The driving ambition of Edward Heath’s political life was to achieve closer ties with Europe. His vision for the future was a Europe without wars. During 1970 and 1971, one of Mr Heath’s main preoccupations was to gain entry into the European Economic Community (EEC). He visited most European capitals, holding talks on various economic problems, from New Zealand dairy farming to the West Indian sugar industry, with the Common Agricultural Policy (CAP) always the main bone of contention. These talks culminated in face-to-face negotiations with President Pompidou in Paris in May 1971; nearly a year after Mr Heath came to power. To the surprise of many in our contingent, they developed a genuine rapport.
In Paris, the regular press group who followed the PM around was joined by dozens of journalists and photographers from all over Europe and the Commonwealth. The negotiations took place in the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, where the British Embassy was conveniently situated next door to the Élysée Palace. The talks lasted for two days and there were many rumours to be denied as they went on. Donald Maitland, chief British spokesman, was masterly in explaining the complex negotiations to the waiting media. At the end of the first day President Pompidou gave a grand dinner at the Élysée Palace. The next day our highly regarded, almost god-like ambassador, Sir Christopher Soames, held a memorable lunch at which the hugely distinguished guest list was headed by the French President, a signal honour in protocol terms.
My job on this occasion was to look after the photographers who were covering the arrival of guests. The journalists clamoured unsuccessfully for details of the menu, since it was well known that Sir Christopher’s chef and his wine cellar were the envy of every French hostess.
Guests began arriving in the embassy courtyard. Valéry Giscard d’Estaing, then the French finance minister, rejected a limousine and walked through the courtyard. ‘I don’t know what he does for you, Barb, but he sure as hell turns me on,’ said a strapping and unusually uninhibited Australian male journalist with a grin of pleasure, as the politician with a film-star face strode past us.
At the end of two long days, the final press conference was held at the Salon des Fêtes. In this grand room in the Élysée Palace, the chandeliers were even bigger than those in our embassy. As the Treaty of Rome was initialled, many of the British press were clearly moved. They had followed this story for years. I recall that both Nora Beloff and Hella Pick, two of Britain’s most distinguished foreign correspondents, had tears in their eyes, I certainly did. I knew I was very fortunate to be present when history was being made, and I felt very proud of our Prime Minister and what he had achieved.
I did not see the formal signing of this world-changing Treaty in Brussels in January 1972. Once again, Edward Heath was unable to enjoy one of the great moments of his life. It was a hugely important day for him, and an historic day for the UK and the European Economic Community, but as he arrived at the ceremony, a young German woman threw ink all over him. She was protesting, not about the EEC, but about her financial investment in the redevelopment of Covent Garden. The signing was delayed while Presidents and Prime Ministers waited for Mr Heath to be cleaned up. Timothy Kitson, his parliamentary secretary, described Heath as looking like someone from one of those minstrel shows. His face and neck were black and it took an hour before he was presentable. I again thought him a truly unlucky man.
By this time the press office knew many personal – indeed, intimate – details of the Prime Minister’s life. We were asked questions about the oddest things – his shoe size, how many hours of sleep he needed, where his grandparents were born. Here, we were helped by that biography drawn up by the Royal Society of Genealogists. It was interesting to compare Edward Heath’s family history with that of Harold Wilson. Where Mr Heath’s antecedents are lost with his great-grandparents, Mr Wilson’s go back for many generations of Yorkshire fathers and sons.
The PM loved conducting musical performances, which he had begun while an organ scholar at Balliol, and regularly conducted the annual Christmas carol concert at Broadstairs, his parliamentary constituency. While economic crises rocked the government, Mr Heath still found time for musical events. He was especially delighted when, in November 1971, André Previn invited him to conduct a concert with the London Symphony Orchestra at the Festival Hall during their centenary celebrations. It was an intensely happy moment for him. ‘To conduct a great orchestra was the fulfilment of a long-standing fantasy,’ wrote his biographer, John Campbell, though I think Mr Heath would have described it as a dream and an ambition rather than a fantasy. He chose Elgar’s ‘Cockaigne’, a very English piece that resonated with his proud patriotism.
The press wanted to take rehearsal photographs at the Festival Hall the day before the concert. When the PM was working informally he had taken to wearing an old, shapeless cardigan, which emphasised his expanding waistline. Always concerned about his public image, I wondered if I dared risk his wrath by saying something to him. I decided I must. I knew he had someone who shopped for his clothes so I hoped for the best.
‘There is one thing, Prime Minister. Are you going to wear that cardigan?’
‘Why ever not? It’s a rehearsal.’
‘Well, it is rather old. A new, more tailored one would look so much better, don’t you think?’ He grunted. When the photographers arrived for the rehearsal he was looking fine: smiling, excited and wearing a very smart new cardigan with shoulder pads.
On the night, the Festival Hall was packed and the music critics were out in full force. I knew most of them, and I knew they would not be kind if they disliked Mr Heath’s interpretation of the music. Happily, they were very appreciative, with Joan Chissell in The Times going so far as to welcome the debut of a new conductor: ‘We could well hear more of this Mr Edward Heath.’
Those final months of 1971 were happy days for the Prime Minister, despite the difficulties bedevilling the government over the economy, the trades unions and the media. He had achieved a lifetime and internationally significant ambition by taking Britain into the EEC, and he had successfully conducted a world-famous orchestra.
The economic climate, however, became even colder in the following year. The media, and indeed most of the Tory Party, blamed their Conservative Prime Minister. I occasionally heard, or overheard, discussions from which it seemed that Mr Heath, patriot and idealist, really seemed to believe that it might be possible to work with the Trades Union Congress for the good of the country. Having watched and heard our trades union leaders across the table at Transport House, I knew there was not a chance that they would co-operate.
Throughout 1972, ministers, trades union leaders and academic advisers trooped, tight-lipped, in and out of No. 10. Controls on wages and prices were introduced and oil prices went up. In an attempt to counter hostile comments in the media, Donald Maitland suggested open briefings after Cabinet meetings. The Lobby members were outraged. They were proud of their status as intermediaries between No. 10 and their newsrooms. They would not be bypassed. The idea was dropped.