in to the Imperial Hotel and someone, shoving a microphone under my nose, said: ‘Well, Chief Whip, what are your views on the collapse of the pound?’ Having spent the earlier part of the day hard at work and having listened to a brand new tape of military marches on the journey from Sabden to Blackpool, I did not know what the girl was talking about but did not wish to admit my ignorance of the world-shattering events which had apparently taken place behind my back and without my permission. For a moment I wondered whether the best course might not be to fall to the ground in a simulated faint. Instead, I rambled on a bit and hoped for the best. The following week I got two rude letters accusing me of talking nonsense. I replied, agreeing with the writers.

When the House came back after the recess it was to face the television cameras. I had been against televising the House. It seemed to me that it was likely to encourage hooligan behaviour, not necessarily by members. After all, some lesbians had recently publicised their cause by abseiling from the public gallery in the House of Lords where cameras were already installed. I also doubted whether the Prime Minister would come over well on television. On the last point I was proved entirely wrong. On radio she sounded strident and unattractive, but for some reason, perhaps because one was seeing as well as hearing and not concentrating on the voice alone, she came over on television as a very much more sympathetic person.

Immediately after Cabinet on 26 October Norman Lamont came to see me and said a crisis was brewing. Nigel Lawson was in a state about Alan Walters’s role as adviser to the Prime Minister. Would I go and see Nigel and try and dissuade him from doing anything rash? I said I would and when I got to Nigel’s room, which was just through the door from No. 12, he said he was fed up and had made up his mind to go because of Alan Walters. The policies he was trying to pursue were constantly being undermined by Walters’s gossiping. I told him that it would be very damaging to the government if he were to go and, having deployed all the usual arguments about loyalty, I flattered him by saying he was the best Chancellor for many years. But I made little headway and eventually fell back on begging him to stay his hand for a while so that we could all sit down and talk about his grievances. He said that he would think about it, and when I left I thought he was going to ponder before acting.

I went round to see Andrew Turnbull, then Principal Private Secretary to the Prime Minister, and we agreed that as the Prime Minister was about to have her first Question Time after the summer recess and also had to make a statement about the Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ Conference in Kuala Lumpur, we would not interrupt her briefing. That afternoon in the House of Commons she was in top form. I could hardly believe it when told later that only minutes before leaving No. 10 to come across to the House, Nigel’s letter of resignation had been handed to her. She must have been in some turmoil but appeared in complete command of herself and, as usual, of the House.

In mid-afternoon news of the resignation appeared on the tape. The business of the House was interrupted by points of order and then by requests for a statement from the Leader of the House. I was running between the chamber, the Leader’s room and the Opposition Whips Office trying to get the Opposition to agree to make progress with the business on our undertaking that there would be a statement on the floor of the House as soon as possible. In the middle of all this I was told to get over to No. 10 to see the PM. As soon as I got into her room she said she wanted me to join the Cabinet but at that stage did not say in what office. She wanted my advice as to who should succeed me and who should be Chancellor. The second question was a lot easier than the first. John Major had not had a happy time in his few months as Foreign Secretary and would be a lot happier back in the Treasury.

I had a short conversation with the Prime Minister about who should be Chief Whip and, expecting to return to the matter in due course, I went back again to the Commons. I had not been there long, trying to cope with major trouble, when I was called back to No. 10 and the PM asked me to be Home Secretary. She then went on to say that Tim Renton was to be Chief Whip. I was surprised that she had made the appointment without further consulting me, and I thought that it was a mistake, made by someone who never did seem to have much of a clue about the workings of the office and had not the slightest idea as to how the Whips Office could watch the back of a Prime Minister in trouble.

I knew Tim to be a very decent, nice and honourable man but it was odd to make Chief Whip someone who had never served in the Whips Office and had no knowledge of how it operated. It did cross my mind that the Prime Minister had appointed Tim at Geoffrey’s suggestion, to placate him, but on second thoughts that looked improbable in view of the way in which they were getting on, or rather not getting on, with each other. I only learned the truth a few years later when, again to my surprise, Kenneth Baker told me that it was on his advice that the appointment had been made.

Anyhow, I went back to the House to discuss with Geoffrey the statement he would have to make from the dispatch box about the changes. He was not in a happy mood, voicing outrage that he had not been properly consulted about them. Elspeth was with him just as she had been in the Foreign Office on the day he had ceased to be Foreign Secretary. I was not in the Commons to hear his statement, but this is how the Daily Telegraph described the scene:

My son James, his fiancée and her parents were due to come to the House of Commons for dinner. I met them in the Central Lobby, dragged them into my room, told them the news and then rushed again to No. 10 where we settled a few changes in the lower ranks. After dinner I went down into Speaker’s Court to find my car. It had vanished and in its place was a shiny black armour-plated Jaguar complete with police driver and detective. Also standing outside waiting for me were Clive Whitmore, Permanent Secretary, and Brian Mower, press officer at the Home Office. They greeted me warmly and I arranged to meet them at the front door of the Home Office the following morning. I went home shell-shocked and slept like a log.

The next day Gilly set off for home in our own car while I was subjected to an enormous press conference and torture by camera. Eventually at 5 p.m. I set off in the Jaguar for Lancashire. The traffic, as usual on a Friday evening, was appalling and before long my exasperated police driver began to show his prowess. Siren wailing he used the hard shoulder as much as the road and by about eleven we were going up the drive to Whins House. To my surprise, the house was full of policemen including the chief constable. Someone had concluded that the appointment of a local lad as Home Secretary called for a party, preferably at the local lad’s expense, and a party was in full swing.

The next morning I went to the back door to take Basil out for a walk and standing on the doorstep outside was an oversize and overweight policeman. ‘May I ask what you are planning to do, sir?’ he said. ‘Take my dog for a walk,’ I replied. ‘I’d rather you didn’t, sir,’ he said. ‘I have strict orders that you have not to leave the premises without a detective and the detectives are staying in a hotel, and they are not here yet.’ ‘Very well,’ said I docilely, ‘I’ll just let the dog out on his own.’ ‘I’d rather not, sir,’ replied the constable. I was beginning to think that things were getting out of hand. Orders were orders but I was not at all sure that Gilly would wish the beginning of my term as Home Secretary to be marked on the carpet by Basil; so Basil and I took the law in to our own hands. The rest of the day was spent watching the police drive large nails into the walls of the ironing room. There they set up a radio station command post which stayed there until a week or two later a rather smart hut was placed outside the backyard. This was my suggestion, a command post which could be moved as soon as a Home Secretary was replaced, and carted off to the home of the next one. In the past many days had been spent improving ministers’ houses in order to accommodate the police.