The Gatekeeper

BUT WHAT HAPPENS IF you don’t get the chance to deploy your zinger because no one has asked you the right question, we ask? Not a problem, says Bill. This is when he teaches us some fancy debate footwork called ‘the pivot’. You pivot from your answer on subject A (undesirable topic) onto subject B (desirable one), and then glide into your zinger.

David has to practise his moves. Offensive hit, defensive back down in the trench, then pivot, glide, and zinger.

Once we have prepared the scripts, Bill and Anita say it’s time to turn to the show itself. They insist that David rehearse properly – meaning a real, live practice, with people playing the parts of the other party leaders.

We gather for the rehearsal in the press conference room. Michael Gove is acting as compere. He bowls a few questions. A few answers in, it becomes apparent that Jeremy Hunt (aka Nick Clegg) is hogging the limelight and getting on our nerves. We can’t make up our minds whether it’s Jeremy being annoying per se, or Jeremy doing a superb job of being Nick. We need a Nick strategy, say Bill and Anita.

Until now we have had a Lib Dem strategy – which is to ignore Nick and ‘love bomb’ his supporters. We spend some time discussing what to do – but again, not enough. We really just want Jeremy Hunt to stop talking so we can focus on our main opponent, which is Gordon Brown.

We don’t spot the fact that the real problem is Nick. He is about to launch himself as the change candidate.

THE FIRST DEBATE IS in Manchester. By the time we arrive at Granada Studios, the place is heaving ahead of the big fight. The city is divided by colours – reds, blues, yellows. The candidates are clipped on the lunchtime news. Clegg looks the most relaxed and says he has gone for a long walk to clear his head.

That afternoon we look round the set. It is always good to see it in advance. The stage is all laid out: three podiums, with one extra for the compere, the audience seats stretched in a semicircle around it. Though it looks huge on television, it is a tiny set. The reality of the evening’s show hits home. We talk lights and camera positions. David is getting nervous.

Back at the hotel, David takes a nap and I join the rest of the team. George has arrived. He’s not here just to support David; he is also our chief ‘spinner’ for the night, representing David’s performance to the press. He will call the debate a win for David, whether it is or not.

My son calls. He has been away for a week in Venice visiting his grandfather. I miss him terribly. There has been a last-minute change of plans – he is to fly home on his own. He is only 8 and I am uneasy. My father-in-law gets on the phone to reassure me. Guy’s bag is all packed and he is dying to see his mum. He’s very excited about the flight; it is a big adventure. Then Guy’s small voice is back on the phone. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Mummy.’

I rejoin the team hovering by the TV. There is a story about a volcano erupting. I watch the dust emerging from its angry mouth. Liz comes in to tell us we can’t use the helicopter, or Con Air, to get back on the road tomorrow. In fact, all flights are grounded because of the volcano. It takes me a few minutes to put the two things together: the dust cloud and my son’s flight home. I try to put it out of my mind. It is bound to be fine by tomorrow.

We leave in a chaos of cars. David is with Samantha; I am with the rest of the team. There are protestors outside the studio and cameras everywhere. Journalists shout at us as we drive past. Our group divides. We are all given special wristbands that determine where we are allowed to go. Andy and George are directed to a special ‘spin room’ where others, including Theresa May, will talk to the press after the debate. Samantha and Ed head to the Cameron green room – a tiny back office set up with a large TV.

I go with David to make-up. We have to wait our turn; the Prime Minister is ahead of us, we are told. Minutes later, Gordon Brown emerges looking wild and covered in white powder. ‘HELLO, DAVID!’ he barks. (He speaks in capitals. He is not usually interactive in conversation, preferring statements to dialogue.)

‘Whatever you do, don’t let the make-up woman put all that powder on you,’ I say to David once he has passed us.

After make-up, David is led off by the production team. I feel sick to my stomach. I find Samantha and the others in our ‘green room’ broom cupboard. We have only Fanta and peanuts for sustenance. I make a mental note to remember to bring some wine next time.

The debate begins shortly after 8 p.m. It quickly devolves into a slow-motion, live TV torture of David Cameron. He is answering the questions well enough but lacking the warmth that normally comes naturally to him. He is clearly nervous – we all are – and doesn’t look into the camera. I am glad he cannot see the line at the bottom of the TV screen representing what a group of undecided voters are thinking of the answers in real time. They indicate this using hand-held dials, creating this worrying infectious line, which is called ‘the worm’. The worm does not seem to have taken to David Cameron. It doesn’t seem to like Gordon Brown very much either. But the worm likes Nick Clegg – a lot. Fresh-faced Nick is coming across as Mr Honest and Reasonable Nice Guy. The antipolitics person. He is looking straight down the barrel of the camera as he answers each question – straight at the ‘folks’ at home.

Nick is winning this, Samantha says every two seconds. It’s fine, I reply, David is doing really well. But I know she is right. After the gruelling hour is up, David returns and sinks into a chair. We head back to his suite at the hotel and open a bottle of wine. The general agreement is that it was not David’s best performance, but it was adequate. Gordon was much worse. So what? One down, two to go. He will do better in the next debate.

Half an hour or so later, George and Andy reappear, exhausted from their copious spinning. They have done their best, but it has not been as easy to sell as a win. ‘Give me the hard stuff,’ Andy says, reaching for the spirits. George has been picked on by his old bête noire, Peter Mandelson. His briefing to a gathering of journalists was interrupted. ‘Look who’s over there,’ George imitates Mandy. ‘It’s my little friend Georgie – poor Georgie … spinning his little web, but he has nothing to spin with, ’cos his old pal Dave didn’t do very well.’

The next morning, we awake to a wall of failure streaming from every orifice of the media. Nick is the hero of the day – the man the nation has been waiting for. David is yesterday’s man. No one cares about Brown anymore. A lightning poll puts the Lib Dems ahead. Suddenly Nick stands as a potential prime minister. The political landscape has been completely altered. We are no longer sure what sort of election we are fighting. Is it against Labour and Gordon, or against Nick and the Lib Dems? We seem to be neither the incumbent nor the change candidate – and we’re heading fast, too fast, into political oblivion.

An exhausted and disheartened David heads down to Dean for the weekend with Samantha. The rest of the team regroup in London. Bill Knapp is still here, unable to fly back to the States, courtesy of that volcanic dust cloud. Andrew Feldman takes him home for Friday night Shabbat. My son is still stuck in Italy, thanks to the same cloud.

I speak to him every day, his voice getting quieter and quieter. ‘When will the volcano stop?’ he asks.

IT FEELS LIKE ONLY a second has gone by and the next debate, like the dust cloud, is looming ominously. I can feel the pressure mounting on David. This debate is being filmed in Bristol, and we have set aside a night and a morning for prep in Exeter. We all agree we should not fixate on Nick too much. We simply need David to relax and be more himself – to think about what he is trying to say. Look down the barrel of the camera, David repeats again and again. ‘To the folks at home,’ he adds, to reassure Bill.

The carnival arrives in Bristol. The normally cosy and calm West Country city is throbbing with camera crews and journalists. We find what looks like a quiet café and sit down to have a cup of tea. Within seconds a cameraman appears out of nowhere and starts filming us. More and more emerge from the back of the café like wasps. We sip our tea live on TV.

Back at the studio, Liz hands out the wristbands again and we head off to our different posts. David gets off to a good start. He is more relaxed and remembers to look directly into the camera lens. Nick sticks with his fresh-faced routine. Anyone who is tired of old politics, I’m your man, he is arguing, and almost everyone is tired of politics. Gordon is Gordon. The worm wavers between Nick and David. It is a draw.

The weekend polls are all over the place. We are not losing the election, but neither are we winning it. We have one more debate and then just over a week of campaigning left.

The dust cloud continues to hover, grounding planes everywhere. The summer term is about to begin but half of my son’s class are still stuck in a foreign destination unable to get home. The school’s website is offering car shares from the far corners of Europe. One friend rings me from a luxury resort halfway round the world. ‘I’m dying here in paradise,’ she says. I half feel sorry for her, then think better of it. My son is still in Venice, and he’s stopped coming to the phone. Something must be done.

A few days later, my son, accompanied by his noble grandfather, sets off on the long journey home by train. They carry food, books, and a deck of cards – anything they can think of to amuse themselves. My husband fights his way onto a ferry, rents a car, then drives to Paris, where the three generations are reunited over steak-frites. The weekend before the third debate, my son is finally home.

I talk to David about how he wants to approach the preparations. He is tired of rehearsing and wants some space. Too many people, too many points of view. He needs time to collect himself.

I phone my friend, the highly respected comms coach Anthony Gordon Lennox, who helped us in the early days of the leadership election. He has an extraordinary ability to bring out the natural strength and confidence in people, shutting out the external noise so that the person is able to concentrate on what they are trying to say. I ask him to come and have a quiet session with just David and me.

We will not rehearse ahead of the final debate.

THIS TIME WE ARE in Birmingham. The lead-up has been totally overshadowed by Gordon Brown being caught ranting in his car about a woman called Gillian Duffy whom he has called ‘bigoted’, unaware that he was still wearing his microphone from a previous interview. The clip is played nonstop on all the media outlets. Gordon has blamed the gaffe on Sue Nye, his long-time aide. It feels like a career-ending moment.

David has been mimicking Brown all day – ‘How could you let this happen, Sue?!’ – and telling Liz and me how lucky we are to have such an easy-going boss. We don’t engage. Later in the day, Brown is photographed, head in hands, as he is forced to listen to the clip live on Radio 2. I actually cannot bear to watch the footage. It seems almost cruel – Brown, the wounded animal being hunted by the pack.

Backstage at the debate, I experience a sudden desire to leave, to head back to the hotel and sleep through the whole thing. I can’t face the tension of the worm. But I stay. After a few minutes or so, David gets into his stride. The audience is warming to him and he is visibly relaxing. Some of the freshness around Nick seems to have worn off. Gordon is looking out to space, presumably in the hope that someone will come and take him away to a less hostile environment.

The worm is with David. It is a win. We collapse back at the suite, for once enjoying the post-debate commentary on the television. A mass of pizzas arrive that no one will admit to ordering, but it doesn’t stop them being eaten. It is late when we finally get some sleep. There is one week left until polling day.

In the short time left, Labour mount a massive attack against our economic policy. It is all about ‘Tory cuts’, and bit by bit, we see our poll lead nibbled away. In the end, Nick’s huge success during the debates is not borne out in the final poll. He loses ground: his breakthrough was just a blip – testimony to the fact that the ‘X Factor’ can put people on a pedestal, and then bring them down to earth again, even more quickly.

So, did the debates make a difference to the election? Not to the Lib Dems. And to us? We lost ground and then recovered it. But David has a different take: without the distraction of the TV debates, he thinks Labour’s campaign might have gained more ground. After all, we had bravely gone into the general election being honest about our plans for austerity, and we might well have paid a price for it at the ballot box.

— 7 —

THE ELECTION BUS

It was George’s idea for us to do the all-nighter into polling day. (Notably, though, ‘for us’ did not include him.) Coverage of our election bus stopping every hour or so during the night would be new to British politics. Hopefully, it would show real energy and our will to win.

I pack a small bag for the trip and then repack, choosing a slightly bigger bag that will fit a pillow. The plan is for me to meet up with the team who are already in Scotland, where we will begin our descent, zigzagging the length and breadth of the nation. We are all in good spirits when we stop off at a local chippy in Longtown, near Carlisle, to get supper. An hour or so later we stop to meet some firemen, and a few hours after that, to visit a smelting factory.

Towards midnight we try to get a bit of sleep in the back of the bus, and I sneak my pillow out of the bag hoping David won’t notice. ‘I can’t believe you’ve actually brought a pillow,’ he says, beady-eyed, before admitting he’d thought about bringing one himself.

I lay my head on what feels like a million pounds’ worth of down. I am not able to enjoy the luxury for long. It is like having a newborn. Every hour and a half, Liz comes to wake us for the next visit, and we smarten up and get out of the bus. David chats away to people, does a few interviews, and on we go. By 3 a.m. I am paralysed with exhaustion. I cannot think how David is managing to be so awake and ‘on it’. Then a photographer from The Sun arrives. David sits up looking all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but I cannot actually move. I lie there, just by him, with a blanket over me, hoping that I am invisible, a bit like a small child playing hide-and-seek who thinks if they shut their eyes, no one will see them. Arthur Edwards, who I learn is something of a legend in the trade, takes a number of photographs of David that appear to feature a small ear protruding from his left elbow. This is me.

At dawn we arrive at the fish market in Grimsby. The place is a hive of activity, and the sea air feels refreshing after the sleepless night. Back on the bus we continue to drive south. All I want is a shower and a large cup of coffee, but neither is on the agenda. We are on a mission to pick off as many target seats as we can, and we do not have time for comfort breaks. The bus smells of unwashed bodies and fish.

By lunchtime there is rebellion brewing amongst the journalists in the front of the bus, which – given that they are representing us to the nation on the eve of the poll – feels more than a little perilous. Joey Jones, deputy political editor for Sky News, saves the day by buying a large hunk of steak and switching on the bus’s yet-to-be-used oven. By the time we have finished listening to a children’s choir in Wales, Joey is handing out steak sandwiches. Morale is recovering. The smell is now of unwashed bodies, fish, and Sunday roast.

In the back, we are tired but in good spirits. We have had our ups and downs but we are now slightly ahead in the polls. Is it by enough? We are far from complacent, but nor are we downcast. Labour has dominated politics for well over a decade, winning three elections and seeing off as many Tory leaders. Driving through the final day of the campaign, our destiny approaching, we feel we are on the cusp of something historic, a winning team in one way or another. And as we arrive in Bristol for the final rally, there is a palpable sense of excitement, not least because we can just about reach out and touch the finishing line.

We check into a hotel in the centre of the city. We have time for a cup of tea and a bit of speech prep. David looks at his dishevelled hair in the mirror and I suggest we try a little of the dry shampoo that Isabel Spearman, Samantha’s fashionable and determined right-hand woman, has given us in the event of a ‘bad hair day’. I am nervous with the can. David grabs it off me, spraying it generously over his head at close range. I look at him aghast. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asks. ‘You’ve gone completely grey,’ I say.

Liz comes in. ‘Five minutes,’ she announces. I point at the grey-headed David. We clearly need more than five minutes. He rushes into the shower while Liz holds up the rally. I have another cup of tea.

And that is our work done for the 2010 campaign. Tomorrow the country will go to the polls. David will vote in Dean, and I make my way back to London to vote in the morning. I arrive home happy to see the faces of my children before it is time to put them to bed.

They are old enough to know that tomorrow is a big day, but too young to really understand. ‘We want the blue team to win, don’t we Mummy?’ We settle with that.

AFTER ALL OF THE strategy meetings, planning sessions, conference calls, interviews, speeches, TV appearances, visits, and debates, all of the hours spent in cars, trains, helicopters, and planes – plus, the all-nighter on the bus – everything comes to an abrupt standstill on election day, as there are strict rules about what the media can report while the polls are open. And there is only one sort of picture the media want on election day – that of each of the party leaders voting for themselves.

Instead, this is primarily GOTV Day – ‘Get Out the Vote’ – the busiest day of the election for the party machine. This is what all the canvassing is for: to find out who your supporters are so you can mobilise them on the day. By late afternoon, anyone you were counting on who hasn’t turned up to vote should be getting a call. By late evening, the team should be literally offering to drive any ‘no shows’ to the polling stations. In a rural seat they might even pass through the villages with a loud hailer.

Every election day we face a choice: add an extra couple of people to the GOTV effort, or hunker down and start planning for what will happen if we win. Both times, we have gone with the latter, for the simple reason that if you win, there is a great deal to plan. You need to form a government for a start. And then you need to start announcing things – big, strong things which speak to your values and your agenda. First impressions stick, and you’ve got about a hundred days to form them.

THURSDAY, 6 MAY. I am one of the first at my local polling station. Clutching a large cup of coffee, I then join my colleagues and we set off to the country. The plan is to spend the day at Steve Hilton’s house in Oxfordshire, out of the sight of the media who are gathering a few miles down the road at David’s house in Dean.

David, George, Oliver, Ed, Andy, and I, along with our Chief Whip, Patrick McLoughlin, converge on the farmhouse that Steve has quite recently bought with his wife, Rachel. Steve is buzzing round the kitchen when we arrive – extremely house-proud. We settle down to work around the kitchen table. And although none of us are sure of victory, we plan for a win, running through our initial plans for the first three days, first week, first month. There are key events to schedule, like the first meeting of the Cabinet and of the newly formed National Security Council. If we win, we have a Queen’s speech to prepare. We have also promised to hold an emergency budget this side of the summer break, since we have ‘in year’ cuts that we plan to announce. And of course, we have a government to form.

We talk over the make-up of the Cabinet. Some of it is straightforward: William Hague will go to the Foreign Office, George to the Treasury. Some of it isn’t. We are mulling over George’s idea of putting Theresa May in the Home Office. Then there is the question of whether we reach out to Iain Duncan Smith – possibly for the Welfare job. IDS has made a name for himself over the past few years campaigning on social justice issues. David wants to build broad church if he gets the chance to form a government.

More sensitive than all of this is our discussion around the Lib Dems. In the event we don’t quite pull it off – that is, if we win the most seats but fall short of a majority – the question will then be whether to reach out to the Lib Dems, and if so, on what basis? The ‘what basis’ part is what we have asked Oliver to think about very, very privately over the last week. He has read and reread the Lib Dem manifesto, churned through their past statements, and met privately at George’s house with William Hague and Ed to mull over the issues. Oliver already has a handle on how to form part of a common agenda for some sort of coalition agreement, formal or otherwise.

After lunch, like nursery school children, we all go for quiet time – wandering round the house to find a bed or a sofa to lie down on. Most of us are far too anxious to rest, but it is a good idea, in theory. We will be up all night.

We re-gather in Steve and Rachel’s kitchen a few hours later with cups of tea and work in hand. Soon George has a date in the field next door with a helicopter, which will take him up to his count in Tatton. Oliver too will disappear, to Dorset. The rest of us will go with David to his home at Dean. We do a sweepstake of how many seats we think we will win. Ominously, we all choose numbers that suggest we will not win an outright majority. Then we say our goodbyes. When we next meet we will know the outcome of the election (or at least we think we will).

Samantha is at the house with Isabel Spearman when we arrive. There is a mounting tension. David strides round the garden. We offer to help Samantha with the supper. Chopping is therapeutic. There is nothing really to do until the ten o’clock news. Isabel pulls me aside: ‘You need some make-up,’ she says, looking at me critically. Half an hour later I join the others, made up to the nines, feeling rather self-conscious. We sit down for dinner. Texts are flying in from friends, family, political colleagues, which we share with each other. Some good news, some less. It is difficult to tell what is going on.

The chimes of the news bring with them the exit polls, which forecast a hung parliament with the Tories as the largest party. We are neither surprised nor disheartened, considering the news as a final forecast rather than the definitive result. The difference between being the largest party and the overall winner is so slight it is in fact difficult to call. We feel cautiously optimistic. At least we are somewhere near a win of some sort. David looks set to be prime minister.

But the evening does not feel like a victory. Even though the results are coming in strong for us, they are also fairly consistent for Labour. We are neck and neck when, in the early hours of the morning, it is time for us to head off to David’s Witney count. There is not room for us all to attend the count, which is a sought-after ticket for local members, so Ed and I remain in the car, listening to the radio in a sort of wakeful sleepiness. When David finally emerges from the count, we start back to London, a convoy of cars. BBC and ITV helicopters are above us, filming our journey. Some random results are coming in, keeping us away from definitive victory. It feels like we are driving into limbo land.

It must be after 5 a.m. when we finally arrive at CCHQ. There is an army of cameras outside, but I am too tired to notice. We make our way up to the third floor, past the many campaign staff who are watching the final results trickling in, through to the office towards the back of the building that we have made our own. There is no mood of celebration. We sip our cups of strong builder’s tea apprehensively while we wait for George to return from Cheshire.