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Illtyd Harrington meets Harold Wilson just after the ‘white
hot heat of technology speech’
KenLivingstone with Illtyd Harrington protest against
Margaret Thatcher’s removal of grant from the GLC
in 1983 |
Did Falkender really write the Lavender list?
Illtyd Harrington was once up for a peerage, but was nobbled by MI5.
Here he wonders whether his name was added to Harold Wilson's retirement honours list by the formidable Lady Falkender
MY first impression of Harold Wilson was of a plump tabby
cat, puffing and confidently waiting for the highest political
office, which was to come within a year but with only a sparse
majority.
My first formal encounter with the future Labour Prime Minister
took place in October 1963. This was arranged so that we could
be photographed together while he approved my Parliamentary
candidature for Wembley North, a strong Tory seat in the forthcoming
election.
This event took place in a hotel in Scarborough. The Labour
party was holding its annual conference along the sea in the
Pavilion. That morning he had electrified them with the “white
hot heat of technology” speech. He struck me then as a
kind, avuncular man, rather worried that his octogenarian father
– an industrial chemist – was being properly looked
after in the hotel.
Standing on the side of this minor event were Alf Richman, seconded
from the Daily Herald, now The Sun, to act as Wilson’s
bag carrier, and two obvious courtiers, a woman who looked on
impatiently, and Gerald Kaufman, now Sir Gerald. I smiled for
the first time at Mrs Marcia Williams, later the notorious Lady
Falkender, Wilson’s political secretary. My blood did not
run cold. Ten years later we became loyal and honest friends.
She was at the heart of Wilson’s governments and I was
running things at the GLC.
Her reputation struck terror into the hearts of civil servants,
and anyone found hovering near Wilson with an assassin’s
dagger or a bad thought. Consequently she became the target
for the most outlandish tales of her sex life, financial dealings
and connections with other power brokers. True – she produced
twin sons – who the wildest gossips assured their gullible
listeners were Harold Wilson’s children.
They were, in fact, the sons of Walter Terry, the political
editor of the Daily Mail. Mary Wilson endured this relentless
and causal speculation.
At this time, Marcia saw me as one useful conduit to Wilson
with my local government background and rather broad interest
in the metropolis.
The atmosphere at Downing Street on my visits was nearer to
a snake pit in Duran Zoo, rather than the high-voltage paranoia
that always seems to fry the air. Public and private enemies
never gave up. After twice weekly cabinet meetings, Wilson wandered
into a small adjacent room and unwound. This was later to be
called the Kitchen Cabinet. Outside he withstood a daily lecturing
from Joe Haines, his acerbic press secretary who was in cohorts
with Bernard Donoghue, the head of policy. Both men loathed
and feared Marcia. This did not prevent them from later working
for a disgraced Robert Maxwell. Marcia encouraged me to accept
invitations to lunches and dinner to Number 10, and it became
clear in 1975 that the boat was rocking and unbearable pressures
were building up.
At the beginning of April 1975, the Prime Minister took me to
lunch in the House of Commons. As we entered, a wave of curiosity
took the room and he whispered “There must be someone notorious
here, it can’t possibly be you, It must be me.” He
was then still sharp and amusing. In two years time, the commonwealth
Prime Ministers were to meet in London. Suddenly he said: “Do
you think we can build a modern conference centre from the meeting?”
I said yes and that was the origin of the Queen Elizabeth conference
centre opposite Westminster Abbey. Secondly he went on: “1977
will be the Queen’s Jubilee year, can you persuade your
friend Charles Wintour – the editor of the Evening Standard
– we need to launch a campaign of support.”
A week later I wrote the Standard’s front page. Then to
my complete surprise he set his china blue eyes on me and whispered
he wanted me in the House of Lords, but it would take a year
to arrange. And that was how my name appeared on the Lavender
List among others including Marcia, Jimmy Goldsmiths and Sir
Donald Gosling. According to Lord Donoghue’s diaries my
name was removed by an old adversary, the late Bob Mellish,
doubtless preceded by personal innuendo and other lies, Mellish’s
stock in trade.
My forays into Wilson’s kitchen cabinet were intriguing
and riveting. Marcia retained the mind of an analytical historian.
Peggy a self-effacing sister, saw that our glasses were full.
One day Wilson insisted that I join him on a beer diet before
he left Prime Minister’s Question Time. Since then, rumour
has it that his doctor Joe Stone had proposed bumping Marcia
off. There were signs of MI5 and MI6 being out of control and
I have no doubt that the Kitchen Cabinet was bugged. High placed
lunatics began discussing a military coup and the IMF demanded
cuts in public expenditure that proved unnecessary. You could
hear the vultures fluttering down Whitehall.
Was Wilson a Soviet spy? I have learnt from reliable sources
that I was listed as part of a Communist cell in Downing Street.
What fantasies these intriguers conjure up! Wilson’s long
decline could only incite pity. He became repetitive and vague
as he took solitary walks along Victoria Street near his flat.
He underwent a means test by Westminster council where he was
a ratepayer. He paid for some of his care. There were no roubles
under the bed.
His departure in 1976 was inevitable. Marcia is reputed to have
written his retirement honours list. I doubt it. Shock horror
and fanciful tales of financial corruption followed in 1995.
After he died in that year, his wish to be buried in his beloved
Scilly Isles was bought up. The Labour establishment wept crocodile
tears but there was no contribution forthcoming. Of all people,
it was Lord Hanson and Tory Prime Minister John Major who helped
to make that funeral possible.
Harold Wilson was an effective Prime Minister who stabilised
the Labour Party from left of centre. And I enjoyed that period
as a sometime insider. Yes, there were times that Marcia reminded
me of Margaret Lockwood and the Wicked Lady ready to rob a passing
stagecoach. Although wickedly descried as Bugs Bunny, she was
an arresting personality in a world of misogynists. Once at
the height of her fame, we went to Peter Langham’s brassiere
in Devonshire Place for lunch. Two elderly Jewish ladies received
her throws as if a Gorgon had looked upon her. Rising to the
challenge in sparkling form, she said: “Yes, I am the Jezebel
of Downing Street and the bearded one is the Rasputin of County
Hall.”
The great tradition of British politics is to kick a man when
he’s down. If it’s a woman – kick her really
hard. Marcia is wise to keep her peace in retirement in Northampton
and enjoy a long friendship with Mary Wilson.
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