Breaking the Code Read Online Free PDF

kind. They seemed to think it was a triumph all the same.
    And now, it’s Saturday afternoon, we’re back in London, and – this is the odd bit, the bit I almost dare not admit – I feel flat already. What I’ve dreamt about for years, what I’ve striven for
ruthlessly
these past six months, I’ve got it. The prize is mine. And already I’m thinking, so what? (Aren’t human beings strange?)
THURSDAY 21 MARCH 1991
    I slipped out of a fairly desultory DoE [Duke of Edinburgh] birthday meeting early to be on parade at the House of Commons for a five o’clock ‘briefing’ from Peter Morrison. Given that I wasn’t his choice, and he’s not really my type (and I’m certainly not his), he was as friendly as I could have wished. He marched me down to his subterranean office which was sparse but surprisingly spacious (‘I share it with a certain person,’ he smirked – I presume he meant Mrs T. – ‘that helps’) and we sat and looked at one another. The conversation didn’t exactly flow, but the gist of it was clear – and helpful: ‘You’ll need to spend about £2,000 a year of your own money on raffle tickets etc. and write an awful lot of notes. The troops like to get handwritten notes. Sometimes I do twenty a night. When the election’s called I’ll come down on day one to give you a send-off, then I’ll keep out of the way. It’s your show. Between now and then if there’s anything I can do, let me know. If you want my advice, never talk politics in the constituency. There’s nothing to be gained by it. On the great national issues, if you like, take the moral highground. You can’t go wrong. But on local issues, keep your head down. There are two sides to every argument. You can’t win, so don’t try. And anything to do with planning, don’t touch.’
    He spread his hands out on his desk and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Now I am on my way to Committee Room 14.’ Another smirk. ‘I am proposing to give my colleagues on the 1922 Committee a piece of my mind.’
    ‘What about?’
    ‘Loyalty.’
SUNDAY 14 APRIL 1991
    It’s a month to the day since I was selected and of the past thirty days I have spent twenty in Chester and ten on the run – rushing up and down West Coast Mainline like a yoyo, attempting to earn a bit of a living while proving to my would-be constituents that I’m all theirs all hours of the day and night. I’m going everywhere, doing the lot – from the King’s School Lenten Service to the amateurs in
The Gypsy Baron
. Mostly it’s fun – and I am determined to do it well, make it work. The only oppressive part to date is the locals’ obsession with my being local too. Whether you’re good, bad or indifferent seems to be neither here nor there: your local roots are what really count. I’ve had the same conversation a hundred times. ‘Where do you come from?’
    ‘My father was born in Hoylake.’ Slight reassurance.
    ‘Where are your children at school?’
    ‘London.’ Faces fall. ‘But, of course, when I’m elected I’ll have to be in London much of the time and it’s important to keep the family together.’ Lips purse like a bitter walnut.
    ‘And where are you living now?’
    ‘In Whitefriars, Number 5 – next door to where Basil Nield and his sister used to live.’
    Sir Basil was MP here in the late forties. 80 That reassures most of them – but the sharp ones with the angry little faces leave it a beat and then narrow their eyes and go in for the kill: ‘Yes, that’s where you’re renting, but where’s your
real
home?’
    In fact, Whitefriars is a great success, but it isn’t cheap. And the fares aren’t cheap. And Sir Peter’s £2,000 pa on raffle tickets turns out to be no exaggeration. And what am I earning at the moment? Not enough. This week: the Radio 2 programme on Monday and the speech in Workington on Thursday night. 81 Help!
MONDAY 22 APRIL 1991
    I’m sitting in the train travelling from Wolverhampton to Euston when I should be