A Journey_ My Political Life Part 6

I travel fairly easily, but the Hong Kong trip, done in a day and a half, was exhausting. It was also my first real experience of China's leaders.h.i.+p. It was an odd occasion. I was very attached to Hong Kong. I had visited reasonably often since my sister-in-law Katy was Hong Kong Chinese. She was very instructive on the subject of the return of the colony. Obviously she was Anglophile. Brought up a Catholic. Had lived a long time in the UK. But when I asked her if she felt sad at the return, she said immediately: 'No, I'm Chinese, it's natural to be part of China.' Occasionally the British fail to see the fact that although we are often regarded in many parts of the world by the indigenous people as having been good colonialists, those people no longer want us as colonialists. In the end, however benign we were, they prefer to run themselves and make their own mistakes.

But at the handover ceremony I still felt a tug, not of regret but of nostalgia for the old British Empire. Later that night, I crossed the harbour to the Kowloon side in a tugboat, in the torrential rain, to meet China's leaders. The lights fused at the landing place and the hotel quayside was lit by Chinese lanterns that swayed and jangled in the wind and the choppy water. I went upstairs feeling I must have looked about thirty (I aged quickly in the job as you can see), to greet Jiang Zemin and the a.s.sembled Chinese top bra.s.s. He completely threw me by talking with greater knowledge about Shakespeare than I could have possibly mustered and joking away as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He then explained to me that this was a new start in UK/China relations and from now on, the past could be put behind us. I had, at that time, only a fairly dim and sketchy understanding of what that past was. I thought it was all just politeness in any case. But actually, he meant it. They meant it. And relations with China did indeed make substantial progress from that day.

Equally, as part of the rhythm of government, came the inevitable personal scandals. I say inevitable, because there is no doubt that in any government, they will come. We made a very big mistake in allowing the impression to be gained that we were going to be better than the Tories; not just better at governing, but more moral, more upright. As a matter of record, I never said we were going to be purer than pure; I said we were going to be expected expected to be purer than pure, and I did so to stress the dangers. I came to regret the whole characterisation around the issue of so-called 'sleaze'. It was a media game, and in Opposition we played it. The goals were easy but the long-term consequences were disastrous. I was aware we were playing with Faust's companion, but with him onside, it was just too easy to score. And to be fair, I couldn't see us doing some of the things the Tories had done. to be purer than pure, and I did so to stress the dangers. I came to regret the whole characterisation around the issue of so-called 'sleaze'. It was a media game, and in Opposition we played it. The goals were easy but the long-term consequences were disastrous. I was aware we were playing with Faust's companion, but with him onside, it was just too easy to score. And to be fair, I couldn't see us doing some of the things the Tories had done.

What I failed to realise is that we would also have our skeletons rattling around the cupboard, and while they might be different, they would be just as repulsive. Moreover, I did not at that time see the full implications of the ma.s.sive increase in transparency we were planning as part of our reforms to 'clean up politics'. For the first time, details of donors and the amounts given to political parties were going to be published. I completely missed the fact that though in Opposition millionaire donors were to be welcomed as a sign of respectability, in government they would very quickly be seen as buying influence. The Freedom of Information Act was then being debated in Cabinet Committee. It represented a quite extraordinary offer by a government to open itself and Parliament to scrutiny. Its consequences would be revolutionary; the power it handed to the tender mercy of the media was gigantic. We did it with care, but without foresight. Politicians are people and scandals will happen. There never was going to be a happy ending to that story, and sure enough there wasn't. The irony was that far from improving our reputation, we sullied it. The latter months of 1997 saw two such 'scandals', one personal, one financial.

On 1 August, just before I went on holiday, Alastair told me that the News of the World News of the World had a story about Robin Cook and Gaynor, his long-time a.s.sistant. In times gone by it was not exceptional for politicians to have mistresses, lovers and affairs, but because it was strictly against the mores of the times it was not considered proper to write about it. The irony is that while s.e.x is written about more today, and people talk openly about s.e.x and even have affairs openly, politicians are nonetheless expected to conform to traditional mores, but in a context where transgressions are far more likely to be publicly discussed. Leaders in the past Kennedy, Lloyd George, and no doubt many others led lives that would be completely unthinkable now, despite us living in more promiscuous times. While I tended to look upon such things with a fairly worldly eye (and a.s.siduously avoided exploiting any Tory s.e.x scandal before we came to office), I was nevertheless conscious of the fact that the rest of the world viewed it differently. had a story about Robin Cook and Gaynor, his long-time a.s.sistant. In times gone by it was not exceptional for politicians to have mistresses, lovers and affairs, but because it was strictly against the mores of the times it was not considered proper to write about it. The irony is that while s.e.x is written about more today, and people talk openly about s.e.x and even have affairs openly, politicians are nonetheless expected to conform to traditional mores, but in a context where transgressions are far more likely to be publicly discussed. Leaders in the past Kennedy, Lloyd George, and no doubt many others led lives that would be completely unthinkable now, despite us living in more promiscuous times. While I tended to look upon such things with a fairly worldly eye (and a.s.siduously avoided exploiting any Tory s.e.x scandal before we came to office), I was nevertheless conscious of the fact that the rest of the world viewed it differently.

When the story about Robin broke, I was initially relatively insouciant about it, but Alastair thought it could be a real problem. We had to have a line; and that's where it got difficult. Robin was married to Margaret; he was having an affair with Gaynor. In the old days, this situation might have quietly carried on, but the question asked today is: who will he choose? Sitting in my little office on a Friday morning, on the day I was due to go on holiday, Alastair, Robin Butler and myself had to decide what to do.

Alastair phoned Robin Cook at the airport where he was about to go off with Margaret on holiday. An awkward conversation, as you can imagine. What to do? When I eventually talked to Robin I said: You will have to decide. If there is no decision, the danger is the thing runs away from us, creates a huge scandal and I don't in any event see how you can openly maintain both relations.h.i.+ps.

Maybe I was wrong and maybe you think I was interfering unreasonably, but I couldn't see an answer to the basic problem: now we know about the affair, does it continue or does it stop?

And there's a Sunday deadline. And it's in the News of the World News of the World. All this is happening to some poor sod's private life and we have to sit there and try to give the best advice in the interests of not only Robin, but also the wider government. 'Foreign Secretary leaves wife for another woman'; mildly interesting, but it soon pa.s.ses. 'Foreign Secretary in love fight who will win?'; that could run for weeks.

Although it felt ugly, we had to be clear with Robin. You must speak to Margaret. You must choose. And I'm afraid you must do so before the Sunday-edition deadline of tomorrow lunchtime.

I know Margaret was very sore afterwards and felt Alastair and I pushed Robin to leave her, but it really wasn't so. The truth is he loved Gaynor and she was devoted to him. He made a choice. Next day he announced it. Because of the way Alastair handled it, it was treated reasonably sympathetically and the spotlight moved on with surprising speed.

As prime minister I was the recipient of numerous confidences and, via the whips, of numerous revelations. Here's the shocking or not so shocking thing: politicians really are like everyone else. Some are in marriages of love; some are in marriages of convenience; some are having affairs; some are straight; some are gay.

Up to a point, and a fairly distant point, the public tolerates s.e.xual misdemeanour. The issue is not the fornication, but the complication. The trouble usually arises when the media are able to discover, dredge up or invent a 'public interest' abuse in the course of the scandal: it was a security lapse; government information was compromised; he lied about it; he used government resources to pursue it. Then it can turn very awkward, but a plain and simple s.e.x scandal if there is such a thing they will just about tolerate.

Financial scandal is different. Money is far more potent and dangerous than s.e.x. Before the end of our first year we went through that as well, and in the course of it I learned a big lesson.

Before the election Bernie Ecclestone, the Formula One boss, had donated 1 million to the Labour Party. He had previously given money to the Tories, at which time the legislation requiring disclosure was not yet on the statute books. He came to see us on an industry matter relating to Formula One. Europe was looking to ban tobacco advertising in sport, and because Formula One was so heavily dependent on it, Bernie wanted time to have it phased in.

To be fair to him, he made no link whatsoever between the gift and the policy, and behaved entirely properly throughout. We already had the gift before the meeting, though there was, of course, always the possibility of further donations. I would have seen such a major figure anyway, given that the businesses a.s.sociated with Formula One employ tens of thousands of people; and I would have taken the same policy decision to phase implementation of the ban over time.

However, it was a really stupid lapse of judgement on my part not to have immediately put a big Civil Service structure in place to ensure propriety was not only observed, but also seen to be observed. We didn't, and were duly, and in this instance fairly, whacked for it. (Though rather unfairly so was Bernie, since he had genuinely never made a linkage, not even implicitly.) I was taught then and there that once in government, the rules on anything touching money were going to be applied very differently. Rightly so, you will say; but the essential problem which grew over the years was that parties need financing. There was a limit to how much could be raised from ordinary members, and high-value donors as they were called were absolutely crucial. Even in 1997, we were outspent by the Tories. In 1992, they had outspent us by a ratio of five to one, when 90 per cent of our money came from the unions who were, in my experience, the only funders who explicitly and insistently linked money to policy. I was determined to free us from that dependence; but once in government, no one believed a big donation could be made from the goodness of the heart.

Of course, in one sense the motives will always be varied or mixed. People give to charity for varied or mixed reasons, of which don't get me wrong desire to do good may be uppermost; but donating to political parties, at least in the UK, is not regarded as prima facie supporting politics, but as prima facie buying influence. So it all gets very sticky indeed. It was a sharp and telling portent of things to come.

It also taught me a lesson which, even after I learned it, I found difficult to apply. Part of the problem with scandal is that it steals up on you and takes you unawares. It then draws a vast media resource into spinning it out and developing it. Meanwhile, you are trying to find the facts, work out the line, think of what ground you can legitimately camp on. People's careers, their lives, depend on decisions taken in an instant, frequently imperfectly informed. When the storm is raging, your senses and decision-making capacity are upended, tossed about on the waves of some fresh 'revelation', until you fear that you will never get to calmer waters and spot dry land.

Scandal is an absolute nightmare in politics. Take my word for it. The public may conclude that politicians today are lesser people than those of days of yore. That's cobblers. The difference is that the scrutiny is greater, and the transparency expected is of an utterly different nature; the hysteria with which the issue is publicly debated is many multiples of decibels louder; and the speed with which it moves is like the speed of a jet plane compared to the speed of a tractor. The people are the same; the context is a planet away from that of even twenty years ago.

And so the first months in government came to a close. Much to be proud of; huge changes set in train, not only in policy but also in culture. We had embarked on an ambitious legislative programme with landmark changes to the const.i.tution, the proposal for a minimum wage and Bank of England independence marking a major s.h.i.+ft in the way the nation would be governed.

Though at this point as small as a child's hand, the clouds of the future were also gathering. We had lost our virginity on scandal. There were the first harbingers of future power struggles. But, all in all, it had been a good beginning. A new and untested government; yet we had not fallen flat on our faces. We had stood upright and were governing. We were satisfied. So was the country.

FIVE.

PRINCESS DIANA.

I returned from the summer holiday refreshed and alert. The first months since entering Number 10 had gone well. That was to be expected. The next would be tougher. That was also to be expected. There had been plenty of false starts, missed opportunities and imperfect decision-making, but the mood was so benign it seemed like a government blessed. Public moods are strange affairs. When they embrace you, the experience suggests they are deep, with firm roots. You wonder how they can change. Of course you know they do and will, but during them, if they are p.r.o.nounced, they can float you along effortlessly or mercilessly push you back, as if the feeling, good or ill, will last forever. returned from the summer holiday refreshed and alert. The first months since entering Number 10 had gone well. That was to be expected. The next would be tougher. That was also to be expected. There had been plenty of false starts, missed opportunities and imperfect decision-making, but the mood was so benign it seemed like a government blessed. Public moods are strange affairs. When they embrace you, the experience suggests they are deep, with firm roots. You wonder how they can change. Of course you know they do and will, but during them, if they are p.r.o.nounced, they can float you along effortlessly or mercilessly push you back, as if the feeling, good or ill, will last forever.

The power of the media in shaping them is critical. When the mood is benign, it is truly benign: errors are charming eccentricities, gaffes are amusing, agonised processes of decision-making are simply a reflection of a profound sense of responsibility to get it right. When the mood is harsh, it is like running against a relentless headwind: each faux pas is magnified, previous transgressions are recalled and reiterated with renewed vigour, agonised decision-making is just incompetence. You are doing the same, and in the same way; but the manner in which it is a.s.sessed is completely different.

New Labour, New Britain did not seem like hubris. On the contrary, it chimed with something real in the mood of the country. Of course, in reality we were only scratching the surface on whole swathes of policy, on public services, welfare and pensions; but it didn't seem like that in those first few months.

The Conservative government had been controversial for all sorts of policy reasons, but that, in a sense, is normal politics. A new laissez-faire approach to industry, battles with the unions, foreign crises each had taken its toll, though in many ways the agenda by which the Tories had governed was becoming reasonably common lore worldwide. However, they were also conservative with a small 'c', and that was becoming outdated. They panned the Labour left in London for being pro-gay rights, for example. In the 1980s, it worked; in the late 1990s, it worked against them. Their stuffiness, their pomp, their wors.h.i.+p of tradition were of a metal stamped with the hallmark of a bygone age. John Major was in many ways different from all that and was quite capable of leading them out of it, but his problem was he was never in charge.

The moment Labour started to throw off the chains of its past and behave in a modern way in respect of the economy, and with common sense on issues like defence and crime, then the reasons to stick with the Tories fell away. The zeitgeist was free to turn less deferential, more liberal on social issues, less cla.s.s-bound, more meritocratic. It didn't matter that I was the public-school boy and John Major the state pupil. I led a party in one mindset; he was shackled by a party in another.

This change of sentiment spread deep into the recesses of public life. Naturally that included the monarchy, which had its own personification of it: Princess Diana. She was an icon, possibly the most famous and most photographed person in the world. She captured the essence of an era and held it in the palm of her hand. She defined it.

This was gravely disconcerting for the monarchy as an inst.i.tution, or a business, if you like. She so outshone the others in terms of charisma, ability to connect with the public, courage in embracing the new, that she was a rebuke rather than a support. That is not to say that she did not fully agree with the monarchy and all its hereditary tradition she did but her way of translating that into the modern idiom was so adventurous it throbbed with nonconformity; and thus danger. As she strode into hitherto forbidden places, vaulted carefully erected hurdles of propriety and demolished vast swathes of the norms of royal behaviour with an abandon that was total folly at one level and utter genius at another, the royal family watched with what I am sure was a mixture of helplessness and horror. Of course she was much too smart to give her support to any political party, but in temperament and time, in the mood she engendered and which we represented, there was a perfect fit. Whatever New Labour had in part, she had in whole.

I got to know her reasonably well before the 1997 election. A Labour peer, Lord Mishcon, had me round to dinner to meet her. My friend Maggie Rae knew those who knew her and had her to dinner as well. We kept in touch, and met from time to time.

She was extraordinarily captivating. The aura that already surrounded her was magnified by the radical combination of royalty and normality that she expressed. She was a royal who seemed at ease, human and, most of all, willing to engage with people on an equal basis. She wasn't condescending, she laughed normally, she conversed normally, she flirted normally. That was her great charm: put her with any group of people anywhere, and she could get on with them.

She had a strong emotional intelligence, certainly, but she was also very capable of a.n.a.lytical understanding. I had a conversation with her once about the utility and force of photographs and how they could be best used, which showed a mind that was not only intuitive but also had a really good process of reasoning. She had the thing totally worked out. Occasionally she would phone and say why such-and-such a picture was rubbish or what could be done better, and though not, as I say, at all party political, she had a complete sense of what we were trying to achieve and why. I always used to say to Alastair: if she were ever in politics, even Clinton would have to watch out.

She was also strong-willed, let us say, and was always going to go her own way. I had the feeling she could fall out with you as easily as fall in with you. She knew the full range of the power of her presence and knew its ability to enthral, and most often used it to do good; but there was also a wildness in her emotions that meant when anger or resentment were woven together with that power, it could spell danger. I really liked her and, of course, was as big a sucker for a beautiful princess as the next man; but I was wary too.

Anyway, for sure, just as we were changing the image of Britain, she was radicalising that of the monarchy; or perhaps, more accurately, her contrast with them illuminated how little they had changed. For someone as acutely perceptive and long-termist about the monarchy and its future as the Queen, it must have been deeply troubling. Above all, the Queen knew the importance of the monarchy standing for history, tradition and duty. She knew also that while there was a need for the monarchy to evolve with the people, and that its covenant with them, unwritten and unspoken, was based on a relations.h.i.+p that allowed for evolution, it should be steady, carefully calibrated and controlled. Suddenly, an unpredictable meteor had come into this predictable and highly regulated ecosystem, with equally uncertain consequences. She had good cause to be worried.

After the holiday and before my first visit to Balmoral for the prime minister's weekend with the royal family a tradition stretching back to the time of Gladstone and Queen Victoria I went to Sedgefield. It was great to go back as prime minister. I was proud of them, and they were proud of me. By and large that feeling persisted until the end. Despite the fact that ever since becoming Leader of the Opposition I had not been able to get back there with anything like the old regularity, they welcomed me each time I did. I would go to the local party's General Committee meeting and give my report, then spend an hour or two chatting, exchanging views, answering questions with people who had in many cases known me since 1983 and who had watched my rise; and in that room, I would be very frank. It was a privilege for me to be able to talk to people I genuinely trusted, under John Burton's watchful eye; and they felt it a privilege in return to have the access and feel part of history in the making.

I would visit the Dun Cow pub in Sedgefield Village or the working men's club. People were friendly but also respectful of the fact I was out for a pint or two and to relax. Politics was rarely discussed unless it was around the table over dinner with John and Lily Burton, Phil Wilson (later my successor as Sedgefield MP), Peter and Christine Brooks, really nice decent people, and Paul Trippett, a rough, tough but lovely and very smart man who was steward at the working men's club and became a close friend. We would chat, go through the const.i.tuency problems, and I would take their temperature on the big issues of the day. Collectively and individually, they had a great instinct for where the public was; and rarely, if ever, did they fail to help me feel my way. They also represented a very important strain of the British people. They might read the Guardian Guardian but weren't but weren't of of the the Guardian Guardian; they were not at all 'London', and neither were they typical Daily Mail Daily Mail. They were highly political, but knew lots of people outside politics.

They were yet another interesting example of how the old pigeonholes into which people were put didn't fit any more. My politics represented that completely, but it was very hard to get the commentating cla.s.ses to see it. Sedgefield was a 'northern working-cla.s.s' const.i.tuency, except that when you scratched even a little beneath the surface, the definitions didn't quite fit. Yes, of course you could go into any of the old mining villages the Trimdons, Fishburn, Ferryhill, Chilton and so on and find the stereotype if you looked for it, but increasingly it wasn't like that. The new estates were private estates of three- and four-bedroomed houses, and while the people who lived there couldn't be described as 'middle cla.s.s', neither were they 'working cla.s.s' in the sense of Andy Capp. They drank beer; they also drank wine. They went to the chippy; they also went to restaurants. They were taking one, two or even three holidays abroad a year, and not all of them in Benidorm.

This was a different Britain, and one in which I felt at home. There had been an article usual Daily Mail Daily Mail stuff about how I was a poseur and fraud because I said I liked fish and chips, but when in London living in Islington it was well known that I had eaten pasta (shock-horror). Plainly you couldn't conceivably like both since these were indications of distinct and incompatible cultures. The Britain of the late 1990s was of course actually one in which people ate a variety of foods, had a multiplicity of different cultural experiences and rather enjoyed it. This was as true 'up North' as it was 'down South'. The world was opening up. My closest friends in Sedgefield symbolised that difference. There I was at ease and could be myself, and they were just them and that was fine by all of us. stuff about how I was a poseur and fraud because I said I liked fish and chips, but when in London living in Islington it was well known that I had eaten pasta (shock-horror). Plainly you couldn't conceivably like both since these were indications of distinct and incompatible cultures. The Britain of the late 1990s was of course actually one in which people ate a variety of foods, had a multiplicity of different cultural experiences and rather enjoyed it. This was as true 'up North' as it was 'down South'. The world was opening up. My closest friends in Sedgefield symbolised that difference. There I was at ease and could be myself, and they were just them and that was fine by all of us.

Things had changed around our const.i.tuency house, as they had everywhere in our lives. There was a twenty-four-hour police guard, not as heavy as it became later, but always there. The roads had been changed to limit access, but it still felt like the one bit of our lives that remained constant. The surroundings were familiar and cosy.

My thoughts on the evening of 30 August 1997 were focused on the perpetual concern of getting an agenda together that made the changes match the rhetoric. I was worried that if people did not notice major change soon, cynicism would set in. I knew that we had the political initiative, and that the Tories were disconnected and ill-disciplined, but I also knew our media hold was fragile and based in many cases on convenience, not conviction, on both our parts. Once they decided they were going to go for us, if they couldn't get us on substance, they would try to get us on style, to make our strengths weaknesses and our very political success into a form of trickery. Also at some point, the right-wing media would understand we weren't actually a mild form of Thatcherism, and the left-wing media would realise New Labour was for real and not going to yield to the usual demands of the left.

Probably, too, I had been preoccupied getting the kids to bed usually my job settling them down (impossible with three aged thirteen, eleven and nine), fetching drinks, reading stories and hoping they would give us enough respite at least for a quiet meal together.

I went to sleep around 11.30. At about 2 a.m., something most peculiar happened. Cherie is difficult to wake once asleep, but I woke to find a policeman standing by the bed, which as you can imagine was quite a surprise. As I struggled into consciousness he told me that he had tried the bell but I hadn't heard it; that Princess Diana had been seriously injured in a car crash; and that I should immediately telephone Sir Michael Jay, the British amba.s.sador in Paris.

I was fully awake now. Cherie had also woken up. I explained the situation to her, then rushed downstairs and Downing Street put Michael through. It was clear from the outset that Diana was highly unlikely to survive. Michael went over her injuries, informed me that her boyfriend Dodi Fayed and the driver had been killed outright, and the bodyguard was alive but unconscious.

I phoned Alastair. He had heard from media monitoring, of all sources. We were both profoundly shocked. I couldn't believe it. She was such a force in people's lives, so much part of our national life, so clearly, indubitably and unalterably alive herself, it was impossible to think of her dead.

At 4 a.m. I was phoned again, however, to be told that she was. Michael was full of praise for the way the French had handled it: the Interior Minister Jean-Pierre Chevenement, the Health Minister Bernard Kouchner, and President Chirac had been sensitive, cooperative and respectful. From that time onwards there was a constant round of calls and, through it all, we were trying to work out how it should be managed.

I know that sounds callous. I was genuinely in grief. I liked her and I felt desperately sorry for her two boys, but I also knew that this was going to be a major national, in fact global event like no other. How Britain emerged was important for the country internally and externally. I was the prime minister; I had to work out how it would work out. I had to articulate what would be a tidal wave of grief and loss, in a way that was dignified but also expressed the emotion and love not too strong a word people felt for her.

If the Queen had died, it would have been, in one sense, simple: there would be an expression of great respect and praise, but all of it, though deep, would have been nonetheless conventional. This was completely different. This was not a conventional person nor a conventional death; and there would not be a conventional reaction.

In addition to grief I felt something else, which stemmed from the last meeting I had with Diana. It had not been all that easy. She had wanted to come to Chequers and offered a date in June, which I accepted. Alastair despite adoring her and Number 10 felt that it was unseemly for me to see her before I had met Prince Charles, and it might be misinterpreted. Reluctantly I agreed, and we refixed for July. As astute as ever, she guessed the s.h.i.+fting of the date was deliberate and was cross about it.

She came for the day with Prince William. The weather was gorgeous and Chequers looked beautiful. The staff were thrilled she was coming, and she was gracious and friendly to all. We had been talking about what she could do for the country in a more formal way. It was self-evidently tricky to see what that might be, though she was enthusiastic to do something. She was undoubtedly an enormous a.s.set and I also felt it was right that she be given the chance to s.h.i.+ft the focus somewhere other than exclusively on her private life; but I also felt and I don't know, maybe I would be less punctilious about it nowadays that Dodi Fayed was a problem. This was not for the obvious reasons, which would have made some frown on him; his nationality, religion or background didn't matter a hoot to me. I had never met him, so at one level it was unfair to feel nervous about him, and for all I know he was a good son and a nice guy; so if you ask me, well, spit it out, what was wrong, I couldn't frankly say, but I felt uneasy and I knew some of her close friends people who really loved her felt the same way.

At that time, on a good day at Chequers, we would get the kids, the police, protection squad and the staff together and play football out on the back lawn where there had been a lovely gra.s.s tennis court in the 1930s. It was a fantastic pitch and we used to have great fun. Everyone except Diana and me went off to play, including William. Poor bloke, I think he wondered what on earth she had brought him for and he didn't much want to play football, but, like a good sport, he did.

Diana and I had a walk in the grounds. She reproached me gently but clearly for cancelling the June date. I wonder how I would deal with her today, but then I just broached the subject of her and Dodi straight out. She didn't like it and I could feel the wilful side of her bridling. However, she didn't refuse to talk about it, so we did, and also what she might do. Although the conversation had been uncomfortable at points, by the end it was warm and friendly. I tried my hardest to show that I would be a true friend to her, and she should treat the frankness in that spirit. I joined in the football game while she watched and laughed with the staff, had her picture taken and did all the things she was brilliant at. It was the last time I saw her.

As I contemplated her death and what I would say, I felt a sense of obligation as well as sadness. I felt I owed it to her to try to capture something of what she was. We were both in our ways manipulative people, perceiving quickly the emotions of others and able instinctively to play with them, but I knew that when she reached out to the disabled or sick in a way no one else could have done and no one else in her position ever had done, it was with sincerity. She knew its effect, of course, but the effect could never have been as powerful as it was if the feeling had not been genuine. I sat in my study in Trimdon as the dawn light streamed through the windows, and thought about how she she would have liked me to talk about her. would have liked me to talk about her.

Of course the numerous practicalities and logistics also needed to be sorted out: calls to make and to take; how the body would come back; the funeral; the business of government (would the Scottish referendum campaign continue or not, for example) everything from the significant to the utterly trivial required focus, since at these moments the trivial can become significant suddenly and without warning.

However, all the time the main part of my mind was going over what I would say. Robin Cook had just stepped off a plane in the Philippines and had already said something, much to Alastair's irritation. I told him not to worry; all that mattered was what I would say, and we agreed it should be just before the church service in Trimdon Village at 10.30 a.m.

The Palace had, of course, put out a statement, but there was no intention for the Queen to speak. Just before I left for church I had my first telephone call with her, in which I expressed my condolences. She was philosophical, anxious for the boys, but also professional and practical. She grasped the enormity of the event, but in her own way. She was not going to be pushed around by it. She could be very queenly in that sense.

By then I had worked out what I wanted to say. I scribbled it on the back of an envelope, and discussed it with Alastair. I had talked to others of the close circle by now, but at this moment it was his advice and input I needed. His judgement in these situations was clear, exemplary and forthright. The last thing you need at a time like that is a back-coverer, vacillator or sycophant.

The phrase 'people's princess' now seems like something from another age. And corny. And over the top. And all the rest of it. But at the time it felt natural and I thought, particularly, that she would have approved. It was how she saw herself, and it was how she should be remembered. I also wanted to capture the way she touched people's lives, and to do so in a way that acknowledged her own life hadn't been smooth or easy. Failing to mention her problems somehow felt like being dishonest about her; and more than that, undermining what she meant to others. What they loved was precisely that she was a princess but still vulnerable, still buffeted by life's ups and downs, capable of healing their wounds because she herself knew what it was like to be wounded.

We drove the couple of miles to the green in the centre of Trimdon where the old church stands. It is a beautiful church with one of the few surviving Norman arches around its altar, a pretty garden and the graveyard that Lily Burton and her friends used to tend. Cherie and the children went on ahead inside. Alastair had arranged for a pooled press group to be present. I got out of the car and just walked up and spoke. It was odd, standing there in this little village in County Durham, on the gra.s.s in front of an ancient small church, speaking words that I knew would be carried around the country and the world. They would be a major part of how people thought of me. Even today people talk to me about it. You think of the great speeches, prepared over days and weeks, the momentous events that shape modern history and in which I played a part, the political battles, the crises, the times of elation, and despair; yet those few words scribbled on the back of an envelope probably had as much coverage as anything I ever did. The key thing is to put all of that out of your mind, don't think about how big it is, don't feed all the inner demons who suggest all the things that can go wrong. Just go out and do it.

Except in this case and I know this sounds contrived just before speaking I paused for a moment and thought of her, reminding myself that most of all I should speak for her. This is what I said: I feel like everyone else in this country today utterly devastated. Our thoughts and prayers are with Princess Diana's family in particular her two sons, two boys our hearts go out to them. We are today a nation in Britain in a state of shock, in mourning, in grief that is so deeply painful for us.She was a wonderful and warm human being. Though her own life was often sadly touched by tragedy, she touched the lives of so many others in Britain throughout the world with joy and with comfort. How many times shall we remember her, in how many different ways, with the sick, the dying, with children, with the needy, when, with just a look or a gesture that spoke so much more than words, she would reveal to all of us the depth of her compa.s.sion and her humanity. How difficult things were for her from time to time, surely we can only guess at, but the people everywhere, not just here in Britain but everywhere, they kept faith with Princess Diana, they liked her, they loved her, they regarded her as one of the people. She was the people's princess and that's how she will stay, how she will remain in our hearts and in our memories forever.

I used the phrase 'kept faith with Princess Diana' for a very particular reason. For some time before her death and most of all recently, because of the relations.h.i.+p with Dodi the jackals had been on the prowl. Parts of the media (the Mail Mail especially) were gauging whether or not they could go for her. I knew they wanted to, and I had warned her of it when we met at Chequers, but they were nervous about it, unsure of the public reaction. So they contented themselves with laying down themes of criticism that could be developed, small barbs here and there, the occasional frontal attack, but nothing amounting to a campaign. The reason they held off was that her support was deep and quite visceral in its way, and people did keep faith with her. They were not going to let her be sacrificed. I knew that she would want those people to be recognised too. Would that support have continued in a future in which she remarried, grew older, became an even greater figure of controversy as well as renown? It is hard to say, but a decent part of it would surely have clung on. People knew her faults, and they didn't love her any the less for them. especially) were gauging whether or not they could go for her. I knew they wanted to, and I had warned her of it when we met at Chequers, but they were nervous about it, unsure of the public reaction. So they contented themselves with laying down themes of criticism that could be developed, small barbs here and there, the occasional frontal attack, but nothing amounting to a campaign. The reason they held off was that her support was deep and quite visceral in its way, and people did keep faith with her. They were not going to let her be sacrificed. I knew that she would want those people to be recognised too. Would that support have continued in a future in which she remarried, grew older, became an even greater figure of controversy as well as renown? It is hard to say, but a decent part of it would surely have clung on. People knew her faults, and they didn't love her any the less for them.

The national mood was exactly what we thought: an outpouring of sadness. But already it was tinged with anger that she had been taken away. At first, the rage was turned on the paparazzi who had been following her. It is perhaps hard to convey what it is like to be a public figure and feel hounded. And for perfectly understandable reasons, many people don't feel sorry for the famous, most of whom have willingly taken that path. They often have a rich lifestyle. They take the upside, so the argument goes, and should jolly well put up with the downside. Anyway, small price to pay, isn't it?

Except in Diana's case it had gone way beyond a small price. She was literally hunted down. She was a very valuable commodity, a gold mine that was constantly plundered. The digging was deep and unusually desperate because the gains were so immense. Of course, media people say she was happy to pursue the media when it suited her, but this is a far less compelling argument than it seems. The truth is, in the full glare of media attention, you have no option but to engage with them, to try to mould their view of you, to try to prevent a different and often unflattering and unfair view from taking hold. In other words, sometimes this is a purely voluntary act, while at other times as with Diana there is no choice: either you attempt to feed the beast or the beast eats you. Now, at points she fed them more than was necessary, but that doesn't alter the basic fact: she was subject to a degree of persistent, intrusive and dehumanising hara.s.sment that on occasions was frightening, excessive and wrong.

That Sunday morning, the royal family attended a service in Crathie Church at Balmoral as usual. There was no reference to Diana. I knew the Queen would have felt that duty demanded that the normal routine was followed. There would have been no Alastairs in the entourage suggesting that possibly mentioning the tragedy might be sensible. The point is: the Queen is a genuine, not an artificial person, by which I mean there is no artifice in how she approaches things. While her absolute preoccupation was protecting the boys, it was to protect them first and foremost as princes. There would have been no question of them not going to church that day, hours after their mother had died. It was their duty as princes. Of course, to some of the public this looked incredibly, almost blatantly, insensitive.

I knew that swings in sentiment can come and go. I knew, too, that firmly set underneath there was a deep and abiding affection for the Queen. But this was a unique case. As the days pa.s.sed, the crowds grew. Three books of condolence at St James's Palace became four, became fifteen, became forty-three. The outpouring of grief was turning into a ma.s.s movement for change. It was a moment of supreme national articulation, and it was menacing for the royal family. I don't know what would have happened if they had just kept going as before. Possibly nothing, but in the eye of that storm, unpredictable and unnerving as it was, I couldn't be sure.

The refusal to lower the flags at Windsor Castle and the Tower of London was because Diana was technically no longer a member of the royal family, having been stripped of her HRH t.i.tle. The flag at Buckingham Palace was not flying at all because, by tradition, only the Queen's personal standard is flown, and then only when she is in residence. She was staying at Balmoral because she didn't come to London in September. Again, by tradition. It was all very by the book, but it took no account of the fact that the people couldn't give a d.a.m.n about 'the book', actually disliked 'the book', in fact, thought 'the book' had in part produced the chain of events that led to Diana's death. In the strange symbiosis between ruler and ruled, the people were insisting that the Queen acknowledge that she ruled by their consent, and bend to their insistence.

Public anger was turning towards the royal family. At the same time, it hadn't abated towards the press who, sensing this, understood that they needed to direct it at the other target. And to be fair, they were releasing genuine public feeling and, like everyone else, struggling to read where it might all go.

There were also two camps inside Buckingham Palace. One was thoroughly traditional, and had not regarded Diana as an a.s.set but as a danger. They felt that to give way to press and public pressure was to start down the slippery path to a populist-driven monarchy, which would then lead to the monarchy ceasing to be true to its station, and therefore losing its essential raison d'etre raison d'etre. As admirably tough and principled as that approach was, it seemed hopelessly out of touch. While they may have understood the sadness of the people, they didn't understand the potential for rage.

The second camp in the Palace was to some degree represented by people such as Robert Fellowes, the Queen's private secretary and brother-in-law to Diana, who was a thoroughly sensible man. I don't know what he really thought of Diana I think he saw both sides to her, loved the side he loved and shrugged at the other but he was a professional and, as you sometimes find with well-bred upper-cla.s.s types, a lot more shrewd and savvy than he let on. His deputy Robin Janvrin, who later succeeded him, was a Foreign Office official, also bright and completely au fait with where it was all heading.

At the suggestion of the Palace, I was to greet the body as it arrived from Paris. As I stood with sundry members of the Establishment out on the tarmac at RAF Northolt, I was acutely aware of the different camps. I had already decided in my own mind that this was a moment for the country to unite. There had to be love for Diana; respect for the Queen; a celebration of what a great country this is and how proud we were in having such a princess, and we had to show ourselves able to put on something spectacular in her memory to the lasting admiration of the world. I therefore thought my job was to protect the monarchy, channel the anger before it became rage, and generally have the whole business emerge in a positive and unifying way, rather than be a source of tension, division and bitterness.

I also really felt for the Queen herself, who was in a h.e.l.lishly difficult situation. On the one hand she had been worried about the impact of Diana on the monarchy as an inst.i.tution, and on the other of course she grieved for the mother of the grandchildren she completely adored; but she didn't want to pretend to a view of Diana that was more conflicted than the public could accept, so her reluctance to step forward came about less through obedience to tradition and 'the book' though undoubtedly that was part of it and more through a sincere desire to be true to what she really felt. My upfront and visible filling of the vacuum would have made her uncomfortable, and certainly some of those around her somewhat disdained it. It also emphasised their general unease with me and what I represented.

I am not a great one for the Establishment. It's probably at heart why I'm in the Labour Party and always will be. It's not that I mind them particularly, and, over the days that followed Diana's death, I did my level best to protect not just the Queen but also the court. I have to say, also, I found them polite, charming even, and never anything other than helpful people. So what I'm about to add may say more about me than about them. I always felt that they preferred political leaders of two types: either those who were of them or at least fully subscribed to their general outlook or the 'authentic' Labour people, the sort they used to read about, who spoke with an accent and who fitted their view of how such people should be. People like me were a bit nouveau riche, a bit arriviste, a bit confusing and therefore suspect. So I was also aware, during these days, that if it became too obvious I was trying to shape things, I could expect considerable blowback; and if I stumbled, I shouldn't expect help getting up.

It was strange standing there at Northolt watching the plane arrive, waiting for the coffin to be brought out, the press pack penned in their hundreds behind the fence, the awkward chit-chat with the others. You have to be so careful at such events. You stand around talking. The mood is sombre. Someone says h.e.l.lo; the natural inclination is to smile. Someone snaps the picture. Before you know it, you look as if you are behaving inappropriately, as if the only thing you did was grin. Diana was not wrong about photographs. When Cherie and I were getting out of the car for a memorial service or some other solemn occasion, I would always say, as much to myself as to Cherie, you can't afford to smile too broadly or laugh. Be on your guard.

For Prince Charles, it was really ghastly. He and Camilla were an obvious focus of intense interest and speculation. What could he do? Appear grief-stricken and he would be called a fraud. Appear calm and he would seem cold. It was an impossible situation, his every gesture interpreted or more likely misinterpreted, and people ready to pounce on any slip.

In this extraordinary, challenging time, his relations.h.i.+p with the boys rescued him. At that point I hadn't really seen them together, but as I saw more of them later, I realised that the relations.h.i.+p was close and deeply affectionate on both sides. Not surprisingly, since they were father and sons, you might say; but back then there were plenty of people who a.s.sumed that the strain between husband and wife had been transferred to father and sons. However, it wasn't so, and as the days wore on it became clearer, significantly easing the pressure on Prince Charles.

I had got to know him quite well before coming to office. He had made it his business to acquaint himself with leading members of what was likely to be the governing party. He was a curious mixture of the traditional and the radical (at one level he was quite New Labour; at another, definitely not), and of the princely and the insecure. He led a life in which naturally people deferred to him, and you wouldn't describe him as easy-going, certainly not in the way Diana was, but he was also sensitive to criticism and nervous about the public reaction to him.

I could never imagine him sitting in Maggie Rae's bas.e.m.e.nt dining room in her terrace house in Hackney as Diana had, jos.h.i.+ng with the other guests, everyone on first-name terms and beguiled into more or less complete informality. On the other hand, he had and has one very major and, to me, transcendent quality: he is enormously and sincerely committed. He does not sit on his backside biding his time until the moment of coronation comes. He genuinely cares about the causes he takes up, but more than that, he identifies with them. He thinks about them deeply. And in his own funny way, when you get to know him better, he is less de haut en bas de haut en bas than many junior and transient heads of state. Probably he underestimates how much the public now more than then get him and are comfortable with him. They can smirk at the tree-hugging, talking-to-flowers business, and they can find it weird and unnatural when he refuses to play the game by their rules (as in that extraordinary moment when he and Diana had just become engaged and he was asked whether he loved her and said, 'Yes, whatever "love" means'), but they also know he does good work, believes in his duty to them and has commitment. That counts for a lot. than many junior and transient heads of state. Probably he underestimates how much the public now more than then get him and are comfortable with him. They can smirk at the tree-hugging, talking-to-flowers business, and they can find it weird and unnatural when he refuses to play the game by their rules (as in that extraordinary moment when he and Diana had just become engaged and he was asked whether he loved her and said, 'Yes, whatever "love" means'), but they also know he does good work, believes in his duty to them and has commitment. That counts for a lot.

Towards the end of the second term, I was asked to advise on whether he and Camilla could or should get married. The scars of the Diana business were deep and lasting. It is fair to say that the Palace had become understandably neuralgic about anything that touched on it. I immediately said I thought it would be fine. They love each other; why not? Or are we really saying it's better they don't marry, as if marriage was somehow an insult? And by and large it was fine. There was, and from time to time still is, a media desire to go after and demonise Camilla, but the public have sussed her out too. They understand she is an uncomplicated, down-to-earth person who happens to love him. Is she Diana? No. Does she pretend to be? No. So let them get on with it. Now we are more sympathetic, more perceptive of the fact that the royals are both different and the same. In some ways, the furore around Diana's death was the point at which things turned. People not only felt the monarchy had taken a further and necessary step towards being more open to public opinion, but they also saw the human frailty and strength of its leading representatives and accepted both equally. The monarchy realised it could open up while remaining royal.

But during those days, it certainly felt touch-and-go. As the Queen stayed up in Balmoral and London became the capital of mourning for the world, the gulf between monarch and subjects became wider. Alastair and Anji had been inserted into the committee established by the Palace to handle the funeral and keep on top of the 'situation' as it was unfolding. Both were evidently being of huge benefit to a machine not unnaturally struggling with the enormity of it all. Alastair was also guiding the press while alive to accusations of manipulating them, though frankly in crises like this, the difference between the two is hard to spot. I wanted Anji in there because I knew that whereas Alastair would take a tabloid view of what needed to be done, she would speak for her very correct brand of Middle England. Between them, we had a chance to get the balance right. Some of the court were suspicious of such 'interference', but most thought it practical and Robert Fellowes in particular insisted on it.

The funeral to be held the following Sat.u.r.day was the main topic of debate. It had to be dignified; it had to be different; and it had to be Diana. There were endless discussions of the precise numbers of each category of people to be invited, the order of service and the role of Diana's family. Her brother Charles Spencer was a very strong and a.s.sertive character who felt extremely angry at the way she had been treated, certainly by the media and possibly by the royal family. Each decision was highly sensitive with multiple pros and cons, each had been worked and reworked. There was a big debate about whether the boys should walk behind the cortege with Prince Charles, and concern about the differing possible public reactions to him and to them.

Most of all, pressure was mounting on the Queen. I went out on the Wednesday and did a doorstep, supporting her strongly and asking for understanding that the priority was the children, as it should be. However, the fact that I was speaking only served to emphasise the fact that she wasn't. Indeed, if I hadn't spoken on the Sunday and during the week that followed, literally no one in any position of authority would have been speaking. How bizarre would that have been, given this was the only news worldwide? Meanwhile, though Alastair and Anji were more or less working full-time on this, I was having to attend to government matters. We were cranking up the Northern Ireland business to get to a ceasefire by the IRA, and that was taking time; I had a major speech to the Trades Union Congress (TUC) the next week; there was a big education summit at Downing Street on the Thursday; and of course throughout I was taking calls from world leaders who rang to express their condolences.

On Wednesday afternoon, I decided to call Prince Charles. Part of my problem with the Queen was that there was no easy point of connection in age, or outlook, or acquaintance. I respected her and was a little in awe of her, but as a new prime minister I didn't know her, or how she would take the very direct advice that I now felt I had to give her. I totally understood how she looked at the whole thing and sympathised, but you didn't have to be a political genius to work out that this was a tide that had to be channelled. It couldn't be turned back, resisted or ignored. I didn't trust myself fully to go straight to her and be as blunt as I needed to be. So I went to Charles.

I called him from the den at Downing Street and realised straight away it had been the right thing to do. He was clearly of completely the same mind. The Queen had to speak; the royal family had to be visible. However tough it was for him personally, for all the obvious reasons, he and the boys couldn't hide away. They had to come to London to respond to the public outpouring. I was extraordinarily relieved. He agreed to take the message back. By the next day, Thursday, it was clear there would be a broadcast by the Queen herself. Alastair was able to steer the journalists gently on to that track, and almost immediately the tension started to dissipate and you could feel people moving back towards her.

At the Queen's request I called her on Thursday lunchtime, and we spoke about what would happen the next day and how it would be managed. She was now very focused and totally persuaded. It wasn't easy, but it was certain. The following day, the Queen, Charles and the boys visited the front of Buckingham Palace, which had turned into a shrine. There were some last-minute discussions about her precise words, but it was plain from the language and tone that once she had decided to move, she moved with considerable skill. The broadcast was near perfect. She managed to be a queen and a grandmother at one and the same time.

I had spoken to Prince Charles again and we had gone through the arrangements for the funeral one last time. The Palace had asked me to read a lesson. It was a mark of how pivotal my role had been through the week, but I also knew it would lead to a charge of 'muscling in'. Indeed, throughout, we were walking a tightrope, thinner and more frayed by the day, between organising everything to go well and 'cas.h.i.+ng in' or exploiting. And that was in those halcyon days; heaven knows what would have happened had Diana died some years later ...

The funeral was all we could have hoped for. It was unusual Elton John singing 'Candle In The Wind', and doing it rather brilliantly but it was also in keeping with Westminster Abbey. Charles Spencer made a strong attack on the press (I said to Alastair, mark my words, they will wait for the chance for revenge, and if it comes they will seize it savagely). There was also something of a rebuke to the royal family, but his speech was powerful and would reverberate.

I gave lunch to a huge a.s.sortment of kings, queens, heads of state and dignitaries. Hillary Clinton came, representing the USA, and as ever it was good to see her. The scale of the whole affair was gigantic. On occasions like these, I tended to shut off from everything around and just concentrate on doing it. I was always glad when they were over.

The next day I did Frost Frost which went fine and then went to Balmoral for the traditional weekend, except that this time, of course, it was anything but the run-of-the-mill visit. which went fine and then went to Balmoral for the traditional weekend, except that this time, of course, it was anything but the run-of-the-mill visit.

Balmoral Castle was built in the 1840s by Prince Albert for his wife and queen, situated between the villages of Ballater and Braemar. It is magnificent, the grounds simply stunning, and although the September weather is normally awful up there, it can be quite pleasant. On a sunny day, there is no more beautiful part of the world than that part of Scotland. The castle itself is very Victorian. There are no huge chambers or halls, the rooms are of moderate size, and some of the toilets are still the old water closets; not many are en suite, as they say.

I have to say I found the experience of visiting and spending the weekend a vivid combination of the intriguing, the surreal and the utterly freaky. The whole culture of it was totally alien of course, not that the royals weren't very welcoming. But I never did 'country house' or 'stately home' weekends and had a bit of a horror of the notion.

The walls are hung with Landseer pictures of stags, scenes of hunting and of course Queen Victoria's Mr Brown. There are footmen in fact very nice guys, but still footmen. When I arrived for the first time on that Sunday, the valet yes, you got your own valet asked me if he could fold my clothes and generally iron the underpants and that type of thing, and so disconcerted me that when he then asked me if he could 'draw the bath', I lost the thread completely and actually thought for a moment he wanted to sketch the d.a.m.n thing. Using the bathroom on the other side of the corridor was a singular act of courage, sneaking open the bedroom door, glancing right and left and then making for it at speed.

There was a routine to everything. There was a proper afternoon tea, and the Queen would pour with, needless to say, a proper strainer, and a kettle was kept bubbling away so that the pot could be filled up. Breakfast was likewise straight out of Trollope, or, perhaps better, Walter Scott. Eggs, bacon, sausage, kidneys, tomatoes, kedgeree and kippers, all kept on a hotplate. Breakfast was huge. Lunch was huge. Dinner was huge. If you indulged thoroughly, you could have put on a stone in a weekend, but the royals never did. I always noticed that they ate very little.

The blessing was the stiff drink you could get before dinner. Had it been a dry event, had the Queen been a teetotaller or a temperance fanatic, I don't believe I could have got through the weekend. But this stuff I was never quite sure what it was was absolutely what was needed. It hit the spot. It was true rocket fuel. The burden and the head got lighter. The courage returned. The easy conversational intercourse with the royal family seemed entirely natural. The first two annual visits were, nevertheless, trying at all levels.

The second weekend, in 1998, was the anniversary of Diana's death and there was a service at Crathie where, on this occasion, the whole royal family was a.s.sembled, the only time in my experience it ever happened. Individually, it can be a little nerve-racking to be with them; en ma.s.se, all of them and just Cherie and me, well, you can imagine. Cherie had suggested we bring Euan, Nicky and Kathryn, at which I laughed hysterically and said on no account. Euan, for one, had a near-genius capacity for winding people up, as with his constant questions to Cherie about women's equality, a bait to which she always rose. The blood froze at the thought of what he would say to the Queen, let alone the Queen Mother who was also there.

Later, we went for the traditional barbecue that Prince Philip cooks, held in one of the estate cottages. This, too, is governed by convention and tradition. The royals cook, and serve the guests. They do the was.h.i.+ng-up. You think I'm joking, but I'm not. They put the gloves on and stick their hands in the sink. You sit there having eaten, the Queen asks if you've finished, she stacks the plates up and goes off to the sink.

I had also spoken to William, who was not only still grieving but angry. He knew, rationally, why the week betw