Читать книгу Gordon Brown: Prime Minister - Tom Bower - Страница 8

The curtains of the Kinnocks’ house in Ealing, west London, were tightly drawn on the bright morning of 10 April 1992. Inside, the occupants were crying. Neil Kinnock was shocked that Labour had not won the election. In the west of Scotland, John Smith was similarly distraught, but robustly rejected any responsibility for the defeat. On the banks of the River Forth, Gordon Brown was considering the consequences of Kinnock’s resignation.

In his telephone conversations with close friends including Nigel Griffiths, Nick Brown, Martin O’Neill, Gavyn Davies and Doug Henderson, Brown alternated between bafflement and explosions of despair. Only Tony Blair aggressively argued in favour of Brown taking the risk of standing for the leadership. He invited Brown to meet at his home in Trimdon, in his Sedgefield constituency, with Nick Brown. As they walked in the countryside, Blair urged him to stand as the modernising candidate. Labour’s English MPs, he said, would support him against Smith who they agreed was incapable of appealing to aspiring English people. Three times Brown had placed first in the elections for the shadow cabinet, and his continuing popularity guaranteed him a fourth victory in the autumn.

At this decisive moment, Brown was paralysed by his emotions. The trade unions, he was told, favoured Smith; many MPs were against a divisive vote so soon after the party had been through hell to unite itself; and he had been assured that he would inherit the crown after Smith. In meetings over the following two days at Nick Brown’s home in Heaton in Newcastle, and then at County Hall, Durham, with Mandelson, Brown repeated all those reasons for not challenging Smith. The judgement of the Scottish establishment, he told Blair, could not be ignored. All were united by a near-blood oath to the clan chief. The middle-class minister’s son hated the thought of bloodshed. Listening to Brown, Blair was unimpressed by what he later dubbed a masquerade. In the opinion of those associated with ‘The Project’, Brown lacked courage to seize the opportunity and break the mould. He was a woolly apparatchik, eloquent about the party’s ideal philosophy, but unable, like a star pupil politely waiting for the offer of a prize, to elbow his way brutally past those he despised. The conversations ended with Blair losing his temper. Brown, he said, lacked the resilience to withstand personal criticism from his peers, and feared failure. He was a coward. The scales, Blair would tell Anji Hunter, had fallen from his eyes. In the future he would be less deferential towards Brown, less obedient. ‘He chickened out, taking the easy option,’ judged Blair. Others were less critical. ‘Gordon won kudos for not standing,’ said Tam Dalyell.

Five years later, Brown presented his faint-heartedness as loyalty. ‘I felt I owed a debt of gratitude to John Smith,’ he told Paul Routledge. ‘I felt I had to be loyal. It was for no other reason. I had worked with him for almost eight years on the front bench, and it was right for me to be loyal. I thought the Labour Party was more ready for change than people imagined, but I never thought for a minute of standing against John Smith.’ He considered standing for the deputy leadership, but was turned down by Smith, who felt that two Scotsmen would be electorally unattractive. In turn, Blair rejected Smith’s offer to be his deputy. Revealing his prejudices, Smith chose Margaret Beckett, a left-wing trade unionist certain to antagonise middle England. To minimise their embarrassment and pose as ‘agents of influence’, both Brown and Blair telephoned journalists to explain why they were not standing for the deputy leadership. Few were convinced.

Brown, previously tipped as the leader-in-waiting, was further deflated when, on 26 July 1992, the day after John Smith’s election victory, the Sunday Times devoted five pages to a profile of Tony Blair as the party’s next leader. Two days later Charles Reiss, the London Evening Standard’s political editor, published a percipient prediction under the headline ‘Coming War Between Brown and Blair’. The whispers in Westminster, reported Reiss, revealed a depth of unhappiness among English Labour MPs about Smith’s appearance as a ‘smiling uncle’. Compared to Blair, who looked approachable and urbane, the newly crowned leader was from the wrong generation. Even the cautious and rhetorical Brown, he wrote, offended some as old-fashioned. Some observers wondered whether the rivalry between Brown and Blair would mirror the similar battle twenty years earlier between Roy Jenkins and Tony Crosland, whose long friendship was corroded by their acrimonious contest for the Labour leadership during the 1970s. The speculation was short-lived. The party was preoccupied by yet another autopsy about its failure to overturn a Tory government responsible for a major recession. The debate identified several culprits, including Gordon Brown.

Shortly after his appointment as John Smith’s shadow chancellor, Brown hosted a drinks party in his office. In the sombre atmosphere, Peter Mandelson, the newly elected MP for Hartlepool, was openly rebellious. ‘The party,’ he said loudly, ‘has to modernise, and John Smith is not up to it.’ Mandelson’s disloyalty caused no surprise. The dissent was not directed towards Smith alone. Mandelson’s audience knew that in other rooms Brown was under attack for having approved Smith’s discredited shadow budget. Brown’s silence was deemed to be incriminating. He dismissed the criticism as irrelevant. In 1997 he would claim that his new position as shadow chancellor had bestowed on him the power to challenge Smith ‘to change our whole economic policy’. That was undoubtedly the Herculean challenge he set himself in 1992, but at the time many doubted whether he could overcome Smith’s conservatism, and whether the party could change sufficiently to avoid a fifth election defeat.

The hunger for victory persuaded Brown finally to acknowledge the achievements of Thatcherism. He jettisoned any affection for Neil Kinnock’s ‘Red Rose’. That misty-eyed, superficial change of image had not neutralised the public’s perception that Labour would restrict options, dampen ambitions and nationalise fitted kitchens. On the contrary, Kinnock had reinforced ‘Basildon man’s’ perception of Labour as an enemy, keen to impose shackles on behalf of society. Until the Attlee legacy was repudiated, the new shadow chancellor knew, Labour could not pose as a party offering people opportunities. ‘We’ve got to work from first principles towards policies,’ he again told his advisers including Michael Wills, Geoff Mulgan and John Eatwell. The path back to power, he accepted, was for Labour to appeal to the middle class by changing its image and policies. The first obstacle was the party members, including himself.

In July 1992 the party faithful were still cursing the ‘culture of contentment’. Gordon Brown hated ‘Basildon man’, the motivated working-class aspirant whom he damned as ‘a selfish, indeed self-centred individual’. To win ‘Basildon man’s’ allegiance, he decided to conceal his disgust and promote the new credo that ‘There is no clash between individual freedom and the advancement of the common good.’ In the frenzy of his writing and speeches, he appeared to abandon his attachment to the idea of the state ‘that all too easily assumes that where there is a public interest there must always be a centralised public bureaucracy’. The state itself, he acknowledged, could itself be a damaging vested interest. In his rush during the summer to compose a new ideology, there were inevitably contradictions. He abandoned pure socialism but espoused collectivism, arguing that individuals should group together for the common good. He abandoned state controls but wanted the markets to operate subject to such controls in the public interest. The new gospel was to revolutionise the Labour Party’s image, but only partially its substance. Gordon Brown could not break away from his life’s attachment to socialism. He urged the faithful not to despair, because ‘The truth is that our natural constituency is the majority who benefit from a just society.’

In the new House of Commons, the Tories were soft targets. During the election campaign John Major had pledged, ‘Vote Conservative on Thursday and the recovery will continue on Friday.’ Instead, the recession had worsened. Unemployment was rising back towards three million, interest rates were increasing, property prices were falling, car workers were working short time, and the government was poised to announce massive spending cuts. Norman Lamont, the chancellor, was regularly lambasted for misleading the country that taxes would be cut, when in fact they were going up. Inexorably, an old-fashioned sterling crisis was about to explode. Devaluation from the exchange rate of DM 2.95 to the pound was the best cure, but Britain’s membership of the ERM rendered that remedy unavailable. Lamont sought help from the German central bank, but was snubbed. Germany’s economy was expanding while Britain’s was shrinking. Unusually, Lamont’s crisis was also Brown’s. He had supported entry into the ERM, and he rejected unilaterally devaluing sterling.

The unfolding disaster fulfilled the predictions of Bryan Gould and other Labour opponents of joining the ERM. Their criticism was inflamed by Brown’s aggressive dismissal of their opinions. Robin Cook, supported by Peter Hain, Ken Livingstone and other anti-Europeans, wanted devaluation. Even John Smith supported ‘realignment’. ‘Labour,’ warned Smith, ‘should know the dangers of fixed exchange rates. Harold Wilson’s greatest mistake was to hold sterling against the dollar between 1964 and 1967.’ Gordon Brown disagreed, and insisted that Labour could never again be the party of devaluation. The party, he warned, would lose credibility by following such a policy. Tough on the new orthodoxy, he was sticking to the ERM; forgetting the modernisation gospel he had preached just days earlier, he promoted Old Labour policies of cutting interest rates and greater government investment. Using the identical lexicon as Harold Wilson twenty-five years earlier, he regularly lashed out at the ‘handful of shirt-sleeved speculators’ and City whiz kids dictating the lives of millions and the destinies of national economies. The outbreak of warfare in the party became focused on Brown, who appeared a confused ideologue.

In early September 1992 the economic crisis escalated. The government’s defence of the pound was faltering. Brown’s support for remaining in the ERM was emphatic. ‘There are those like Lady Thatcher who believe that Britain should devalue,’ he wrote in the Sunday Express on 6 September, ‘and turn its back on Europe and the exchange rate mechanism with all the harsh consequences that would ensue.’ Brown’s alternatives to devaluation were state subsidies and increased taxes. Throughout that week, as the crisis intensified, he was telephoned by journalists and asked why the pound should not be devalued. ‘I can’t afford to think it’s overvalued,’ Brown replied, ‘because it would seem as if Labour believed in devaluation.’ Those who pushed him to promote Britain’s exit from the ERM were met by a solid wall. He refused to consider the possibility that he was wrong. His inconsistency gave the impression that he did not understand economics. In 1997 he would tell Paul Routledge that he had anticipated the crisis. Considering his statements at the time, this appears to be untrue.

Late in the afternoon of Wednesday, 16 September 1992, Brown was in his office in 1 Parliament Street, overlooking the Treasury building. That morning he had still been convinced that the government would remain in the ERM, helped by Germany’s revaluation of its own currency. He would be vindicated, he reassured John Smith, despite his critics including Ken Livingstone, who again had advocated devaluation. Around Brown were his advisers Neal Lawson, Michael Wills, Lord Eatwell and Geoff Mulgan. The tension was high. The constantly updated television news bulletins reporting Norman Lamont’s battle to save sterling were unnerving. If Labour had won the election in April, Brown would have been the focus of the TV cameras outside the Treasury, and the target of baying Tory MPs inside the Commons. His plight was better than Lamont’s, but the politician whose talent was to ridicule his opponents knew that he was vulnerable to mockery. He had allied himself to a policy which, to his amazement, was collapsing – and worse, he did not understand the reason.

At 7.30 p.m. everyone in Brown’s office watched the television pictures of the chancellor emerging into the spotlights, brushing his hair, and confessing defeat. Britain, he announced, was withdrawing from the ERM and devaluing. In a surreal exercise, the viewers in Brown’s office darted between the television and the window, gazing down at Lamont in the distance to reassure themselves that the television pictures were reality.

After Lamont’s announcement came to its abrupt conclusion, the atmosphere in the office was ‘on a knife edge’, recalled one of those present. All eyes swivelled towards Brown and then away. His shock was palpable. He had made a fundamental mistake, and he was terrified. This was the most testing moment of his political career. His refusal to seek the nomination in Hamilton or to contest the party leadership were failures of courage, but were not life-threatening. This crisis endangered his entire future. At that moment he was due to lead the attack against the Tories for a policy he himself supported, and simultaneously he was under attack from the left wing of his own party for ideological folly. No one was certain whether he would cope with the explosion of emotion. Under pressure, the ashen-faced Brown’s behaviour was extraordinary. Some eyewitnesses say they observed the neurotic pessimism of the son of the manse. Others witnessing the brooding volcano in that untidy office would mention the inherent self-destruct button of the Scottish character.

But Brown did not self-destruct. He reasserted his self-control, the tension eased, and he began designing a strategy for his survival. Driven by his hatred for the Tories and his searing ambition to become party leader, he contrived a convincingly venomous denial of the past. ‘We have to fight to avoid going down with the government,’ was the common sentiment. His first decision was to reject an invitation to appear on that evening’s Newsnight. He knew he would have to answer the charge that if Labour had won the election they would have been hit by the same crisis, and would have reacted identically to the Tories. The party, Brown decided, had to avoid self-flagellation and pontificating about the ‘current mess’. Instead, he would offer soundbites damning the government.

As he faced the news cameras he propped a piece of paper in front of his eyes bearing the words, unseen by the viewers: ‘Huge chasm’. His identical soundbites, emphasising this ‘huge chasm’ between the government and Labour, blamed everything on the Tories, and suggested that Labour had never endorsed the disastrous policy. ‘We demanded interest cuts,’ he repeated endlessly, although that was not a solution to the crisis. ‘The government failed to listen to our warnings … The Tories are the party of devaluation … The Tories cannot be trusted on the economy.’ The government’s humiliation was transformed into a Labour success. ‘I say to Norman Lamont: spend your energies pursuing the useful job of creating jobs for others rather than the futile goal of clinging to your own.’ Of John Major he said: ‘The recession started when he became Treasury secretary, worsened when he became chancellor and intensified when he took over as prime minister. Every time he changed jobs, thousands lost theirs.’ Stubbornly, he repeated his rehearsed phrases and ignored supplementary questions. He may have turned the facts upside down, but the public was unconcerned. Their spleen was directed at the Tories. Labour’s support for the policy was forgotten. Brown’s calculated indifference to the truth did not impress the party cadres. The left, disgruntled by his modernisation agenda, was whispering against the now isolated shadow chancellor.

Two weeks later, Brown arrived at the 1992 party conference in Blackpool. The criticism had not relented. The opinion polls showed that Labour was still not trusted by voters on the economy. His fear had plunged him into a deep, black mood. He was convinced that Robin Cook and John Prescott were conspiring to expel him from the front bench, and that he was fighting for survival. Reconciling Brown with Cook, complained fellow shadow cabinet member Frank Dobson, the spokesman for employment, had become ‘a lost cause’. Brown’s grudges exploded in private but were concealed from the public. As he toured the corridors at the conference hall he repeatedly told delegates he encountered, ‘There is no way that Labour could have kept its credibility if I’d come out in favour of devaluation.’ Because he had resisted the devaluation chorus, he continued, Labour had been immunised from blame for the collapse of the pound. The Tories, he said, should be cast as the party of devaluation. Repeatedly he told his critics to blame the Tories for ‘betraying Europe’, twisting the responsibility for the ERM crisis away from the real culprits, the Germans and the EU Commission who had refused to support Britain. His conference speech was an old-fashioned tirade: ‘The City of London is Britain’s biggest casino, and the winners are celebrating over £500 million won by cocky young men betting on a certainty.’ He demanded curbs on currency speculators (whom he had earlier predicted would be controlled by the ERM) and advocated ‘managed exchange rates’ as ‘absolutely necessary’. The contradictions were glaring, but that was irrelevant. Despite his faltering popularity, he was again first in that year’s elections for the shadow cabinet, with 165 votes.

Brown returned to London determined not to waver. Preoccupied by a zealous conviction of his virtue, he became impenetrable and impregnable to the doubters. He was dubbed a political glacier, but he pursued his duty. ‘I must come up with some big ideas,’ he told friends. In 1906, 1945 and 1974, Labour had reinvented itself. In 1992 the party again required a huge intellectual effort if it was to win credibility. Those pessimists preaching that Labour’s support could not break through the 35 per cent barrier, or that the party had a declining base, were ignored. His tactics had provided breathing space and an inspiration for a new crusade. He immersed himself in rewriting Labour’s policies to make the party electable, in a style his supporters called ‘radical populist’. His latest political journey was calculated to convince electors that Labour was abandoning the economic policies on which it had fought the previous election.

Brown was resolved that Labour would never again pledge to raise taxes in an election campaign, but that was only the beginning. The image of Labour as the party of inflation, high spending and begging from the IMF had to be eradicated. No future Labour government, he decided, could finance failing industries or restore unlimited powers to the trade unions. He would pledge support for full employment, but refuse to support higher taxation or restore the earnings link to state pensions. He began speaking about the importance of developing Labour’s response to the new shibboleths: globalisation, the financial markets and the ‘knowledge economy’. Relying on competition in the market rather than imposing state controls, he slowly recognised, gave people greater opportunities; knowledge rather than capital had become the key to wealth, and he listened to those saying that the poor would be enriched by learning new skills rather than by the imposition of state control over wealth. The new gospel would present the party as a modernising agent for the economy, society and the constitution. Much of Thatcherism, Brown acknowledged, was irreversible.

His reward was more unpopularity. Senior colleagues including John Prescott, David Blunkett, Jack Straw, Robin Cook and Michael Meacher regarded his ‘radical populism’ as ‘nauseating’. Brown, they believed, was ‘harbouring dangerously revisionist, pro-establishment ambitions for the party’. Although they did not share Bryan Gould’s violent characterisation of him as a more fanatical monetarist than the Tories, they objected to any abandonment of socialism. Brown rebutted their criticisms. In the fashion of an evangelist, he behaved like the leader possessed of the truth and commanding his flock to follow. But to assuage his critics, he began perfecting the art of addressing different audiences with different messages. To please the left, he promoted himself as a true socialist. ‘Labour,’ he wrote in Tribune, ‘rejects the notion that a free-market approach to currency markets will bring lasting benefits to the British economy … Never again must speculators control the policy of government. Action must now be taken to strengthen European co-operation to diminish the power and role of speculators.’ Simultaneously, he was reinforcing loyalties among those friends who loathed the Tribunites. Supported by Blair and Mandelson, he confronted his critics. Robin Cook, the health spokesman, had predicted, ‘Labour will never govern again unless it adopts proportional representation.’ Cook was brushed aside by Brown with open scorn. Bryan Gould was damned as ‘dangerous and reckless’. John Prescott was derided for criticising the modernisers’ attempts to expunge the image of ‘a party of the poor and the past’ and to broaden Labour’s appeal to the middle classes. Seemingly uninvolved in the steamy rows was John Smith. The party leader disliked any dilution of Labour’s old ideologies. Just ‘one more heave’, he believed, would expel the Tories. Brown, Blair and Mandelson sought another route.

A possible way forward was revealed at a conference at Ditchley Park between the ‘modernisers’ and US presidential candidate Bill Clinton’s advisers. Although he disliked Thatcher’s indifference to social justice, Brown was impressed by Clinton’s equal antagonism towards the idle poor and the idle rich. Everyone without a good excuse, said Clinton, should work. ‘We want to offer a hand up, not a handout,’ was his memorable piety. The growing success of Clinton’s presidential campaign, thanks partly to his economic proposals, reinforced Brown’s commitment to abandon Labour’s traditional philosophy of universal benefits. Changing Labour’s gods, he calculated, could only be done piecemeal, accompanied by pledges zealously to help the working poor and the underclasses. To stem the inevitable criticism that he was adopting Thatcherite policies, he planned successive diversions to restate his socialist credentials. He would criticise the very class whose support he was seeking – the capitalists who on the eve of the election he had condemned as ‘doing well out of the recession’ – and praise the performance of the Scandinavians, Germans and Japanese, although he knew comparatively little of their true economic predicament. Working up to fifteen hours a day, he analysed the party’s weaknesses and concluded that its salvation required not just new ideas, but a new vocabulary describing a new party. Just as Margaret Thatcher had recruited Keith Joseph, Nicholas Ridley, Nigel Lawson and other intellectuals from the Chicago School to bury memories of the Heath government under new policies, Gordon Brown began, with Blair and Mandelson, to search for catalysts of a new party. For his personal quest, he needed new advisers.

His office had been reorganised under Sue Nye, an aggressive chain-smoker, formerly employed by Neil Kinnock, famous for asking ‘Have you got a mint?’ to disguise her habit. Although she might have been tainted by her association with the notorious pre-election rally at Sheffield, Nye was trusted as loyal, hard working and ruthless. Like Jessica Mitford, she decided by just a glance whether someone was acceptable or to be excluded. Her reasons for freezing out a person could be inscrutable, but her phrase ‘If you’re outside the family, you’re radioactive’ appealed to a man cultivating the authority of the clan chief.

Within the citadel, Brown needed a soulmate. His enquiries suggested that Ed Balls, a twenty-five-year-old Oxford graduate employed as a leader writer at the Financial Times, would be ideal. The Nottingham-born Balls, Brown heard, was a loyal Labour supporter but was disillusioned with John Smith. He had studied at Harvard under Larry Summers and Robert Reich, both advisers to Bill Clinton, and was sparkling with ideas about monetarism, how to avoid boom and bust, never rejoining the ERM, giving independence to the Bank of England and revolutionising Britain’s economy. Brown cold-called Balls to arrange a meeting. He was impressed. Balls’s intellect and their mutual admiration of America helped to form an immediate bond. In an exchange of letters, they agreed that Labour’s future success depended on winning the electorate’s trust in the party’s economic competence. Most importantly, Balls was prepared to undertake the grind to produce the fine economic detail that was beyond Brown’s experience. The association with Balls and his future wife, Yvette Cooper, would change Brown’s life.

In January 1993 Brown and Blair flew to Washington. Ed Balls had reinforced Brown’s attraction to Bill Clinton’s ideas, especially after Clinton’s election victory the previous November. With Balls and Jonathan Powell, a diplomat at the British embassy, they listened to Larry Summers and Robert Reich explain Clinton’s seduction of the American middle classes away from the Republicans, and his welfare-to-work programme. In a newspaper article after their return, Blair wrote enthusiastically about the exciting change in Washington. He praised the new vitality in the United States, and hailed the thousands of young people coming to Washington to build a new era. ‘The Democrats’ campaign was brilliantly planned,’ Blair wrote. Labour, he suggested, should copy Clinton’s policy, stressing ‘the importance of individual opportunity; of community strengths’.

Brown also returned inspired to seize the middle ground from the Tories. He was attracted to Clinton’s core proposition that governments had responsibilities to the whole community. That was not a new idea. Since 1988, Brown and others had discussed it with Clinton’s staff. The Democrats’ genius was their packaging. Labour, Brown felt, should avoid outrightly campaigning for egalitarianism. Rather than preaching ‘total equality’, the party should pledge ‘equality of opportunity for all’, with the assurance that ‘everyone can fulfil his or her potential’. The new slogans would offer choice and social change. The critical promise would be to reduce unemployment in a ‘partnership economy’ without increasing taxes.

To position Labour as the party of low taxation, Brown developed new catchphrases despite the protests of the left: ‘We do not tax for its own sake’; ‘We do not spend for its own sake’; and ‘We are not against wealth’. Simultaneously, he began to harp on the government’s tax increases – albeit only 1 per cent since 1979 – which contradicted the Conservative election pledge to lower taxation. The Tories were crudely classified as liars: ‘Either these ministers were incompetent on a scale which beggars belief, or … they set out to deceive the people of Britain on a massive and unprecedented scale.’ The gauntlet was thrown down: ‘There is no one left for this government to betray. They have no credibility. The electorate will never trust them again.’ Endless repetition, Brown hoped, would produce rewards.

A journey to the Far East in 1993 reinforced his conviction to discard other Labour sacred cows. Britain, he realised, could not compete with China on the cost of production, but only on the quality of the products. To beat the Pacific Rim required a skilled British workforce. ‘Capital’, demonised over the previous century by socialists, was a worthless target, he decided. The buzz words of his new Labour creed were ‘human capital’ and ‘knowledge corporations’. ‘Their lessons must be applied here,’ he wrote in countless newspaper articles about innovation in the Far East, developing the idea that ‘the value of labour can be enhanced as the key to economic prosperity’.

To spread the message from his office in London, or over the weekend from his home in Edinburgh, he sought to dictate the news agenda with interviews and press releases, urging Peter Mandelson to hunt for every possible appearance on radio and television to place him in the spotlight. He preached the homily that ‘in the modern economy we will earn by what we learn’, and recommended that ‘the system of personal taxation and benefits should favour those who upgrade their skills’. To improve those skills he proposed a University for Industry, bringing together universities, industry and broadcasters and using satellite communications to disseminate and constantly upgrade information.

The powerhouse for this change was to be the Treasury. ‘I see the Treasury,’ Brown wrote, ‘as a department of national economic reconstruction to deal with the short-term problem of unemployment and the long-term national economic decline.’ Revealing his own abandonment of socialism as a figleaf to give false comfort to the middle class, he ridiculed the Tories for relying on the free market and individual opportunity rather than government intervention to finance industry. ‘I see the public sector as the engine of growth out of recession,’ he wrote, re-emphasising his true beliefs. He spoke of levying a windfall tax on the excess profits of the privatised utilities – copying the Tories’ windfall tax on banks – to finance a ‘New Deal’ on employment and, with another reminiscent whiff of Harold Wilson, he attacked the major banks for increasing their dividends.

This potpourri of socialism and Clintonism irritated John Smith. The leader disliked the modernisers’ policies, and he ostracised Mandelson. Smith was not surprised when John Edmonds, the GMB union leader, called him personally to protest about Brown and Blair’s visit to America. ‘They’re getting too much publicity,’ complained Edmonds. ‘This Project is mischief-making and about personal ambition.’ Although a decade later Edmonds would acknowledge ‘a lack of imagination among the trade unions in the early 1990s’, he was gratified in 1993 by Smith’s rejection of the modernisers’ proposals for the next election campaign. Smith supported large government spending, and disliked Brown’s refusal to commit Labour to use the proceeds from council house sales for more building. In meetings of the shadow cabinet, the leader remained silent when Brown’s proposed windfall tax was criticised for being too small. ‘We cannot meet those expectations,’ Brown told Frank Dobson. Smith overruled Brown for being ‘too conservative’.

In contrast, during their arguments, while Murray Elder, Smith’s chief of staff, sat silently in the background, Smith growled, ‘You’re going too fast.’ In private, Brown raged about Smith’s unwillingness to support the modernisers while encouraging the traditional left. While in public Brown praised John Smith’s ‘egalitarianism’ and ‘concern for justice’, emphasising Smith’s concern as a Christian socialist for Labour’s moral purpose, he detested Smith’s blinkeredness. Smith ignored the Tories’ private polls which showed that Labour was still regarded as ‘dishonest and incoherent’, and on the side of losers. Relying on the lowest common denominator for electoral appeal, Smith was sure, would prove successful. ‘The Tories are destroying themselves,’ he observed about the government’s bitter battles over Europe. ‘Labour can sleep-walk to victory.’

Brown found that his frustrating battle with John Smith to change Labour was losing him friends and allies. Visitors to his office reported that his Horatio-on-the-bridge act on the shadow spending ministers was causing him anguish. ‘Gordon is torn and depressed about the irreconcilables,’ John Monks observed. Trade union leaders whom Brown regarded as friends – Rodney Bickerstaffe, Bill Morris and John Monks – were surprised during their private meetings that the man casting himself as the future ‘iron chancellor’ forgot to smile while brusquely refusing to advocate higher public spending funded by higher taxes and borrowing. Brown’s image was affecting his credibility. ‘Gordon,’ said one, ‘is really not interested in people; he’s only interested in people as economic agents, the ants in the anthill, and he wants ants to have a nice anthill.’ The alienated Labourites did not disagree with Norman Lamont’s successor as chancellor Kenneth Clarke when he jibed that Brown’s regurgitation of lists, strategies, statistics and predictions of doom were self-defeating. ‘He has as much policy content as the average telephone directory,’ mocked Clarke languidly across the floor of the Commons, ‘and if I may say so – it is a modest claim given the competition it faced – I thought the best parts of the hon. gentleman’s speech came when he was quoting me.’ Brown scowled. The dispenser of ridicule hated receiving similar treatment. Even John Smith’s agreement to relaunch Labour on 9 February 1993 as the party of the individual and to abandon any commitment to renationalisation brought only temporary relief.

Brown’s misfortune was that changing Labour’s economic policy to attract the middle classes was more difficult than Tony Blair’s task, as shadow home secretary, of altering the party’s social policies. While Brown chased every news bulletin, Blair, also helped by Mandelson, concentrated on making limited appearances with ‘warm and chatty’ preludes to reflective answers suggesting the moral high ground. Blair’s insistence on accepting interviews only on his own terms, and resistance to giving instant reactions to please the media’s agenda, gave his rarer interviews a cachet, and gracefully neutralised his opponents.

Brown had become weary. A visit to Newbury in early 1993 to campaign in the by-election caused by the death of its sitting Tory MP, John Major’s adviser Judith Chaplin, revealed the perils for self-publicists. The previously safe Tory seat was vulnerable. Norman Lamont had committed atrocious gaffes, not least his statement that high unemployment was ‘a price well worth paying’ to reduce inflation. The Tory candidate was an unappealing PR consultant. The seat should have been an easy trophy, but Brown’s performance in front of the television cameras at Vodafone’s headquarters, which were in the constituency, was unproductive. Confidently, he told journalists about the area’s high unemployment. ‘Rubbish,’ exclaimed Chris Gent, Vodafone’s managing director. ‘Our company has grown by 25 per cent in the last year.’ The Liberal Democrats won the by-election.

In March 1993 the London Evening Standard reported that while Brown was regarded with respect, Tony Blair was the frontrunner to succeed Smith. Brown was furious. On one occasion when Mark Seddon, the genial editor of Tribune, was interviewing Brown in his office, a member of Brown’s staff announced, ‘Tony’s gone ahead without you,’ referring to a meeting the two were to attend. Brown exploded, breaking a pencil in his fury.

The hostility towards Brown among his fellow MPs was growing. His monotone hectoring was criticised as all too revealing of an unworldly, unmarried forty-one-year-old mystified about the real world. His constant appearance in an identical uniform – blue suit, white shirt and red tie – regardless of the context bewildered those who judged people by such things. Brown’s reputation was not helped by a story of a car journey through countryside when he allegedly said to his companion, ‘Look, those cows have had their foals.’ His new critics delighted in carping that he was ‘a townie who didn’t know where his fish and chips came from’. Others recited an eyewitness’s account of Blair mentioning to Brown that he had once seen Marc Bolan perform. ‘Where is he now?’ asked Brown, preoccupied with drafting a statement. ‘Dead,’ replied Blair. Brown carried on writing, oblivious to the answer.

In fact he had become oblivious to everything other than his own truths. Like a man possessed, he steamrollered rather than reasoned with critics. Among his victims was Peter Hain, an ambitious left-winger brought up in South Africa whose circuitous route to the Labour Party via student protest, the Liberals and election as Tribune’s secretary baffled many. Unwilling to accept Brown’s economic prescription for an election victory, Hain wrote a pamphlet for the Tribune Group arguing for huge public spending, the abandonment of euromonetarism and a return to full socialism. Labour, Hain complained, had never previously attacked the Tories for increasing taxes, yet Brown was appealing to richer voters by promising to lower direct taxation. ‘Gordon has done a brilliant job in exposing Tory tax hikes,’ said Hain, ‘but voters need to be convinced that Labour can manage the economy more effectively. The modernisers have told us what we’re against but not what we’re for.’ Hain did not grasp that the shadow chancellor had not abandoned socialism in favour of Thatcherism other than as an election ploy. He espoused measured concealment to defeat the Conservatives. Neutralising Hain should have been effortless, but Brown’s methods compounded his predicament. Angry about its attack on himself, he sought to prevent Hain’s pamphlet’s publication. Hain was summoned to Brown’s office and lambasted for thirty minutes. ‘We believe markets must work in the public interest,’ he was lectured. Brown did not understand markets and his list of do-gooding schemes – the University for Industry, a Global Environmental Task Force for young people – and his belief in ‘the community and independence’ did not impress Hain, who insisted that the publication of the pamphlet would go ahead. Convinced that even a single dissenting voice would damage the party, Brown tried to persuade other Tribune members to stop Hain, but without success. Next he sought Mandelson’s help, warning about the pamphlet’s potentially dire consequences. He failed again. With Robin Cook’s support, Hain published his pamphlet. No one noticed its appearance. Brown began to lobby against Hain’s re-election as Tribune’s secretary.

The succession of rows instigated by Brown among Labour apparatchiks was costly. Repeatedly he lost his temper, screaming obscenities at those he damned as dishonourable or incompetent. Losing the sympathy of potential allies was undermining his status. His admonition that ‘The policies are unpopular with the party but we have to stick with them,’ combined with his refusal to smile while delivering his television soundbites, suggested a dour man. ‘He loves mankind,’ Voltaire is said to have written, ‘therefore he does not need to love his neighbour.’ To outsiders, Brown appeared a tough man, determined to carve out and control his empire; but in the privacy of his office, surrounded by the chaotic debris of books and papers, he violently chewed his fingernails and festered about his predicament. He was oblivious that his terseness, his seeming lack of human warmth, alienated others. Many could not identify with a rumpled, unusually driven man with limited small talk. Trying to understand his Jekyll and Hyde qualities tested the patience of too many. Brown’s passion to transform Labour was understood, but the personal cost was not appreciated. A contemporary profile in the Sunday Telegraph described him, with his ‘smouldering Celtic looks, dry humour and deep Scottish burr’ as ‘the natural heart-throb of the Labour Party’. That exaggeration was accompanied by the more accurate assessment that his qualities of laughter, wit and lightness ‘shine in small company’. The mystery was why a man who could be warm and amusing among friends was so austere in public.

Any prospects of marriage had now receded. Brown’s recent move from Kennington to a flat in Great Smith Street, Westminster, formerly owned by Robert Maxwell’s company, had brought him physically even closer to his work. His relationship with Marion Caldwell had foundered, and at the instigation of a friend he was reunited with Sheena McDonald, who by then had become a well-known TV presenter about national politics. There was good reason for her to believe that as they had so much in common their friendship would develop into a permanent relationship, if not marriage. Fearing that any public appearance with Brown would compromise her independence as a journalist, she preferred the relationship to remain secret, which suited Brown, but did not help his image.

In early May 1993, in an attempt to recover the party’s favour, Brown presented ‘Labour’s New Economic Approach’, a policy paper proposing a radical assault on the free market and the City’s vested interests. He had performed a half-reverse somersault from his new gospel. Labour, he promised, would attack bank charges, the business battalions, the fat cats, the monopolies and the shortages of choice, training and opportunity. To reinforce his credentials he launched a campaign against multi-millionaires residing in the UK but claiming to be domiciled overseas in order to avoid British taxation. ‘The Tory Party,’ he wrote, ‘does not have the will to close the loophole, but Labour does.’ The only ‘modernisation’ theme remaining was his rejection of the ‘old battles’ between the state and the private market. To the left, Brown appeared to have been trounced. Influenced by John Smith’s supporters, Tribune celebrated the ‘public hammering’ of the modernisers and their ‘pals’ who, eighteen months after Kinnock’s defeat, had failed to have ‘Labour’s future sewn up’. The ‘sub-Thatcherite, euro-dreamland’ and ‘Clintonite supply-siders’ had been defeated by ‘Labourism’.

In July 1993, Brown and Blair were flummoxed. ‘John’s letting us hang out to dry,’ Brown complained. In particular, Smith’s negotiations to break trade union power within the party were proceeding with excruciating slowness. Introducing ‘one man, one vote’ (OMOV) to replace the unions’ block vote was important if Labour was to capture the confidence of the middle classes. Smith, it appeared to Brown, was not supporting that change. Brown told Blair that Smith was even refusing to see him. ‘Well,’ replied Blair, ‘just walk past his secretary, shout “I’ve got a meeting,” and walk in.’ That might work for Blair, Brown knew, but he lacked the audacity.

As Brown was tortured by Smith’s obduracy, the weakness of his character emerged. While he could confidently withstand intellectual arguments, he lacked the resilience to cope with excessive emotional pressure. Unable to manage his rejection, Brown became depressed by the OMOV disagreement, and edged towards a nervous breakdown. ‘We won’t carry the party with that,’ he repeated endlessly, fearful of risks and contemplating defeat. The contrast between Brown and Blair at this time was revealing. As Oliver Wendell Holmes, the US supreme court judge, commented about Franklin Roosevelt, ‘A second-rate brain and a first-rate temperament is OK, because you can buy in first-rate brains.’ Equally furious as Brown that Smith was not enthusiastically supporting modernisation, Blair coolly took risks to challenge Smith, and then considered retiring from politics. But his supporters urged him to be resolute. ‘You’ve got to realise that you must stand as the next leader,’ he was told while staying with friends in the country. ‘But Gordon wants it so much more than me,’ replied Blair. Until then, the two may have been known as ‘the twins’ or ‘the blood brothers’. In summer 1993, the description ‘Brown – Blair’ shifted to ‘Blair – Brown’.

Those gloating during that summer about the humbling of ‘the king of soundbites’ were premature. In the weeks before the party conference, after listening to the advice of Ed Balls, Gavyn Davies, Michael Wills and others, Brown regained his self-confidence and composed a seminal speech to re-establish the modernisers’ gospel and purposely retreat from a commitment of wealth redistribution. Enthused by a slogan used by George Bush, he would replace ‘tax and spend’ with ‘invest and grow’. The breakout on 28 July 1993 was a public renunciation of the 1992 manifesto. With gusto, Brown announced that Labour was not against wealth, and would jettison the commitment to levy a 50 per cent inheritance tax. He would no longer insist that managing exchange rates was ‘absolutely necessary’. The counterattack was immediate. Angry trade union leaders and left-wingers telephoned journalists to condemn Brown’s ‘unfashionable’ appeal to the wealthy. Brown retaliated in August. In inflammatory language, he pledged in ‘The New Economic Agenda’, a party pamphlet, to cut taxes and drop all specific spending plans. Labour, he reaffirmed, would never again ‘tax for taxation’s own sake’. ‘From now on,’ he wrote, ‘Labour believes in creating the necessary wealth to fund the social benefits we demand.’

Without doubt he was inspired by his father’s sermons about Christians triumphing over weakness, pain and misfortune not only courageously, but cheerfully. And, although not immune from misfortune and discouragement, he was urged to join those ‘going forward with a smile … when all seems so dark … more than conquerors, helping us not just to scrape our way to victory but to gain victory very comfortably and successfully’. As the Reverend John Brown had exulted, ‘Let no one go away saying: “I can’t; I can’t; it’s not for me.”’ John Brown’s inspirations were Winston Churchill and Ernest Bevin for being ‘determined on set objectives’. He extolled his congregation, including his sons, ‘Should not all of us, like these two statesmen, have set objectives which we are determined to attain?’ That was Gordon Brown’s Herculean task.

Over the following weeks, Brown was battered by the left. On 26 September he arrived at a meeting of the National Executive Committee prepared for a stormy confrontation. Snide remarks about his competence were still being made about a stunt in which he had posed with Harriet Harman in front of a huge poster with the legend ‘Tory Tax Bombshell’. The event had misfired when he floundered about the size of the proposed tax increases, with estimates ranging from £59 to £226. At the meeting, the anger towards him was worse than Brown had anticipated. He was puzzled. As a child, he had grown up understanding poverty. There were decaying shipyards and coalmines down the road, worn boots shuffling on the street and endless sermons from his father about the deprived. He had worked passionately to help the poor, but now, despite his commitment, he was being attacked. ‘Don’t the bastards understand?’ he shouted in the privacy of his room. Then he surrendered. The Conservatives’ tax reductions during the 1980s, he said, had been indefensible, and he supported higher taxes. The Mirror’s headline the following morning – ‘Brown Demands Higher Tax Rates for Wealthy’ – signalled his retreat, but during that day, 27 September 1993, he began to reverse his recantation. The choice the party faced was between John Prescott’s ‘traditional values in a modern setting’ and Brown’s socially refined Thatcherism. Proud to be a man of conviction without any doubts, he could be insensitive to the qualities of those who showed a hint of human weakness.

The trade unions wanted a pledge from Brown to borrow and spend £15 billion in order to reduce unemployment. Brown became obdurate. The trade unions, he believed, were the biggest single obstacle to Labour’s election victory. Nye Bevan, the giant of Labour’s left, was quoted in Brown’s biography of James Maxton castigating Scottish rebels: ‘I will tell you what the epitaph on you Scottish dissenters will be – pure but impotent. Yes, you will be pure all right. But remember at the price of impotency. You will not influence the course of British politics by as much as a hair’s breadth.’ Brown would not repeat that mistake and damage Labour’s election chances. Defiantly, he was prepared to bring the whole house down to crush the opposition. Unpopularity was the price for performing his duty. As he stepped into the corridor, he was asked, ‘Does Labour still believe in the redistribution of wealth?’ Impulsively, he replied, ‘Yes.’ Those were his principles. Later that night, reflecting upon his strategy for Labour’s election victory, he said to those in the bars and corridors: ‘I am not against wealth. I just want everyone to be richer.’ Standing at other bars, Peter Hain and John Edmonds remorselessly disparaged Brown. ‘We should not replace the Red Flag with the White Flag,’ said Edmonds. Shedding Labour’s traditional socialist image, agreed Hain, would destroy all hope of the party ever regaining power. Their animosity was personal.

Brown and Blair arrived at the 1993 party conference with Smith’s reluctant agreement to curb the trade unions’ control of the party and impose ‘one man, one vote’. The union leaders were incensed. While they would expect Tony Blair to be anti-union, the transformation of Brown grated among the traditionalists. ‘This is a phoney battle,’ John Edmonds challenged Brown, ‘to show Labour is not in thrall to the unions. This is all about Mandelson positioning you and Blair as acceptable, and is against John Smith.’ The battle for OMOV, Edmonds believed, was a figleaf for Brown’s sympathy with Thatcherism. ‘You won’t carry Labour support on these policies,’ he told Brown. ‘I don’t believe in promising full employment any more,’ Brown replied. ‘It gives the impression of a government creating worthless jobs at great cost.’ To hear that from Brown’s mouth surprised the socialist.

That year’s shadow cabinet elections, Brown knew, would be an uncomfortable test. The party man who had spent a lifetime attending committee meetings could no longer expect the unions’ automatic support. Their antagonism caused him real pain. By contrast, Blair operated with a fresh and uncluttered style as shadow home secretary, showing affectionate curiosity about people. Unlike Brown, he had developed the technique of telling people what they wanted to hear, flattering potential critics and cultivating bores whom others would ignore. There was freshness to his soundbites, which were exquisitely delivered. ‘Tough on crime, and tough on the causes of crime’ had won plaudits which, as Brown never ceased to remind people, was a debt owed to him, who had conceived the slogan. But there was more to Blair than mere soundbites. His appeal was to the whole country rather than to a particular tribe or a class. His ambivalence – by refusing to feign sentimental links with the trade unions or to posture as a radical egalitarian – proved his chameleon appeal. Those qualities brought him limited favour in the elections to the shadow cabinet in autumn 1993. Robin Cook came top, Brown fell to fourth, while Blair was sixth.

Brown and Blair were driven back to London from the party conference by Derek Draper, Peter Mandelson’s special adviser. Their conversation was dominated by their comparatively poor performances in the poll. Brown was worried about losing his seat on the shadow cabinet the following year. The solution, he suggested, was to employ a researcher to bolster their support. One week later Saul Billingsley was hired on a salary of £10,000, two thirds of which was paid by Brown, and one third by Blair. Blair’s contribution was a calculated attempt to pacify Brown rather than confirmation of his own anxiety. Brown paid Billingsley from the income he earned from the Daily Record, but occasionally he ran out of money. ‘Don’t cash that cheque,’ Sue Nye told Derek Draper on one occasion. ‘Gordon is temporarily overdrawn.’ Based in Brown’s office in Millbank, Billingsley analysed each constituency’s local issues. He sent fact sheets to the constituencies showing the policies which Brown believed would cure their particular problems, and with a message from Brown. If there was an indication that a constituency might be persuaded to shift in Brown’s favour, Billingsley would invite the local party leaders to meet Brown in Westminster. The tactic worked. Several constituency activists praised Brown as ‘active and committed’, an important asset in his fight against enemies like Peter Hain.

Hain had published another pamphlet demanding that £20 billion be spent on investment and training. This indiscipline outraged the shadow chancellor. Hain, Brown decided, was to be decapitated. With the help of Derek Foster, Labour’s chief whip, a large posse of born-again Tribunites marched unannounced into the group’s annual general meeting and voted against Hain’s re-election as general secretary. The coup was smooth, and tax and spend was suppressed as an issue in Labour’s debates. Brown received little credit for neutralising Hain; instead, he faced resentment.

Once again, to prove his credibility, his language against the Tories became vehement. He accused them outright of dishonesty: ‘The Tories lied about taxation,’ became a recurring theme. ‘They’re incapable in my view,’ he said in a speech on 1 December 1993, ‘of telling the difference now between truth and falsehood; incapable and unable to tell the truth, or even recognise it.’ Carefully honed phrases like ‘thousands of pensioners will have to choose between heating and eating’ failed to excite his party, although the opinion polls steadfastly predicted a Labour election victory. To win trust, Brown constantly repeated, ‘Unlike the Tories, there will be honest disclosure. We will be straight with the British people … There will be no sleight of hand. What you see on taxes will be what you get.’ Opinion polls suggested that while the Tories were unpopular with the public because of their tax increases, Labour had still failed to convince them that they had a coherent economic strategy.

Over Christmas 1993, Brown pondered his fate. He had been the star pupil of Kirkcaldy, the star of Edinburgh University, and ever since his memorable maiden speech there had been expectations that one day he would be in Downing Street. Yet he appeared to be stymied. His jokes may have been memorable – ‘John Major went to Pittsburgh and discovered he had no past. He came back to Britain and discovered he had no future’ – but his critics questioned whether there was any more to him than cracking jokes and dissecting statistics. His sulks and his negative politics raised the questions of whether he was simply destructive or could ever inspire uncertain voters. Some of his personal traits were off-putting. He reluctantly posed for photographs in a pullover, and when asked to remove his tie replied, ‘I never take off my tie.’ He was also gauche, describing formal dinners as a waste of time. He lacked taste not only in art, furniture and wine, but also in food. He gobbled down whatever was offered without comment, suggesting an indifference to life’s refinements. His impatience extended to parliament. ‘During prime minister’s questions,’ he explained, ‘I often have to sit in the chamber for an hour and may speak for only thirty seconds. The place is geared towards eloquence rather than the pursuit of excellence.’ He was puzzled that some of his characteristics could irritate others.

Peter Mandelson offered help. Brown suffered, Mandelson calculated, from ‘press mania’. His reliance on Ed Richards, an unremarkable apparatchik, had spawned a compulsion to seek appearances on news bulletins and current affairs programmes. Brown erupted in uncontrolled rages even if a rival Labour politician featured on a news bulletin at 5.15 on a Saturday afternoon. ‘They’re trying to do me down,’ he shouted at Mandelson after watching one MP deliver a nine-second soundbite. Everyone, he claimed, was trying to ‘do him down’. He was prepared to travel from Scotland to London early on a Sunday morning to broadcast for a few fleeting seconds.

This hunger for influence was not accompanied by personal vanity. Repeatedly, he refused the opportunity to watch the playbacks of his party political broadcasts. Seemingly irked by his own face, his unfashionable opinion about politics was that the message rather than the image was important. Although assured by Barry Delaney, the producer of Labour’s political broadcasts, that women found him attractive, he was ambivalent about American talkshow host Jay Leno’s opinion that ‘Politics is show biz for ugly people.’

Brown’s mixture of frenzy and shyness prompted Peter Mandelson to suggest in late 1993 that he hire Charlie Whelan as his press spokesman. Mandelson had known Whelan since the 1992 election, and had been impressed by his abilities at the recent party conference while discussing OMOV. Brown knew him from the regular Tuesday lunches hosted by Gavin Laird, the general secretary of the AEUW. Laird had praised Whelan, his spokesman, as having ‘real flair’. Whelan’s particular talent, reinforced by his natural energy and bonhomie, was to spot opportunities for an AEUW representative to speak on TV news programmes. While his officials appeared in front of the cameras, rival trade unionists were ignored. That expertise was precisely Brown’s requirement.

Born in Peckham in 1955, Whelan would above all be obedient and loyal to Brown’s cause. ‘Able but very lazy,’ was his headmaster’s conclusion after the young Whelan failed one examination. In the hope of solving the problem, his parents sent him to a fee-paying boarding school in Surrey. He secured an unimpressive degree in politics at the City of London Polytechnic. When he started his first job as a foreign exchange dealer in the City, he spoke in a Home Counties accent. One year later, employed as a researcher by the AEUW, he spoke like a Cockney. Influenced by Jimmy Airlie, the forceful trade union leader renowned for his campaign to save the Upper Clyde shipbuilders, Whelan demonstrated his lack of political judgement when he joined the Communist Party in 1975. Whether he understood the reasons for the Party’s dramatic decline since the Soviet invasions of Hungary in 1956 and Czechoslovakia in 1968 is uncertain. Probably the oppression of East Europeans was less important to him than loyalty to Jimmy Airlie. He only resigned from the Party in 1990, after the final collapse of communism.

The contrast between Charlie Whelan and Gordon Brown, the reserved, puritan non-smoker, could not have been greater – and that was the mutual attraction. During his fifteen years in the thuggish world of trade union politics Whelan had adopted a laddish style to promote his wheeler-dealer expertise. The clan chief spotted the chain-smoking, beer-drinking bruiser who shared a love of football as his man of business. Although Whelan was markedly unconscientious about detail, he would in some ways be an ideal soulmate. For his part, Whelan was flattered to be so close to the centre of attention. Whelan joined Ed Balls and Sue Nye within Brown’s inner cabinet. He welcomed the responsibility of solving Brown’s problems, delighted if the shadow chancellor telephoned six times in a day to seek consolation over an irritating news item. By then both had noticed that Peter Mandelson was less involved in Brown’s daily activities. Eight years after his appointment, Whelan was asked whether he had felt any loyalty towards Mandelson. ‘Yes,’ he smirked, ‘for about five minutes.’ That retrospective sarcasm reflected Whelan’s dislike for a man he called ‘Trousers’.

On Monday, 9 May 1994, Roy Hattersley was chatting with John Smith in Westminster. Their conversation drifted towards the shadow chancellor. ‘Gordon’s doing very badly,’ said Smith. ‘He’d have no chance to be leader if there was an election now. Blair would get it.’ There was no pleasure in Smith’s judgement. He did not disguise his dislike for Brown’s rival. ‘But fortunately,’ he added, ‘there won’t be an election tomorrow, so it will eventually be Gordon.’ As if he had a premonition of his fate, Smith repeated this to David Ward, his chief of staff. Gordon Brown was unaware of Smith’s opinion, but the disagreements between them had become insurmountable.