Breaking the Code Read Online Free PDF Page A

well. It was a bit of a toe-curler (‘If you choose me you will do me great honour. I promise I will do all in my power to do you proud’) but it had shape and purpose
and
the society of opportunity and as much local stuff as I could manage. The speech was fine, but the questions were a nightmare. Several I didn’t understand
at all
. There were councillors with points about local government that were utterly and completely beyond my ken. One of the first questions was about farm subsidies. I hadn’t a clue. I said, ‘I’ve written on my notes, “If you don’t know the answer tell them the truth” – I don’t know the answer, sir, but I’ll find out.’ It got a nice round of applause. But when I didn’t know the answer to the next question either, I realised I couldn’t play the same card twice so I just blathered and blustered and flannelled – and got away with it,
just
.
    When I was asked if the children would move to schools in the constituency, I said ‘No,’ but when when they said ‘Will you live in the constituency?’ I said ‘Yes, of course. Accessibility is everything. If you choose me tonight, I move in on Monday.’
    My turn done, we moved back to the sitting-room and Jacqui Lait went in. Michèle went to the loo and on the way back paused by the door to the hall. She came back and took me into a corner and said, ‘Don’t be very disappointed if you lose. She’s very, very good. She’s talking about Europe and she knows her stuff.’
    I must say when she emerged from the hall, Jacqui looked like a winner. She glowed. While they counted the votes, we stood around, laughing nervously, drinking coffee, making small talk, making banter, saying what a shame it was the three of us couldn’t share the constituency – and, in the moment, even meaning it. Then, quite suddenly, the chairman was struggling in on his sticks. He paused, breathless, looked around the group then shot his hand in my direction: ‘Congratulations. The vote was decisive. You are to be our prospective parliamentary candidate. Well done.’ The others shrunk back, faded instantly, began at once to make their excuses and go. We mumbled hollow commiserations as the chairman and Vanessa pulled us away and led us triumphantly back into the hall. With Michèle I stood on the little platform at the end of the room and surveyed the standing ovation. It felt very good.
    What felt best of all was getting back to our room at the Grosvenor and collapsing over a bottle of ludicrously expensive house champagne. I raised my glass to my birthday girl and she raised her glass to me. By George, we’d done it! Five years on the back benches, five years a junior minister, five years in Cabinet, with perhaps a brief spell in opposition along the way. That’ll see me through to sixty.
    We slept well and woke early. It was the lead story in the
Daily Post
: ‘TV STAR IS CHESTER CHOICE’. All day we scurried about, to the constituency office, to the local paper,to the Conservative club, back to the hotel, back to the office. I took calls, made calls, shook hands, slapped backs, even blew my first kiss at a passing baby. What I didn’t do, couldn’t do, should have done was make time to rewrite my speech, so when we reached the Country Club for the ‘coronation’ I was painfully aware that certainly a third of those in attendance (there were 200 plus) had heard
everything
I had to say only twenty-four hours before. I struggled on regardless, giving it word for word as I’d done on Thursday night, but with much less brio – the oomph had gone out of me somehow – and, apparently, in floods of tears. On the platform I was seated immediately between the Duke and Sir Peter, who both smoked throughout, and, from start to finish, thick plumes of smoke rose vertically (and viciously) straight up from the ends of their cigarettes bang into my eyes. It was a nightmare. My mouth was dry, my palms were wet, my eyes were streaming. But the crowd was