TOM BOWER

GORDON BROWN

PRIME MINISTER

DEDICATION

To Sophie, with love

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Introduction

1 Ghosts and Dreams

2 Metamorphosis

3 Turbulence

4 Retreat

5 Seduction

6 ‘Do You Want Me to Write a Thank-You Letter?’

7 Fevered Honeymoon

8 Demons and Grudges

9 Enjoying Antagonism

10 Turmoil and Tragedy

11 Revolt

12 Aftermath

13 Bloodshed

14 Coup

Index

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Source Notes

Praise

By the Same Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

INTRODUCTION

Their laughter was raucous. Seated in the Club section of the British Airways aircraft, the ten men were bonded by their love of football and their anticipation of a laddish weekend in Rome. Five months after the general election, the new Chancellor of the Exchequer was laughing with his intimate gang. There was much to celebrate.

On Saturday, 11 October 1997, England was playing Italy in a qualifying match for the World Cup. The valuable tickets for the game had been obtained for the group by Geoffrey Robinson, the paymaster general, as a favour to Gordon Brown, who was seated in the front of the jet. The prospect of football, beer and banter in Rome appealed to the former schoolboy footballer. The game was a male’s world, an emotionally satisfying conclave excluding women. The weekend would also be an opportunity to develop relationships with journalists, whose sympathetic reports about his successes would enhance his reputation and help his dream to become Britain’s prime minister. Brown, the host of many noisy parties during and after his student days in Edinburgh, enjoyed the mixture of politics and sport.

The invitations to the journalists had been issued by Charlie Whelan, the chancellor’s sparky press spokesman, who was seated near Brown. Over the previous years Whelan had regularly offered friendly journalists tickets to special football matches and issued invitations to memorable parties before international fixtures in Robinson’s flat at the Grosvenor House Hotel in Park Lane. ‘Oh, Geoffrey,’ quipped Brown as they flew over Tuscany, ‘your villa is down there. We should have a campaign: one villa one vote.’ The reference to the villa controversially loaned to Tony Blair and his family during the summer triggered more laughter. Brown had been in good form ever since they assembled at Heathrow. ‘What’s the difference,’ he had asked as they waited for the plane, ‘between Jim Farry [the chief executive of the Scottish Football Association] and Saddam Hussein? One is an evil dictator who will stop at nothing, and the other is the leader of Iraq.’ The banter was joined by Ed Balls, the chancellor’s personable and intelligent adviser, and the fourth of the quartet – Brown, Robinson, Balls and Whelan. Balls’s eminence in the Treasury was resented only by the envious and the defeated. The thirty-year-old was the intellectual guide of the chancellor’s conversion from a traditional socialist to the mastermind of New Labour’s appeal to the middle classes. Since Labour’s landslide victory Balls had become guru, gatekeeper and ‘deputy chancellor’ in the Treasury.

The four had unashamedly fashioned their capture of the Treasury as storm troopers assailing a conservative bastion, revolutionaries expelling the old guard. Over more than a decade Gordon Brown had plotted and agonised to achieve that coup. Disputes and distress had marred the route to 11 Downing Street, and five months after his victory the new, unconventional inhabitants of Whitehall incited malicious gossip about the introduction of bull market tactics into Westminster politics, prompting Blairites to accuse Brown of behaving like a Mafia godfather, an accusation he resented.

The only unease among the six journalists was caused by their Club class tickets, each costing £742. Geoffrey Robinson had privately settled the account, leaving a suspicion that the journalists would not be pressed to repay. His guests briefly considered the millionaire’s motives. Robinson’s ebullience made the trip feel like one of those louche jamborees organised by public relations companies for anxious clients. His fortune, earned in suspicious circumstances and concealed in offshore banks, had financed Brown’s private office before the election. For any politician to be associated with Robinson provoked questions. The journalists judged that the chancellor was not suspicious about the motives of their host, whose generosity had relieved the Scotsman’s social isolation in London. Nevertheless, before the jet landed, some resolved that regardless of Charlie Whelan’s inevitable scoffs, their fares would be reimbursed, with a request for a receipt.

The laughter halted. Gordon Brown, dressed in his customary dark suit, white shirt and red tie, fumed, ‘Do you know they’ve sold the Scotland match against Latvia to Channel 5, and only half of Scotland has Channel 5?’ The admirer of Jock Stein had travelled to see Scotland play in Spain during the 1982 World Cup, and was dogged by a grievance about the day’s other qualifying match. The gripe erupted again after the landing at Rome airport.

The privileges of political office had been snatched by the chancellor’s party. On the instructions of Sir Thomas Richardson, the British ambassador, the embassy’s economic secretary, Rob Fenn, welcomed the group at the airport. But rather than drive direct to the embassy, Brown asked Fenn whether he knew anyone in Rome who subscribed to Channel 5. ‘I’ve got to see the Scotland – Latvia match,’ he said. After frantic telephone calls, Peter Waterworth, a first secretary, was unearthed. ‘His mother gave him a Sky subscription for his birthday,’ reported Fenn with relief. ‘Channel 5 comes with the card.’ ‘Well done,’ gushed Brown. Robinson beamed. A brief diplomatic chore over lunchtime had been arranged with Carlo Azeglio Chamoi, the Italian finance minister, to justify the trip. After that, the pleasure could start.

‘Latvia, we love you,’ chanted a group of England fans, spotting Brown step from the ambassador’s car in the centre of Rome. Brown smiled back. Public recognition elated the congenitally clandestine bachelor. Football’s tribalism was a bond, and he assumed that Waterworth, a Manchester United fan from Belfast, would welcome a Scottish fan in his living room. ‘Hello, I’m Gordon Brown,’ smiled the chancellor as Cathy Waterworth opened the door. ‘I’m so grateful that you’ll have us,’ he said, leading thirteen people into the flat before his putative hosts could have second thoughts. Geoffrey Robinson immediately assumed the role of waiter, ferrying bottles of Peroni beer from the fridge at the far end of the flat to the chancellor, already hunched up close to the television, revealing the handicap of his single eye. Preoccupied, Brown uttered only a few comments throughout the match. At half-time he disappeared to be interviewed by a journalist for Monday’s newspaper. Robinson used the opportunity to look at Waterworth’s oil paintings. ‘My father’s the artist,’ explained the host. ‘Would you sell me that one?’ asked the paymaster general. The doorbell rang. A journalist returned with a bunch of flowers for Cathy. When the second half started, Robinson resumed his duties as waiter, and as Scotland’s 2–0 victory seemed assured, the atmosphere became light-hearted. ‘Great,’ announced Brown at the end. After more jokes, he bade farewell. He looked forward to the live match later that night.

The next stop was the British embassy. ‘I wonder how much we’d get if we flogged this lot,’ chortled Whelan in his south London accent as they walked into the marbled, ornately furnished building. The chancellor smiled at the joke directed at Robin Cook, the foreign secretary, one of Labour’s tribe whom Brown, during his fraught journey up the party’s hierarchy, had grown to loathe. They were joined by Stuart Higgins, the editor of the Sun, Tony Banks, the minister for sport, and Jack Cunningham, the minister of agriculture. Neither of the politicians was a ‘Brownite’, and their politeness towards the chancellor was noticeably diplomatic. Standing in the corner was Sir Nigel Wicks, the Treasury’s second permanent secretary. ‘Are you going to the match?’ Wicks was asked. ‘No,’ he replied hesitantly. ‘Why?’ ‘Prudence.’ ‘What?’ ‘I’m here on business, and I would not want my presence in Rome to be misinterpreted.’ The Treasury, some speculated, had contrived the visit to the Italian finance minister as a fig leaf to justify the junket. The final guest, the genial former Manchester United star Bobby Charlton, was uniquely guaranteed Brown’s affection.

Relationships were important to Gordon Brown. His unswerving loyalty to family and friends had marked him as a clan chieftain. The admiration and love he attracted was contrasted with his ferocious hatred of others. ‘Peter Mandelson is in Rome,’ the ambassador told Brown while the champagne was poured. ‘But he returned to London rather than watch the match.’ The chancellor’s relief was unconcealed. His fraught relationship with his former friend was a source of widespread gossip.

The brief visit to the embassy mirrored the conflicts of interest, personalities and policies swirling around every nuance of the chancellor’s hectic life. Just as renowned as his intelligence, education and shrewdness were his vendettas. ‘Never hate your enemies,’ said Michael Corleone, the son of Mario Puzo’s Godfather. ‘It affects your judgement.’ Gordon Brown ignored that advice, but did embrace Corleone’s confession to his lawyer: ‘I don’t feel I have to wipe everybody out, Tom. Just my enemies.’ Surrounded by his intimates, the Godfather expected loyalty and obedience towards himself. Those who thwarted his ambitions were despised and occasionally destroyed. His justification was faultless: his beloved party and his ambition required submission to his agenda. In return for his trust, his ‘family’ honoured his requirements.

Driving in a minibus from the embassy past the Colosseum, the home of bloody gladiatorial contests, towards Rome’s Olympic stadium for the football match, the chancellor might have reflected upon the ancient building’s symbolism. Two thousand years earlier, only the fittest survived, and even at the moment of glory, the bloodied victor could be ravaged by the spectators’ dissatisfaction. His party’s antics back home resembled ancient Rome’s lack of generosity. The pernicious undercurrents in Westminster often turned friend into foe. Over the years, Gordon Brown had accumulated many enemies. To win the ultimate prize required a new strategy. Inviting the journalists to Rome was another step to win favour for his inheritance of the premiership.

At the stadium, Brown was seated with Carlo Azeglio Chamoi. The match was enjoyable but by the end at 10.45 p.m., both were disappointed by the goalless draw. Gazing down from the directors’ box, Brown watched as Italy’s supporters and some of the 16,000 England fans began fighting. With drawn batons the police were charging the Britons. Patiently, Brown waited for two hours in the minibus until the six journalists could leave the stadium. Robinson had fretted that his reservation at Harry’s Bar for a lobster and champagne dinner would be cancelled, but the famous restaurant loyally waited for the party, as did the soprano hired to sing for them. The bill for the enjoyable dinner was paid by Robinson.

After the group’s return to London, the trip attracted some curiosity. For a time the presence of the journalists with the chancellor was suppressed by some newspapers, and when, seven weeks later, Geoffrey Robinson became embroiled in a scandal about his financial dependence on an offshore tax haven, some of those journalists who had accepted his hospitality were inclined to vouch for his probity. Consumed by self-righteousness, Gordon Brown disparaged those criticising his paymaster, and steadfastly resisted any public admission of Robinson’s wrongdoing. Concessions, he knew, signalled weakness. Thanks to Brown’s support, Robinson would survive the first accusations of sleaze. But the lifebelt caused many to puzzle about the chancellor’s psychology. His defiance was forged, some suggested, during his Scottish childhood in order to camouflage his spiritual torment. Others speculated why one character simultaneously aroused extremes of sympathy and outrage. Gordon Brown himself volunteered few clues. Incapable of self-analysis, he zealously sought to prevent outsiders from penetrating the origins of and reasons for his emotions. An unmentioned spirituality certainly lurked among the foundations of his life. The possibility of entering the priesthood had never featured among his ambitions, yet the conflict between good and evil had dominated his formative years. The mystery was his journey from his childhood credo of God and love to the less forgiving characteristics that would dominate his adulthood. His ostensible compassion for humanity confused the search for clues about that transition yet bequeathed the riddle: Gordon Brown, saint or sinner?

ONE Ghosts and Dreams

The stench of linseed oil and coal drifting up the hill obliterated the salty odour of the cold sea waves crashing just four hundred yards from his family’s large stone house. Two linoleum factories were part of Kirkcaldy’s lifeblood, just as the small town’s financial survival relied upon the local coalmines. Both were dying industries, threatening new unemployment in the neighbourhood. The men of Fife profess to be self-contained, but are vulnerable to their environment. Kirkcaldy’s stench, grime and decay shaped Gordon Brown’s attitude towards the world.

Kirkcaldy in the 1950s could have been a thousand miles from Edinburgh, although the elegant capital lay just across the Firth of Forth. Gordon Brown’s home town was shabby, and the townspeople were not a particularly united community. John Brown, his father, the minister at St Brycedale Presbyterian church, struggled unsuccessfully to retain his congregation. Some had permanently renounced the Church, while others had moved to the suburbs, abandoning the less fortunate in the town. Outsiders would have discovered nothing exceptional about John Brown’s ministry in Kirkcaldy’s largest church. His status was principally attractive to those at the bottom of the heap, who called regularly at Brown’s rectory – or manse – for help. The preacher of the virtues of charity was willing to feed the hungry, give money to those pleading poverty, and tend the sick. Some would smile that John Brown was an unworldly soft touch, giving to the undeserving, but his generosity contrasted favourably with Fife’s local leaders. There was little to commend about the councillors’ failure to build an adequate sea wall to protect the town from the spring tides of 1957 and 1958. During the floods, young Gordon Brown helped his father and his two brothers distribute blankets and food to the victims, proud that his father became renowned as a dedicated, social priest. ‘Father,’ he later said, ‘was a generous person and made us aware of poverty and illness.’ The dozens of regular callers at the house pleading for help persuaded Brown of the virtues of Christian socialism, meaning service to the community and helping people realise their potential. Living in a manse, he related, ‘You find out quickly about life and death and the meaning of poverty, injustice and unemployment.’ The result was a schoolboy bursting to assuage his moral indignation.

Friends and critics of Gordon Brown still seek to explain the brooding, passionate and perplexing politician by the phrase ‘a son of the manse’. To non-believers, unaware of daily life in a Scottish priest’s home, the five words are practically meaningless. Only an eyewitness to the infusion of Scotland’s culture by Presbyterianism’s uncompromising righteousness can understand the mystery of the faith. Life in the manse bequeathed an osmotic understanding of the Bible. Under his father’s aegis, Gordon Brown mastered intellectual discipline and a critique of conventional beliefs. In a Presbyterian household, the term ‘morality’ was dismissed as an English concept, shunned in favour of emphasising ‘right’ and ‘wrong’. Even the expression ‘socialism’ was rejected in favour of ‘egalitarianism’. At its purest, Presbyterianism is a questioning tradition, encouraging a lack of certainty, with a consequent insecurity among true believers brought up to believe in perpetual self-improvement. ‘Lord, I believe,’ is the pertinent prayer. ‘Help Thou my unbelief.’ Moulded by his father’s creed, not least because he admired and loved the modest man, the young Gordon Brown was taught to be respectful towards strangers. ‘My father was,’ he recalled, ‘more of a social Christian than a fundamentalist … I was very impressed with my father. First, for speaking without notes in front of so many people in that vast church. But mostly, I have learned a great deal from what my father managed to do for other people. He taught me to treat everyone equally and that is something I have not forgotten.’

In his sermons, quoting not only the scriptures but also poets, politicians and Greek and Latin philosophers, the Reverend John Brown urged ‘the importance of the inner world – what kind of world have we chosen for our inner self? Does it live in the midst of the noblest thoughts and aspirations?’ He cautioned his congregation and sons against ‘those who hasten across the sea to change their sky but not their mind’. Happiness, he preached, is not a matter of miles but of mental attitude, not of distance but of direction. ‘The question which each of us must ask, if we are not as happy as we would wish to be, is this: Are we making the most of the opportunities that are ours?’ The young Gordon Brown was urged to understand the challenge to improve his own destiny. ‘So let us not trifle,’ preached his father, condemning wasted time and opportunities, ‘because we think we have plenty of time ahead of us. We do not know what time we have. We cannot be sure about the length of life … Therefore use your time wisely. Live as those who are answerable for every moment and every hour.’

John Brown’s ancestry was as modest as his lifestyle. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries the Browns were tenant farmers, first at Inchgall Mill near Dunfermline, and later at Brigghills farm near Lochgelly, in the midst of the Fife coalfields. Ebenezer Brown, Gordon Brown’s grandfather, the fourth of eight children, became a farmer at Peatieshill in New Gilston, and on 26 October 1914 Gordon’s father was born in the farmhouse. Eventually Ebenezer gave up farming and became a shepherd, encouraging his only child to excel at school and to break out of the mould. At eighteen, John Brown’s efforts were rewarded by a place at St Andrews University to read divinity. After graduating in 1935, he studied for an MA in theology until 1938. Unfit for military service, he spent the war as a minister in the Govan area, along the Clyde, living among the slums and destitution of the factory and shipyard workers. Only the heartless could emerge from that poverty without some anger about society’s inequalities.

Soon after the war John Brown met Jessie Elizabeth Souter, the daughter of a builder and ironmonger in Insch, west Aberdeenshire. She was four years younger than him. Until 1940 Jessie had worked for the family business. She then joined the WRAF, working first on the Isle of Man and then in Whitehall. They married in Govan in July 1947. Their first child, John, was born in 1948. James Gordon, their second son, was born in Glasgow on 20 February 1951. Three years later John Brown was appointed the minister at the St Brycedale church. Kirkcaldy was then an unknown backwater, except to historians. In the eighteenth century Adam Smith, arguably one of the world’s greatest economists and the architect of free trade, the foundation of Britain’s prosperity, lived in the town. A monument to the enemy of socialism was erected exactly opposite St Brycedale church. The juxtaposition was pertinent to Gordon Brown’s life. Not until forty years after his birth did he begin to sympathise with his fellow townsman’s philosophy. By then his reputation as an irascible intellectual was frustrating his ambitions. His inner conflict, pitting his quest for power against his scholarship, his mastery of machine politics in conflict with the protection of his privacy, had been infused by the influence of his beloved father.

‘Ill pairted’, the principal doctrine bequeathed by the teetotal father to his sons in the manse, condemned the unfair distribution of wealth in the world and stirred up his family’s obligation to seek greater equality, not least by good works and charity. The collapse of the textile and coal industries, casting hundreds in the town onto the dole, imbued a gut distaste for capitalist society in Gordon Brown, not least because his father taught that work was a moral duty. ‘Being brought up as the son of a minister,’ he recalled, ‘made me aware of community responsibilities that any decent society ought to accept. And strong communities remain the essential bedrock for individual prosperity.’ Unspoken was the Scottish belief in superiority over the English, and the Presbyterian’s sense of pre-eminent differences with Anglicans – both compensations for surviving as a minority.

Helped by Elizabeth Brown’s inheritance of some small legacies, the Browns were middle class. Their financial advantages over the local miners and factory workers spurred the father to encourage his children to conduct their lives with a sense of mission, duty and benign austerity. Any personal ambition was to be concealed, because the individual, in John Brown’s world, was of little interest, and personal glory was, history showed, short-lived. Rather than bask in the prestige accorded to his office, he preached that his children should be more concerned by the legacy they bequeathed to society. The son of the manse was expected to suppress his ego. That exhortation, repeated constantly throughout his childhood (he attended his father’s church twice on Sundays), imposed upon Gordon Brown a lifelong obligation to answer to his father’s ghost.

Any austerity was, however, tempered by love. Elizabeth Brown was not as strong an influence as her husband, but she was a true friend. ‘She was always supportive,’ Brown insisted, ‘even when I made mistakes.’ At the age of thirty-seven, he was to say: ‘I don’t think either of my parents pushed me. It was a very free and open family. There were no huge pressures.’ His comment was either self-delusion or obfuscation. Quite emphatically, from his youngest years, Brown was under exceptional pressure to excel, and infused with an obsession to work hard, to disappoint no one and to win. ‘What is started, must be finished,’ was a constant parental admonition to the Brown brothers. Failure was inconceivable. From the pulpit the Reverend John Brown preached that many of the young ‘are failing to think life through and are living carelessly and irresponsibly’. They forgot, he said, that regardless of any remarkable achievements on earth, ‘after death we must appear before the judgement seat of Christ’. He admonished ‘the multitudes’ who gave ‘little thought of accountability for their conduct and way of life’. Gordon Brown was warned about a day of reckoning: ‘With many, judgement begins and ends with themselves and they reckon not on any judgement from elsewhere. Such live to please themselves and not to please others, even God.’ John Brown urged his congregation to look forward to His commendation: ‘Well done, good and faithful servant, enter into the joy of thy Lord.’

Gordon Brown’s blessing, or possibly misfortune, was his stardom. From his earliest years he was praised as outstanding, destined to outclass his contemporaries. Like all Scots children, he was embraced by the country’s excellent system of state education. At Kirkcaldy West, a primary school close to the linoleum factory, he was taught the three ‘R’s by repetition, writing with pencils on slate boards, with a wet rag to wipe off his daily work. He devoured books and, thanks to an aunt, a music teacher, appreciated classic literature. The teachers instantly recognised his unusual intelligence, reporting that he was a year ahead of other pupils in maths and reading, as was one other boy, Murray Elder, who would remain his friend in Scottish Labour politics and Westminster until the present day. At the age of ten, Brown and Elder were enrolled at Kirkcaldy High School, the town’s grammar school, in an educational experiment to fast-stream the town’s brightest schoolchildren by intensive learning.

The High School was a genuine social mixture. The children of dustmen, miners and millionaires were educated together, ignoring their social differences. But the searing recollections of the parents of the poorer children about the days before the creation of the NHS made a lasting impression on Brown. Their elders spoke of the poor abandoning treatment in hospitals when their money was spent, and asking doctors about the cost of visits and medicine before deciding whether their finances were adequate for them to receive treatment.

Ferociously clever, although not the cleverest in the class, Brown never appeared as a swot. Rather he was known as ‘gregarious and jolly’, and the quickest to provoke laughter with a snappy, funny line. ‘The banter and wisecracking that would go on between the boys was great,’ recalled a former class friend. Brown’s passion was sport. He excelled at tennis, rowing, sprinting, rugby and especially football. Around the time he heard the radio commentary of Scotland’s 9–3 humiliation by England in 1961, he resolved to become a professional footballer. On Saturdays, he was seen at the ground of Raith Rovers, the local football team, selling programmes with John, his elder brother, to earn pocket money before cheering the local side. Combining work and pleasure was his father’s doctrine. The most notable result was the newspaper Gordon produced in his pre-teens with his brother and sold for charity. John was the editor while Gordon wrote the sports reports, and later added commentaries about domestic politics. In successive weeks in 1964 he welcomed Harold Wilson’s election, interviewed an American space pioneer, described the persecution of Jews and supported Israel’s existence, and explained the background to crises in the Middle East and Southern Rhodesia. Justifying the new state of Israel was a particular theme encouraged by his father. Brown revealed himself not as precocious, but as a sensible and informed youth. His love of history and politics was partially influenced by ‘Tammy’ Dunn, the school’s left-wing history teacher, although his historical hero in the fourth form was Robert Peel, the nineteenth-century Tory prime minister praised for placing principle before party. In a competition organised by the Scottish Daily Express to write an essay anticipating Britain in the year 2000, Brown won a £200 prize. He predicted that Scotland’s inequalities would eventually be removed: ‘The inheritance of a respect for every individual’s freedom and identity,’ he wrote, ‘and the age-long quality of caring, both transmitted through our national religion, law and educational system and evident in the lives of countless generations of our people, makes Scotland ideal for pioneering the society which transcends political systems.’ Forty years later he remained faithful to what he called those ‘absolutely basic’ visions and values.

In 1963 Brown witnessed real politics for the first time. Aged eleven, he followed the election campaign in Kinross and Perthshire of Sir Alec Douglas-Home, the prime minister. Ill-health had forced Harold Macmillan to resign, and his successor Earl Home had revoked his peerage to lead the Conservatives in the House of Commons. After a day following the politician across the constituency, the impression of a politician making the same speech at every venue, recalled Brown, was ‘awful’. He was particularly struck by Home’s response to a question of whether he would buy a house in the constituency. No, replied Home, he owned too many houses already.

At fourteen Brown took his ‘O’ levels, and under the fast-track experiment was scheduled one year later to take five Highers, a near equivalent of ‘A’ levels. He was a year ahead of his age group. His reputation was of an outstanding student and sportsman, particularly a footballer, whose conversation, magnetising his class friends, made him the centre of attention. Despite his popularity in the mixed school, he stood back from the girls. At the popular dances organised by his older brother in the church hall, Gordon did not bop, and disliked the waltz and quick-step lessons. No one recalled him ever speaking about girls. Even during a hilarious school trip to Gothenburg, his behaviour was impeccable. Some believed that the arrival every week of his father as school chaplain to preach to the children inhibited him. As predicted, at fifteen, he scored top marks in his Highers and qualified for university. He had survived the intensity of the ‘E’ experiment, but was troubled by the casualties among other ‘guinea pigs’ who, having collapsed under the pressure, were depressed by having failed to gain a place at university and being deprived of an opportunity to try again. Sensitive to the raw inequalities of life, uncushioned in Scotland’s bleak heartlands, he sought a philosophy which promised change.

At that age most teenagers rebel against their parents’ values, but Brown, inspired by his close family life, accepted his father’s traditionalist recipe for reform. In their unequivocal judgements of society, the Presbyterians’ solution was to empower the state to castigate the rich and to help the poor. In Kirkcaldy, Adam Smith’s philosophy for curing society’s ills by self-reliance and free enterprise was heresy. The socialist paradise promised by Harold Wilson, embracing the ‘white heat of technology’, redistribution of wealth and economic planning, was Gordon Brown’s ideal.

One irony of Brown’s registration at Edinburgh University in 1967 to read history would have been lost on the sixteen-year-old. The university was a bastion of privilege, isolated from Scotland’s class-ridden society. Dressed in a tweed jacket, grey flannels, white shirt and tie, Brown arrived with Kenn McLeod and other working-class achievers from Kirkcaldy High. While McLeod and the sons of miners and factory workers had neither the money nor the background to become involved in the horseplay of student life, Brown was introduced to the power brokers by his elder brother John.

‘This is my brother Gordon,’ John told Jonathan Wills, the editor of the student newspaper. ‘He’s sixteen and wants to work here. He’s boring but very clever.’ Brown was in heaven. The student newspaper was a cauldron of the university’s political and social activity. Within the editorial rooms he could witness heated debate and crude power-broking. Inspired by the worldwide student revolt then taking place, Jonathan Wills had begun a campaign to become the university’s first student rector. Free of the inhibitions imposed by his small home town, Brown indulged himself amid like-minded social equals. The liberation and the dream were short-lived.

Six months earlier, during a rugby match between the school and the old boys, he had emerged from the bottom of a scrum suffering impaired vision. Instinctively private, he did not complain or visit a doctor. The problem did not disappear. In a football match during the first weeks at university he headed the ball and his sight worsened. This time he consulted a doctor, who identified detached retinas in both eyes. The six-month delay in treatment had increased the damage, and there was a danger of blindness in the right eye. In the first of four operations over two years at the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, surgeons sought to reattach the retinas. Brown was ordered to lie immobile for six months in a dark hospital ward, knowing that among the drastic consequences was the certain end of his ambition to become a professional footballer. Whatever the outcome of the operation, playing contact sports would be forbidden. During those months of darkness, with the combination of loneliness and fear described by him as ‘a living torture’, unable to read and hoping that he would not be permanently blind, Brown’s psychology changed. Sensitive to his plight and preoccupied by his ambitions, he became impatient with life’s trivialities, and resolved in future not to waste time or to suffer fools. ‘I felt such a fraud,’ he later said, ‘lying in bed for hours on end when there was nothing wrong with me except that I couldn’t see.’ Irritated by medicine’s limitations, his infirmity became a blow to his self-confidence, compounding the insecurity which would bedevil his life and inspire reconsideration of his faith. In a later interview, Brown mentioned his trepidation about the predestination preached by Calvinists. ‘The idea that it doesn’t matter what you do, that you could be predetermined for damnation’ was unappealing, he explained. He disliked the concept of ‘no credit for human endeavour since all decisions are made by God. It’s a very black religion in that sense.’ By contrast, his teetotal father’s practice of good works and charity was infinitely preferable; but doubts had also arisen about that. The Presbyterian ethic – that the afterlife was not so attractive – was also unappealing. Rather than embracing religion as support for his torment, his certainty about God and the scriptures had weakened. Neither in public nor in private would he ever express thanks to God or refer to Christianity as an influence, guide or support for his life.

He rejected the paraphrase of a poem often recited by John Brown at the sickbed:

He gives the conquest to the weak,

Supports the fainting heart,

And courage in the evil hour

His heavenly aids impart.

Rather, he was influenced by a pertinent sermon of his father’s summarising the lesson of anguish and salvation: ‘Blindness is surely one of life’s sorest handicaps … For them vistas of loveliness are shut off and bring no joy and gladness.’ John Brown’s sympathy for the blind switched to rhetorical criticism of the sighted: ‘Is it not the case that many of us – yes, most of us – even though we have our seeing faculties, walk blindly through life? We notice so little when we could see so much, passing by the wonders of creation without giving them a thought … Perhaps more people suffer from blindness than we realise … Through an over-concentration on trivialities, they have lost sight of the things that really matter.’

Any trace of his son’s dilettantism was expunged. After six months in hospital, there was relief that one eye was saved. The left, dead eye permanently changed Brown’s appearance. His smile no longer triggered the normal facial muscles, gradually creating a slightly dour expression. At the time he spoke of the operation as a success, but he would tell a friend years later, ‘The operation was botched. Everyone can make mistakes.’ He particularly recalled the surgeon’s quip, ‘Well Gordon, we’ll have another bash.’

In spring 1968 he courageously resumed his studies and re-engaged in university life. The seventeen-year-old self-consciously hid any suggestion of impairment and the psychological consequences of six months’ darkness. Compared to the shy fresher introduced by his brother to Jonathan Wills as a potential contributor to the student newspaper, Brown now displayed more self-confidence than previously. Propelled by a single-minded lust for success, in one way he resembled Willy Loman in Arthur Miller’s play Death of a Salesman: ‘He had the only dream you can have – to come out number-one man.’ In effect, Brown sought control over others. Within weeks, most students at the university were conscious of an exceptional undergraduate in their midst.

The contrast between the outstanding student diligently pursuing his degree and the near squalor of his first home in the Grassmarket, just behind Edinburgh Castle, and later his second, larger home in Marchmont Road, entered the university’s folklore. At first the rooms at 48 Marchmont Road were shared with six or seven other students as a statutory tenant, but after fifteen years he would buy them for a bargain price. With some pride Brown would confirm his chronic untidiness, retelling a story of a policeman reporting a burglary at his flat. ‘I have never seen such mindless vandalism in thirty years in the force,’ said the police officer of the chaos. Brown surveyed the scene. ‘It looks quite normal to me,’ he replied. Those sharing his flat tolerated not only the anarchy but also one unusual tenant who one afternoon caught a burglar entering through the skylight. Instead of calling the police she invited the intruder to stay, for an affair lasting several weeks. Her room was subsequently occupied by Andrew, Gordon’s younger brother, a keen party host. Those who ever voiced a suspicion that Andrew was riding on his elder brother’s achievements were promptly cautioned. ‘Please don’t hurt me by criticising Andrew,’ Brown once told Owen Dudley Edwards, his university tutor. ‘Criticise me, but not Andrew.’

Politics was his passion, and his political stance was set in concrete. He joined the Labour Party in 1969, and while growing his hair long, ignored the fashionable far left, refusing to join the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND) or to join the movement for greater Scottish independence following the discovery of oil in the North Sea. He was never seen smoking pot or uncontrollably drunk, even as the host of his frequent parties. The dozens who regularly crowded into the flat to drink beer and eat dry cubes of cheese at the end of toothpicks, influenced by the turbulence in England during the sixties, fashioned themselves ‘The Set’, convinced that they were destined to change the world, and particularly Scotland. No one could accuse Brown of conducting himself like Adam Morris, the ambitious undergraduate played by Tom Conti in the successful 1970s television dramatisation of Frederic Raphael’s novel The Glittering Prizes. But the more self-important of his elegant friends – like Wilf Stevenson, who hosted dinner parties – and those who joined Brown at the cinema, theatre and particularly the Abbotsford pub just south of Princes Street, regarded themselves even if inaccurately as Edinburgh’s equivalent of the Bloomsbury set, noisily quoting artists, writers and politicians. Even during his absence from those meetings, Brown’s ghost was present. ‘People liked being around him,’ recalled Madeline Arnot, a guest at his flat. ‘Everyone liked talking to him. He was at the centre of everything.’ While ‘The Set’ cast themselves in an unspoken competition as society’s future movers and shakers, the city’s working class – as remote from the students as the Eskimos – classed the boisterous elite as a gaggle of Hooray Henrys. By any measure, they were neither a golden nor a doomed generation.

The routine presence at these parties in 1970 of Princess Margarita of Romania, the eldest daughter of the exiled king, enhanced that image. Good-looking, charming and intelligent, Margarita had been introduced to Brown by John Smythe, one of the six people sharing his flat. Heads turned, it was said, whenever Margarita, of French, Greek and Romanian parentage, with a pedigree derived from the Habsburgs, Romanovs and Hohenzollerns, entered a room. The modest student of sociology and politics, who spoke English with a middle-class accent, hid her real background. Her family’s small home was near Lake Geneva, but thanks to her friendships with the king and queen of Spain, the exiled king of Greece, and Europe’s minor royalty, she was accustomed to living in mansions and palaces across the continent. Since their backgrounds were so different, Brown’s attraction to the ‘Red Princess’, as she became known, puzzled many. Some of Brown’s flatmates, who like him were becoming increasingly politically active, were irritated by the gilt-edged invitations arriving through the letterbox just as their flat was becoming the centre of a revolution. He offered no explanation when she moved into his bedroom. His silence reflected his Scottish respect for her privacy and, more importantly, his belief that intimacies were not public property. Friends, however, understood the attraction. Margarita’s looks and character were exceptional and, more important, compared to Katie, the English county girl whom Brown had been dating, she was unusually supportive. Unlike British girls, Margarita was accustomed to women offering compassion and encouragement to their men, which precisely matched Brown’s requirements. She provided maternal care, acting like a mother hen, worrying about the health of his remaining eye, deciding what he should eat (usually tuna and lettuce sandwiches), wear (the same tweed and flannels), and occasionally do. ‘He’s too busy to wash up,’ Margarita told their flatmates after the jolly communal breakfasts. Dressed in a pink nightdress, she insisted that Gordon’s life’s work was too important to be distracted by domesticities. Her pedigree had given her experience and toleration beyond her years. Her enjoyment of making decisions on his behalf appealed to a man who disliked annoying friends and who was reluctant to cause upset. But the princess would also roar in his face if his Presbyterian obduracy became irksome, deflating the pompous Fife boy.

Those who would subsequently criticise Brown for favouring intense hard work at the cost of human relationships would not have recognised him during those early months of the relationship. Margarita’s misfortune was that her boyfriend’s prevalent feminine influences were his mother and the absence of a sister. His loyalty to the ultra-conventional woman of the manse required some disguise of his lifestyle. During a visit to the flat in Edinburgh, Elizabeth Brown found some items of female underwear in the bathroom. ‘I don’t know how they got there,’ exclaimed Brown with embarrassment. ‘They must have come by mistake from the laundry.’ In turn, his mother would be untroubled by his bachelorhood until, she confided to a friend, he met someone whom she could approve. Out of a sense of duty towards his parents, he agreed to a mixture of concealment and denial. Margarita faced other hurdles. Despite her unsnobbish charm, she found difficulty in supplanting the male culture of Brown’s circle. Sport was intrinsic to Brown’s life. Regularly he met a large group of friends, including many from his school, on the terraces at Murrayfield for rugby internationals or at club grounds for local football and rugby matches. Margarita was not invited. She was also excluded from his daily discussions and plots with his student allies about politics. In his second year at university he was elected chairman of the Labour Club, was the editor of the student newspaper, and was regularly sitting at the same desk in the university library, working so hard without coffee breaks that Madeline Arnot, who became a Cambridge don, later thanked him for her good degree. ‘I followed him as a role model,’ she later volunteered. Others followed Brown, albeit still a teenager, as a political leader.

In 1970, aged nineteen, disappointed like so many to have missed out on the student revolt witnessed in other cities such as Paris, he spotted an opportunity to assert student power in his own kingdom. The issue was whether the investments owned by Edinburgh University included shares in South African companies, a taboo for those seeking to destroy apartheid. The vice-chancellor Sir Michael Swann, a respected member of the Tory establishment and thus an easy man for Brown to dislike, stated publicly that the university did not invest in ‘companies known to be active in the support of apartheid’, but documents leaked to Brown by a disgruntled university administrator showed that in fact the university owned shares in many companies active in South Africa, including the mining company de Beers, which had been accused of unacceptable employment practices. Working from the student newspaper office, Brown composed a special news sheet exposing the university’s deception, electrifying the university’s community.

By accident rather than design, Brown found that midway through his studies he was leading a revolution, without realising the possible repercussions. Edinburgh’s establishment was a tight clique. Every lunchtime there was a procession of the city’s great and good from the university, financial institutions and government offices to the New Club. Their midday discussions during those days did not focus on censuring Swann for his deception, but expressed their apoplexy about the challenge to their authority by an upstart student posing as a symbol of integrity against a foreign impostor. In the long term the confrontation harmed Brown, but in the midst of the dispute his disarming manner towards the ruling class shone as a virtue.

By contrast to many of the ‘revolutionary’ students protesting in the 1960s across Britain and other parts of Europe and North America, Brown’s politics were reasoned and principled. He adhered to Labour’s traditional values. Unlike many students, he did not succumb to the emotional appeals of the Govan shipbuilders during their confrontation with Edward Heath’s government in 1971 over the closure of their yard; in fact he predicted the shipworkers’ ultimate failure. In an article for the student newspaper he criticised the ‘alternative society seekers, Trotskyite students and liberal documentary makers’ who had visited the Upper Clyde shipyards: ‘The trendies are looking in vain for their kind of revolution. While they may plan the final end of capitalism, the mass meetings, the George Square demos and the fighting talk of the stewards should not belie the real campaign on the Clyde; for this is a work-in not for workers’ control, but an attempt to save jobs, and not a demand for the abolition of private ownership.’ His analysis was probably correct, but his political inexperience blinded him to the machinations between the trade unions and the government. To his surprise, in 1972 Heath capitulated and agreed to invest in the doomed yard. Many aspiring politicians learnt from Heath’s humiliation, including Margaret Thatcher. Brown learnt the lesson twenty years later. His ragged journey to that eventual wisdom, understanding the art of political strategy and intrigue, started soon after he achieved a first class degree in history in 1972. Some would say that his was the best first ever awarded by the university.

Aged twenty-one, he embarked upon a doctorate about the Labour Party in Scotland which gradually developed over the following decade of research and writing into ‘The Labour Party and Political Change in Scotland 1918–29’. Originally he intended to explain the two-hundred-year development of labour from the seventeenth century to the emergence from the trade unions of the Labour Party in the twentieth century. His eventual thesis, less ambitiously, described Labour’s struggle to establish itself as the alternative to the Conservatives. In the course of his research he became entranced by the romanticism of Scotland’s heroic socialist pioneers – Keir Hardie, Robert Smillie, John Maclean, Willie Gallacher, John Wheatley – striving against capitalism to build the perfect society. In particular he alighted on James Maxton, a Presbyterian orator with spellbinding powers, preaching about socialism’s Promised Land. Maxton, the son of a Presbyterian headmaster closely involved in the Church, was MP for the Bridgeton seat in Glasgow from 1922 until his death in 1946. ‘He was a politician,’ wrote the great historian A.J.P. Taylor, ‘who had every quality – passion, sincerity, unstinted devotion, personal charm, a power of oratory – every quality save one – the gift of knowing how to succeed.’ In Brown’s words, Maxton, a crusading rather than a career politician, ‘had sought to make socialism the common sense of his age’. His Christian desire to promote human happiness and equality bore similarities to the sermons of the Reverend John Brown. During those years researching his PhD, Brown sought to learn from Maxton’s mistakes: the consequence of splits within a party and the occasional advantage in politics of being feared rather than loved. Scotland, he understood, produced two types of socialist – the romantic and the pragmatic. The ideal was to be the pragmatic inspired by the romantic. His test-bed was the campaign to embarrass Sir Michael Swann.

In November 1972 Brown proposed that he should be elected as rector of the university, a ceremonial office usually awarded to honour Establishment personalities. A precedent had been set the previous year with the election of Jonathan Wills, the editor of the student newspaper. To Swann’s relief Wills had resigned, but to his irritation Brown launched his first successful election campaign, a rousing operation supported by ‘Brown Sugars’, miniskirt-clad students posing as dolly girls. No one of that era would ever label Brown a puritanical Scot with a humourless, wooden face and a grating habit of repetitiously uttering identical slogans. On the contrary, he was regarded as an amusing, sincere idealist with a ‘little boy lost’ approach who articulately galvanised supporters to translate his ambitions into a convincing victory over Swann’s candidate.

With the new rector’s election came the right to chair meetings of the University Court, the ultimate authority. Excitedly, Brown exercised this power, with the intention of agitating against the university’s administrators and governors. The battle lines were drawn in a row that engulfed the campus. Outraged by the usurper, Swann sought to remove Brown as chairman. Brown responded with an appeal to the Court of Session, Edinburgh’s High Court, for a judgement against the vice-chancellor. Brown won. Swann tried one more legal ruse, but was outgunned when the Duke of Edinburgh, the university’s chancellor, influenced the University Court in Brown’s favour. Brown had appealed to Prince Philip for help through Margarita – his goddaughter.

The experience, Brown later acknowledged, was a baptism of fire. Delighting in the scandal, he sought to avoid pitfalls and to succeed by exhaustive preparation. Every event was treated as a serious occasion. His speeches could be made more effective, he learnt, by rehearsing them to his flatmates and asking them to suggest jokes. He advanced his arguments by carefully placing pertinent stories in newspapers. Patiently, he sat through tedious meetings with a pleasant, laid-back manner, displaying a high boredom threshold until he had worn down his opposition. Glorious successes were followed by miserable setbacks, but through it all the rector discovered the mechanics of power-broking and mobilising support. ‘It was quite a revelation to me to see that politics was less about ideals and more about manoeuvres,’ he reflected twenty years later. His cruder assessment was: ‘The experience persuaded me that the Establishment could be taken on.’ Both conclusions conceal a deep injury. At the end of his three-year rectorship Brown had changed the University Court, but was nevertheless ambivalent about an achievement which was so blatantly irrelevant to the outside world. The cost was the accumulation of many vengeful enemies who frustrated his attempts, despite his qualifications, to be appointed a permanent lecturer at the university. In later years he would condemn those who rejected his promotion from his part-time lectureship as plotters rather than fair judges of his abilities. ‘They forced me out,’ he complained in a surprised voice, ignoring all the trouble he had caused. Student politics had roused his appetite for parliamentary politics but would provide barely any preparation for his struggle to win the Labour Party’s nomination for a Westminster constituency.

Among the Scottish Labour Party’s many divisions was one between the graduates of Glasgow University and those of other universities. Brown suffered a double deficiency. His humiliation of Edinburgh’s establishment denied him one source of support, while Glasgow’s clique, which included John Smith, Derry Irvine, Donald Dewar and Helen Liddell, shunned him as unworthy to join a group convinced of its right to govern the country. In the last months of 1973 many of those activists were searching for nominations to parliamentary constituencies in time for the next general election.

Edward Heath called an election for February 1974 in an attempt to turn the nation against the coalminers, who were engaged in a strike which the Conservatives interpreted as politically motivated. Dwindling coal supplies forced Heath to impose power cuts and to reduce British industry to a three-day week. That crisis hit particularly hard in Scotland, the home of many miners led by either communist or left-wing trade union officials. The miners’ cause was emotional as well as political. The communities whose menfolk dug coal in appalling conditions were part of the backbone of the country’s working-class culture, and their suffering evoked widespread sympathy. There was every reason for Brown to forge relationships with Mick McGahey, the engaging communist miners’ leader, and Lawrence Daly, a committed national official and a Labour Party member. Both particularly welcomed support from ambitious activists. Their endorsement, Brown knew, would help his chances of nomination as a Labour parliamentary candidate.

Another qualification for nomination was to have worked as a footsoldier for an existing candidate. Brown volunteered to help Robin Cook, a tutor at the Workers’ Education Offices Association and a leading member of Edinburgh council who was standing as the Labour candidate for Edinburgh Central. Their relationship, forged at the university, was built upon Cook’s acknowledged seniority. There was good reason for Brown to respect Cook, the son of a headmaster and grandson of a miner blacklisted for his activities during the General Strike of 1926. Cook, six years older than Brown, displayed forensic intelligence and remarkable debating skills. He had also secured Brown a teaching post at the WEA after Edinburgh University rejected his application.

Every night during the election campaign Brown recruited twenty friends, including his tenants, to knock on the doors of a working-class area in Edinburgh Central, a marginal constituency, urging support for the Labour candidate. On 28 February 1974, thanks to an unusually high swing, Cook won the seat with a small majority which many credited to Brown’s efforts. Yet, returning from the election night celebrations, Brown, Margarita and their friends expressed their surprise that Cook had not shown more gratitude for their hard work. Too often he had drunk whisky alone at one end of the Abbotsford’s bar while they drank beer at the other.

In the country as a whole Edward Heath won more votes than Labour, but not an overall majority of seats, and resigned. Few doubted that Harold Wilson, after forming a minority government, would call another election in the autumn. That was Brown’s opportunity. Edinburgh South, a marginal Conservative seat, was ideal territory. Securing the nomination required cut-throat tactics to elbow aside other applicants. ‘I was almost a candidate,’ he said years later. ‘I was invited by people to stand, but it just didn’t work out. It would probably have been better had I done that.’ The impression is of a man facing a critical test of courage and bloody-mindedness who meekly withdrew. In reality, he faced a selection conference against the favoured candidate, Martin O’Neill, a friend from the student movement, and was beaten. In the election of October 1974 O’Neill lost the seat by 3,226 votes, leaving Brown ruefully to reflect that more aggressive campaigning might have tipped the balance.

Labour’s overall majority in the new parliament was three seats. Recognising that the government, with the Liberals’ help, could survive for some years, Brown reconciled himself to establishing his own life while he waited for the next opportunity. For the first months he suffered a personal crisis. He entered hospital for an operation on his right eye, uncertain whether he would emerge completely blind. Other than Margarita, few were aware of his true feelings. Some of those sharing his house say that he emerged from hospital crying, and unexpectedly began smoking twenty cigarettes a day. Some suspected that his hectic schedule of teaching at the WEA, researching his PhD, writing a book on James Maxton based on the politician’s private papers, and his Labour Party activities placed him under unusual pressure. Others accepted his explanation that his tears were for the Labour Party.

The party’s internal affairs had become ugly. North Sea oil had increased the demand for Scotland’s independence, and in the October election the Scottish Nationalists had won seven seats, campaigning on the slogan ‘It’s Scotland’s oil’. The shock of the SNP’s success, and the crisis in Scotland’s shipyards, coalmines and manufacturing industries, posed a threat in Labour’s heartlands. Labour’s Scottish leaders decided to end their dialogue with the Nationalists. In that battle, there would be no help from Harold Wilson and the party’s headquarters in London. Brown joined the campaign, attempting to discredit the Nationalists’ call for independence by compiling an account of socialist policies to rebuild Scotland.

The ‘Red Paper on Scotland’ was proposed by Brown as twenty individual essays bound in a slim 180-page volume. Among those invited to contribute were journalists including Tom Nairn, the playwright John McGrath, lecturer in politics John Foster, and two MPs, Jim Sillars and Robin Cook. After eighteen essays had been commissioned, Brown decided his idea was too good to waste. At parties, meetings and in pubs, he invited eighteen other contributions about Scotland’s economy and politics, devolution, the ownership of the country’s land and oil. ‘We’ll have to increase the price from £1.20 to £1.80,’ his flatmate John Forsythe, who was responsible for the publication through the Edinburgh University board, announced. ‘Or could we reduce the number of commissions?’ ‘No,’ replied Brown, ‘and it’s got to be £1.20.’

Unwilling to offend any contributors, he fled to the Meadow Bar to meet Owen Dudley Edwards, his genial tutor. ‘A great bubbly baby,’ was how Dudley Edwards described Brown. ‘One of the sweetest people I know, with a wonderful smile. He knows how to say “Thank you,” and his body language is reproachful if someone declines his request.’ ‘All right,’ Brown announced to Forsythe on his return from the pub. ‘£1.80, but no reduction in the contributions.’ The book’s print was reduced to the minuscule size of a Biblical dictionary’s footnotes, but it was still a success, heading the Scottish bestseller list for two weeks, although few readers can have ploughed through all the tiny script.

In microscopic print, Brown’s well-written introduction, ‘The Socialist Challenge’, criticised the puerile debate indulged in by the country’s politicians, who ignored ‘Scotland’s real problems – our economy and unacceptable level of unemployment, chronic inequalities of wealth and power and inadequate social services’. He offered a rigid solution to the contradiction of managing a capitalist economy while providing the requirements of society, rejecting ‘incentives and local entrepreneurship’, and supporting state planning to orchestrate a national economic revival. He advocated more nationalisation of Britain’s industry, a planned economy and the destruction of the ruling classes. Scottish socialists, he wrote, could not support independence, but should control more of their own lives. Because capitalism had failed, and the private ownership of industry was hindering ‘the further unfolding of the social forces of production’, Brown’s cure was neo-Marxism. Young Labour activists were now hailing Brown as a celebrity. His dramatic appearance and good oratory, enhanced by his immersion in the history and tradition of Scottish Labour, won admirers for his vision of ‘Ethical Socialism’. He could have been destroyed by his early success, but his upbringing reined in any temptation to boast. Privately, he nevertheless hoped that his achievement would ease the path to a nomination for a safe parliamentary seat.

Securing that nomination depended upon a successful apprenticeship. The party recognised Brown’s ability but wanted evidence of more than a commitment to the community and worship of the Bible, Burns and Keir Hardie. To prove his understanding of liberating working people, he was required to intone the religious code of the Scottish Labour movement – ‘socialism’ and ‘social justice’ – with suitable references to the fundamental morality established during the Scottish movement’s history. By 1976 he had established those ideological credentials, regurgitating endless facts to prove that Harold Wilson’s government and its technological revolution would create thousands of new businessmen and enterprises, revolutionising the nation’s wealth. As a party loyalist he qualified for nomination; but among many of Labour’s older generation his image grated. While the party faithful admired the impassioned man, some griped that he was too fast, too clever, and too interested in courting popularity. The picture of a disorganised twenty-three-year-old, wearing a dirty Burberry coat, carrying a plastic bag stuffed with newspaper clippings, pamphlets and notes, flitting between speeches and committee meetings, invariably late because he had forgotten his watch, hardly appealed to working-class stalwarts. They joked that while he held the plastic bag under his arm, the information seeped into Brown’s brain by osmosis through a sensor in his armpit.

Occasionally Brown returned to Marchmont Road close to tears. At political meetings he was shouted down by critics angry that he had acknowledged the SNP, a ghost the Labour Party preferred to ignore. The policies pursued by Harold Wilson’s Labour government antagonised many in Scotland, and Brown was among the casualties, blamed for deviation from true socialism. Some members of the Scottish Executive, especially Jimmy Allison, the party’s organiser, treated him roughly. In 1974 the party had opposed devolution, but subsequently, after receiving a report from the ‘Devolution Committee’ chaired by Brown, it supported partial home rule. The disagreements excited anger. ‘The older people hated him,’ Henry Drucker, a writer and friend, recalled. John Forsythe listened to his long-haired friend’s lament that the representatives of the working class criticised him as soft, self-indulgent and a dilettante. Brown was frustrated that those he consulted for advice were not as clever as himself, and could not offer better insights into Labour’s problems in Scotland. His family life had not equipped him to deal with calculated ruthlessness. Any achievement would have to be the result of unglamorous hard graft.

Eventually his perseverance was rewarded. In 1976 he was nominated as the prospective candidate for Edinburgh South, a Conservative seat. Considering the growing antagonism towards the Labour government his election to the Commons was doubtful, but the breakthrough was critical. After a good speech in favour of devolution at the Scottish party’s conference in 1977 Brown was elected to Labour’s Scottish Executive. Full of excitement, he telephoned Donald Dewar, a solicitor and an MP since 1966 with whom he watched football matches, to share his excitement. The older politician instinctively replied, ‘I can assure you it will be awful.’ John Smith, the thirty-nine-year-old minister responsible for devolution in Westminster, was more supportive. Brown had been flattered to be invited to Smith’s home shortly after Smith’s appointment as a cabinet minister, and had been surprised to find that Smith was more interested in listening than in talking. Smith, Brown would appreciate, ‘genuinely believed people were equal’. Like Donald Dewar, John Smith became another ‘friend and mentor’. Brown was content to have established himself close to the party’s possible future leaders.

His election to the party’s executive coincided with the earlier appointment of Helen Liddell, a bus driver’s daughter who would later be known as ‘Stalin’s Granny’, as the Scottish party’s general secretary, and George Robertson as chairman. His encounters with both did not improve his popularity. As BBC Scotland’s economics correspondent, Liddell had a high public profile, and was an attractive face for Labour. Her appointment did not interrupt her frequent appearances on television news. Self-promotion, carped her critics, seemed more important to Liddell than engaging in the grind of party work and leadership. Her supporters countered that her value was in forging good relations with people. That was no consolation for Brown. Generally he did not handle women well, and he particularly lacked affection for Liddell. At executive meetings he was humiliated as she launched criticisms of him, especially of the ‘Red Paper on Scotland’, whose neo-Marxism she regarded as a threat to the party, regularly beginning with the phrase ‘The national leadership says … ’ Those seemingly innocuous words could be fatal to Brown’s ambitions. His energy and politics were creating rivals and occasionally enemies, just as his need for friends and benevolent advisers had become greatest.

In 1978 his impatience to become an MP was damaging his relationship with Margarita. Repeatedly, planned visits to the cinema and parties were abandoned as he responded to a telephone call and rushed to yet another meeting. In desperation, one night she had telephoned Owen Dudley Edwards with a ruse, asking, ‘Can you come down? Gordon wants you.’ Dudley Edwards arrived to discover that Brown was still drinking in a pub with two friends. Leaving Margarita alone had caused him no concern. The three friends eventually returned, slightly merry. Normally Brown’s companions would crash out on the floor while he flopped in an armchair to read a serious book. But on this occasion, while Margarita loudly reproached him, he picked her up and laughingly carried her to their bedroom. ‘You can see how in love they are,’ sang Dudley Edwards.

In an attempt to restore their faltering relationship, Margarita organised a weekend trip to a country cottage, and disconnected the telephone. Brown exploded in a rage. Relationships with women were sideshows in his life. He had become disturbed by the uneasy contrast of living with a sophisticated woman who enjoyed good food and elegant clothes, and the plight of Scottish workers, striking in large numbers across the country. While the party was immersed in strife as it tried to resolve the turmoil, Margarita seemed merely to tolerate Scottish provincialism, being principally concerned about the arrangements to visit her family in Geneva and her royal friends in their palatial homes across Europe. After five years, she also wanted evidence that the relationship had a future. Regardless of his affection, Brown was uncertain whether he could commit himself to a woman who was not a socialist, or could risk appearing with a princess before a constituency committee.

This crossroads in his personal life coincided with a remarkable political opportunity. Alexander Wilson, the Labour MP for Hamilton, a town south of Glasgow, died, and the constituency was looking for a candidate for the by-election on 31 May 1978. Hamilton had many attractions for Brown. The seat was a Labour stronghold, several senior party members had offered him their support, and his parents had moved to a church in the town. The obstacles were the other aspiring candidates. Alf Young, a journalist, was among them, although his chance of success was nil. Brown telephoned Young and asked whether he would stand aside. Young politely refused, adding that George Robertson, the Scottish party’s former chairman, who was supported by a major trade union, appeared certain of success. Brown aggressively challenged Young’s obstinacy, but failed to persuade him to surrender. A decisive voice, Brown knew, would be Jimmy Allison’s, the party’s organiser and a mini-Godfather. ‘It’s tight,’ said Allison, who knew the area well, ‘but you can win if you fight.’ Crucially, Allison pledged his support if Brown mounted a challenge. There might be blood, warned Allison, but that was acceptable among brothers. Even George Robertson, the favourite, acknowledged that there would be ‘a big fight’ if Brown stood, and the outcome would be uncertain.

‘I don’t know,’ Brown told Allison a few days later. ‘I think I should be loyal to the people in Edinburgh South. I don’t want to be seen as a carpetbagger and offend the good people who have helped me.’ Allison dismissed that as an irrelevance. Brown grunted and agreed to contact the party activists in Hamilton. But they, Allison heard, were unimpressed by his eagerness to avoid a fight with Robertson. Brown spoke about not being disloyal to the electors of Edinburgh South, but in truth he lacked the courage to work the system with a killer instinct. His caution was unexpected. Six years earlier he had confidently challenged Michael Swann. Outsiders were puzzled why the same determination now seemed to be lacking. They failed to understand Brown’s insecurity. He was still shocked by the consequences of his university protest for his academic career. His judgement, he believed, had been faulty. While he could confidently repudiate intellectual arguments, he lacked the resilience to withstand emotional pressure. He needed reassurance, but he had no one he could rely on. Some of his friends would dispute that he lacked courage. Others would say he feared failure. His consolation was hard work. Diligence, he believed, merited reward, and without hard work there should be no reward. That credo may be commendable for normal life, but not for ambitious politicians. Brown withdrew. Without a serious challenger, Robertson was nominated, and won the by-election by a margin of more than 6,000 votes. If Brown had arrived in Westminster in 1978, his own life, and possibly the Labour Party’s, would have been markedly different.

Similar indecisiveness plagued Brown’s relationship with Margarita. For weeks he hardly spent any time in Marchmont Road. James Callaghan had succeeded Harold Wilson as Labour prime minister, and increasingly Brown was preoccupied by the erosion of Callaghan’s authority – the government’s dependence on other parties at Westminster for a parliamentary majority had become unreliable – and the slide towards industrial chaos. In Scotland the party’s problems were compounded by disagreement about devolution. A referendum was to be held in March 1979, and the party was divided.

Excluded from those preoccupations, Margarita decided to end the relationship and leave Marchmont Road. ‘I never stopped loving him,’ she said in 1992, ‘but one day it didn’t seem right any more. It was politics, politics, politics, and I needed nurturing.’ Brown’s friends would say that he terminated the relationship. ‘She took it badly,’ they said, ‘that she was less important than meetings.’ But in truth Margarita simply was fed up, and walked out. A few weeks later she met Jim Keddie, a handsome fireman, with whom she started an affair that would last for six years. During the first months Brown telephoned her frequently to arrange meetings, but despite his entreaties that she return, she refused. Over a long session of drinks with Owen Dudley Edwards, Brown repeatedly said, ‘It’s the greatest mistake of my life. I should have married Margarita.’ If he had been elected to Westminster in 1974 or 1978 they might have married, but the uncertainty created irreconcilable pressures. Jim Keddie was convinced that Brown remained haunted by Margarita. Although Margarita never mentioned any regret about leaving Brown, for several months after her departure she would turn up without Keddie at parties in Marchmont Road, or would see Brown at dinner parties held by Wilf Stevenson, a man convinced of his own glorious destiny. Keddie sensed that she hoped the relationship might be rekindled, but there was no reunion. ‘It just hasn’t happened,’ Brown would say thereafter about love and marriage. In the space of a few months he had lost the chance of both an early arrival in Westminster and marriage to a woman he loved. Whether he was influenced by his research into James Maxton’s life, with all its failures and disappointments, to avoid similar distress himself is possible, but he had failed to overcome his caution and indecisiveness.

Beyond a tight circle of friends, Brown concealed his emotions and re-immersed himself in politics. For an aspiring realist, the prognosis could not have been worse. The trade unions were organising constant strikes, public services were disintegrating and inflation was soaring. The ‘winter of discontent’ began. Rubbish lay uncollected on the streets, the dead remained unburied and hospital porters refused to push the sick into operating theatres. The middle classes and many working-class Labour voters switched to the Conservatives to save them from what they felt had become a socialist hell. The opinion polls predicted Margaret Thatcher’s victory whenever James Callaghan dared to call the election. Brown’s prospects in Edinburgh South looked dismal, but once again he was offered an attractive alternative.

Martin O’Neill, who would himself be elected to parliament in 1979, called Brown with an offer. O’Neill was chairman of the Labour Party in Leith, and he explained, ‘There isn’t a strong candidate here, and you could win a safe seat.’ Brown hesitated. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think I can let the people in Edinburgh down.’ He expressed his fear of bad publicity after his failure to stand in Hamilton, and the probability of being tarred as an opportunist. The impression again was of indecision and fear of a competition whose outcome was, despite O’Neill’s assurances, uncertain. He sought refuge in hard work.

The first battle was to persuade the Scottish people to support devolution in the forthcoming referendum. Without uttering any overtly nationalist sentiments, he campaigned in favour of the ‘yes’ vote, speaking at dozens of meetings. Despite campaigning in the midst of widespread strikes, Brown believed he could deliver victory. Scotland, he argued, did not share England’s disenchantment with the Callaghan government. Fighting against the odds brought the best out of him. During one debate against Tam Dalyell in York Place, Edinburgh, Brown arrived after a last-minute invitation. ‘He stood up to me better than anyone else,’ Dalyell told a friend afterwards. ‘I was pretty formidable, but he had thought about it better than anyone I had met.’ Among his other opponents was Robin Cook, praised by some but damned by more, especially the former Labour MP Jim Sillars, who would later join the SNP: ‘Cook believed that he was intellectually superior to God.’ Dalyell watched the two sparring with each other. ‘They were two strong young men who knew that one of them would get in the way.’

On election day, 1 March 1979, Scotland’s airports were closed and there were food shortages. Productivity had fallen since 1974, annual wage increases were about 15 per cent and inflation was 15.5 per cent. The ‘yes’ and ‘no’ votes were evenly divided, but under the rules of the referendum the ‘yes’ vote could only be successful if it received not just a simple majority, but a majority of all those who were entitled to vote. Brown, like many in his party, deluded himself about the reasons for failure. Scotland’s new oil wealth had encouraged the belief that while England was dying, their country was being revitalised. Scottish voters, Brown failed to understand, were disenchanted by Labour. He was nevertheless optimistic about victory in the general election, which was finally called for May 1979.

Energetically he began campaigning in Edinburgh South against Michael Ancram, the Conservative candidate. His speeches were notable for their use of repetition as an oratorical strategy, and for their tidal wave of minutiae. Watching Brown’s campaign, Alf Young spotted its flaws: ‘He was always surrounded by a blitz of paper and a million bullet points. He exuded the belief that everything could be reduced to micro-targets and micro-meddling.’ His campaign ignored the widespread disgust with the strikers, and specifically rejected any increased control over trade unions, especially over picketing and unofficial strikes. Despite dozens of friends and supporters, including Margarita, working on his behalf, Brown was defeated by 2,460 votes. Later, in the party headquarters with a group including Robin Cook and Nigel Griffiths, a local activist, he confessed his devastation. Politically, Margaret Thatcher’s victory with a majority of forty-three seats was shattering. Brown was baffled by the national mood and the unexpected end of the Labour era.

The following morning, while television pictures showed Thatcher standing on the steps of 10 Downing Street quoting Francis of Assisi, Brown was slumped in a tattered armchair in Marchmont Road, surrounded by the debris of his campaign, contemplating his life until the next election. He had made a terrible mistake in refusing Martin O’Neill’s offer of a safe seat. No one congratulated him for fighting and losing. He would continue lecturing at the Glasgow College of Technology and the WEA, and would secure a junior researcher’s job on Ways and Means, a political programme produced by Scottish Television. After some complaints about the lack of political balance in his contributions he was moved to What’s Your Problem?, a weekly consumer programme exposing ripoffs by shops and local authorities. His productions were renowned less for their artistic qualities than for the efforts he took to rectify ills.

His new companion was a feisty former student at Edinburgh University, Sheena McDonald, born in Dunfermline, Fife. A brief introduction at one of his university parties by his brother Andrew had been remembered when they met again while working at Scottish Television. Dark, intelligent and fun, McDonald bore some physical resemblance to Margarita, but their characters differed sharply. She was an ambitious journalist, and prized her personal independence. Unlike Margarita, she had no intention of marrying Brown, although they had much in common. Like Brown, she was a child of the manse; her father was a former moderator of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland.

Brown’s attitude towards women had become entrenched. He knew he was attractive. He was well built – ‘fit, with good legs’ as one admirer recalled – but he denied to himself any need to share his life with a woman, or to trust anyone beyond his immediate confidants: his two brothers, Wilf Stevenson and Murray Elder. At the end of a day he was content to go home, endlessly watch games of football on television and listen to recordings by Jessye Norman or Frank Sinatra. He was neither interested in a woman’s life nor prepared to divulge his own secrets. Confessing to any doubts or exposing his weaknesses was anathema. Nothing would be allowed to undermine his determination to portray himself as supremely self-confident. His relationship with Sheena McDonald, like his job, was temporary while he found a safe seat. The obstacles to that, however, appeared to be multiplying.

The Labour Party in England was convulsed by defeat. In the leadership elections after Jim Callaghan resigned, the left-wing Michael Foot defeated Denis Healey by 139 votes to 129. The parliamentary Labour Party had patently misread the electoral result. Rather than distancing themselves from the wild antics of the militant trade unions, a majority of Labour MPs sought to encourage them. The growing split in the English party between sympathisers of the neo-Marxist Militant Tendency and the traditional socialists only partially infected the Scottish party, but Brown’s comrades nevertheless were embroiled in bitter disagreements about personalities and ideology. ‘Anyone who can survive that viciousness,’ sighed Jimmy Allison, ‘can survive anything.’ In that battle Brown represented the traditional Tribunites on the party’s executive, the ethical socialist rather than the Marxist. He faced hard-liners including George Galloway, the son of Irish immigrants, and Bill Speirs, a future general secretary of the Scottish TUC. For hours every week they battled about the transfer of power to left-wing activists, and whether Tony Benn and the left’s caucus should be supported despite Benn’s refusal to accept collective responsibility. Resisting any dalliance with those outside the mainstream, Brown argued against factionalism and declined invitations by Galloway and Speirs to join their group in the pub after meetings. He would insist that he was engaged in intellectual rather than malicious, personalised debates, and preferred to talk with the trade unionists. Both Galloway and Speirs, he believed, were blocking his promotion and influence. They would deny any subterfuge, although neither was particularly fond of Brown. In Galloway’s opinion he was an egghead, a brainy backroom boy and a workaholic policy wonk, but not an intellectual. Galloway believed him to be ambitiously manoeuvring to build relationships for his own personal advancement, rather than trying to build a better society. ‘He’s chosen not to be a comrade,’ agreed Speirs.

Their disagreements mirrored the sectarian division within the Scottish Labour Party. Galloway, a Catholic from the west coast, did not warm to Brown’s east coast Presbyterianism. He was scathing about Brown’s silences at the late-night meetings held by Alex Murray, a famed Scottish trade unionist in Ayrshire, at which Brown refrained from engaging in the debates. He was also irritated that Brown, despite being steeped in the history of the Labour movement, appeared to be motivated by instinctive beliefs rather than philosophy. Not an original thinker, concluded Galloway, nor a man who had suffered grinding poverty. As Galloway fondly repeated, the divisions within the Scottish Labour Party ran deep, and as with all divisions within a family, the disagreements were aggravated by personality differences. Brown’s idiosyncrasies could be particularly aggravating. While chairing the party’s Scottish Council, he would pull bits of paper out of his bulging plastic bag, say, ‘See, this is how we deliver,’ and list twenty points.

The disagreements intensified in 1980. In England, the Militant Tendency and the Bennites were emasculating the Labour Party. In Scotland, by contrast, the party was divided over unilateral disarmament and withdrawal from NATO, but remained united as a coherent group, despite outbursts of ill-discipline. The rows irritated Brown. At a meeting on 14 November 1981 he was disturbed that Galloway, representing the hard left, berated Michael Foot for not supporting Tony Benn against Denis Healey in the election for deputy leader. Brown had attached himself to the soft-left, Neil Kinnock tendency, advocating a ‘moral crusade’ to rebuild Labour’s appeal to voters. His personal response to the warfare was ‘One Person, One Vote’, a lacklustre pamphlet attacking the trade unions’ undemocratic use of the block vote to wield influence. All his other ideas had been rejected by the electorate. His support for John Silkin, a forlorn London lawyer, as deputy leader confirmed his own isolation from the realities in London. With a general election expected within two years, he still faced huge hurdles if he was to find a safe parliamentary seat. New hopes rested on his election in 1982 as the Scottish party’s vice-chairman and on a journalistic scoop – publishing an internal document of Britoil, an oil company operating in the North Sea which was on the verge of privatisation. The ‘strictly confidential’ document showed that the company’s profits would not grow for five years. The scoop, he hoped, would discourage private investors from buying Britoil shares from the government, but he was to be disappointed by the response. Despite his high profile and his loyal efforts for the party, he still sensed that he suffered handicaps. He sought advice from Jimmy Allison. ‘Get your nose in with the unions,’ Allison advised, adding that he would need to neutralise the opposition of the communists, who possessed sufficient influence in the Scottish Labour Party to veto any aspirant.

The most approachable trade unionist was Jimmy McIntyre, a popular leader of the Transport and General Workers’ Union (TGWU). McIntyre was concerned that in television interviews, compared to their employers, his members made fools of themselves. Brown agreed to organise a media course for Scottish shop stewards, using role playing – ‘You’re on strike, what do you tell media?’ In return, he expected McIntyre to help him gain selection for a safe seat. He also sought advice from Robin Cook. At a meal in a Chinese restaurant in Soho arranged by Murray Elder, Brown asked Cook for help. ‘I am sure you will do very well, Gordon,’ Cook replied. Brown repeated his request and, he told his authorised biographer Paul Routledge, received the same non-committal reply. They did however agree to co-author a book. Scotland: The Real Divide, a collection of essays about poverty, would be published the following year.

The pace of Brown’s life remained frenetic. His relationship with Sheena McDonald had ended and he was seeing Marion Caldwell, a dark, good-looking lawyer born in Glasgow. They had met in 1981. Since neither wanted to sacrifice their professional career, there was an understanding that they would meet whenever he was minded. Their relationship was not exclusive. At the same time, Brown was also meeting Carol Craig, a publicist who would live with the journalist Alf Young. Off-hand relationships precisely matched Brown’s requirements. He was thirty years old. He had waited six years for a parliamentary seat. His impatience was explosive. Margaret Thatcher’s unpopularity, he calculated, would secure a Labour victory at the next election.

Over the previous months he had forged relationships in his native Fife. Helped by Tom Donald, a local journalist, and Jimmy McIntyre, he had taught politics at weekend schools for trade unionists and participated in their discussions, even mouthing support for Bennite co-operatives and nationalisation. ‘I don’t want any more pudding heads as MPs,’ McIntyre had reassuringly told Brown. ‘We don’t need any more ill-disciplined big drinkers in the Commons. We need clever, media-savvy types.’ Brown was his man. ‘Spend every evening at meetings,’ McIntyre advised him. That advice was endorsed by Alec Falconer, the TGWU’s shop steward at the Rosyth shipyards. When the opportunity arose, Brown was promised, the clan would beat off his rival contestants.

Having secured the support of the trade union officials, Brownneeded to win over two kingmakers. First, Hugh Wyper, a leader of the local Communist Party, was approached. George Galloway says that he was consulted by Wyper and, despite his reservations, urged that the communists support Brown because the trade unions needed his brainpower. Wyper gave his approval. Second was Alec Kitson, the deputy general secretary of the TGWU at its headquarters in London and a communist sympathiser, albeit a member of the Labour Party. He agreed that Brown was a suitable candidate. Having secured that support, Brown waited for an opportunity.

In 1983 Dunfermline East, a safe Labour seat near Edinburgh, was looking for a candidate. Known locally as ‘Little Moscow’, the old coalmining area had been represented from 1935 to 1950 by Willie Gallacher, a communist MP. Both the communists and the TGWU agreed that Brown, the Scottish Labour Party chairman that year, was ideal. All other challengers were rebuffed and the selection was predetermined. Nervously, Brown travelled with Jonathan Wills from Edinburgh to make his speech to the party committee in Cowdenbeath. David Stoddart, the constituency agent, was primed to favour Brown. Like any prospective candidate, Brown promised the committee, if selected, to be active, to care for the constituency’s children, pensioners and the poor, and to fight for the destruction of the hated Tory regime. Soon after his speech, the machine delivered him the guaranteed seat in Westminster.

That summer, during the Edinburgh Festival, John Reid, who was then working for Neil Kinnock, was drinking in a pub with Roy Hattersley, a member of the Labour shadow cabinet. ‘You should meet Gordon Brown,’ Reid told Hattersley. ‘He’s a young man who’s bound to be leader of the party one day.’ Hattersley, a traditional socialist, made a note of this newcomer who shared his dislike of the Bennite extremists but supported public control of the economy and a planned economy. He and Brown also shared a disgust that Roy Jenkins, the idol of many in the party, had won a parliamentary seat at a by-election in Glasgow Hillhead in 1982 for the new SDP, a breakaway party led by the ‘gang of four’ former Labour cabinet ministers – Jenkins, Shirley Williams, David Owen and Bill Rodgers.

Brown had immersed himself in the politics of that by-election while employed as a researcher for a television documentary. He regarded Jenkins as a traitor, and could not understand why the split had occurred. Like many party activists, he remained oblivious to the public’s anger about strikes by public sector workers. He was convinced that the increase in unemployment under Margaret Thatcher to more than three million and her cuts in public spending would persuade the voters to return to Labour. He discounted the Tories’ appeal to the middle classes, the fact that inflation had fallen from 20 per cent to 4 per cent, and their pledge to control the unions by introducing secret ballots before strikes and removing the protection of union funds from civil litigation. The evidence of his political blindness was displayed in Scotland: The Real Divide, the book he co-authored with Robin Cook. Both damned Thatcher’s analysis of Britain’s economic weaknesses, and extolled the virtues of Clement Attlee’s postwar legacy.

In common with many party stalwarts, Brown regarded Attlee’s nationalisation of industry, the creation of the NHS and his education reforms as a historic benchmark. He ignored the food rationing, industrial stagnation and economic incompetence which eroded Labour’s popularity before the 1950 and 1951 general elections, excluding the party from office for thirteen years. In Brown’s judgement, Attlee’s glory was the destruction of the barriers to equality and social justice. Those landmark successes, he lamented, were being reversed by the Thatcherite assumption that inequality was permanent. To restore Attlee’s legacy, he urged the redistribution of wealth. The top 10 per cent of the population, who, he claimed, owned ‘80 per cent of our wealth and 30 per cent of our income even after tax’, should suffer higher taxes while the disadvantaged received a guaranteed minimum wage, higher state benefits and more public spending. He opposed the proposed privatisation of the utilities, British Telecom and British Airways. Enterprise, in Brown’s opinion, meant state initiatives or personal work as approved and aided by the government. Prices, incomes and wages, he believed, should be fixed by statute. He supported subsidies to dying industries and opposed legislation to end overmanning and restrictive practices in the docks and industry. He mocked the chancellor Nigel Lawson’s ‘Medium Term Financial Strategy’, which intended to abandon short-termism and create a climate for long-term economic growth without inflation. Until the socialist society was built, Brown confidently predicted in his new book, ‘the era of automatic growth is not only over but unlikely to return in the near future’.

Brown was proud of the book, and looked forward to the launch organised by Bill Campbell, a university friend and the publisher, at a press conference in Edinburgh. As usual, Brown was late. Cook, the local MP, did not wait for him, but launched into a speech suggesting to the audience that he was the sole author. Rushing into the room, Brown discovered that Cook had stolen the limelight. His fury towards Cook that day, some would say, caused the permanent breach between the two. That is unlikely. The grudge was older than that. Cook’s insensitivity was just the latest instance of his ungenerous nature. Besides their many disagreements at Edinburgh University and in committee meetings, not least over devolution, Brown was angry that Cook had refused to endorse his campaign for chairmanship of the Scottish Labour Party or to help him find a parliamentary seat. The image of Cook drinking whisky alone at the Abbotsford bar was that of a man who was simply disliked. Brown suspected, probably correctly, that Cook was unwilling to help a potential rival, and his fury never abated.

The general election was called for 9 June 1983. Britain’s recent military victory in the Falkland Islands overshadowed the domestic recession. The sharp rise in unemployment, from one million to three million, caused by the Tory squeeze on manufacturing and the public services encouraged Labour to hope for support from disillusioned Tory supporters. But Labour’s Achilles heel was its manifesto. Michael Foot’s promise of renationalisation, the reintroduction of controls and the withdrawal of Britain from the EU, damned by shadow cabinet member Gerald Kaufman as ‘the longest suicide note in history’, destroyed the party’s electoral chances.

Brown, however, had good reason for elation. He won his seat by a 11,301 majority, gaining 51.5 per cent of the vote. His ambition to enter parliament was finally realised. After delivering a rousing acceptance speech at Lochgelly town hall he was driven to the home of David Stoddart, his agent. Grouped around the television, he and his supporters watched the results from around the country. Jonathan Wills, Brown’s old friend, arrived shortly after. ‘Gordon, well done,’ shouted Wills as he entered the dark room, expecting a jubilant celebration party. ‘There’s a beer over there,’ snapped Brown. ‘Sit down and shut up.’ Wills obeyed. ‘I’ve never seen anyone as depressed in my life,’ he said later.

Gloom came easily to Brown. Some blamed his Presbyterian puritanism, but others identified a more profound trait. His misery reflected his remoteness. He had not understood the electoral plight of socialism. He was perplexed that his hatred for the Tories was not shared by everyone. The Scottish socialist was isolated from the mainstream of English political thought. To his credit, he resolved before travelling to Westminster to avoid the ‘Scottish trap’, making a deliberate effort not to be identified as predominantly concerned with Scottish issues. He would be a national rather than a regional politician. The star of Kirkcaldy and Edinburgh University expected to shine as a star in the capital.

TWO Metamorphosis

Gordon Brown’s first impression of Westminster was of Bedlam. Bellowing, triumphant Tories boasting a 144 majority pushed past the dejected remnants of the Labour Party. Dressed in sharp suits, gleaming shirts and polished shoes, the swaggering representatives of the establishment reinforced Brown’s belief in society’s inequities and his commitment to the disadvantaged. His election victory had brought clarity into his life. There was a noticeable self-assuredness during his first days in the Palace of Westminster. His intellect and surviving a decade of political turmoil in Scotland protected him from the nervous breakdown affecting others in the party. While they behaved feverishly, he sensibly focused on establishing his presence with political journalists, positioning himself as a Tribunite, and supporting Neil Kinnock against Roy Hattersley in the leadership election. He preferred the Welshman’s left-wing, anti-European policies. Like most of his tribe, he was resolved to reimpose socialism. Even the collapse of the socialist experiment in France just eighteen months after President Mitterrand’s election was not absorbed as a portent.

Luck, fate and effortless success had barely influenced Brown’s career so far. Everything he had accomplished had been earned by diligence and unpleasant experience. After the election there would be profits, losses and mixed blessings. Among the last were the arrangements for his office, which were certainly fateful and, in the long term, unhelpful.

The small, windowless office he was assigned in the heart of the building could barely contain two desks and filing cabinets. Discomfort did not bother Brown, nor was he anything more than a little bemused by the choice of his co-occupant, Tony Blair, another newly elected MP. Subsequently, some would say that the coupling was not mere coincidence, but was the manoeuvre of a skilful matchmaker in the whips’ office brokering the notion that the two novices epitomised the party’s future hopes. That is unlikely. The two new young MPs were markedly different, although bonds would eventually develop.

Tony Blair had never abandoned the fringes of the Labour Party adopted as a long-haired rock guitarist at Oxford. Uneducated about political theory, he had shown little interest in politics, pursuing an unremarkable career at the Bar. His affability, eagerness and flattery of Brown’s political mastery appealed to the Scotsman who already bore the scars of political battles. Together they could laugh. Blair was a good mimic, and Brown’s sarcasm was witty. Brown was generous: as a television producer he had perfected the art of scripting his interviewees’ opinions into snappy, pertinent soundbites. Blair received the benefit of that black art, also learning how to write eye-catching press releases, compose structured public speeches and cultivate the techniques of self-presentation. Taught to encourage the best in people, Blair deferred with courtesy to the confident grammar-school boy. Brown and Blair, in that order, became affectionately known around Westminster as ‘the twins’ or ‘the blood brothers’.

Weeks after the election, over a drink in a Glasgow pub with Doug Henderson, then a regional organiser for the GMWU, Brown spoke about his experiences and about some of the other new MPs. Henderson had known Brown for ten years, discussing politics on platforms around Scotland and against each other on The Lion’s Share, a local television programme. ‘That Blair fellow,’ said Brown, ‘he’s quite clever.’

Although Brown was instinctively more left-wing than Blair, he benefited from the proximity of a sympathetic soulmate. During their frequent conversations, not least later during their journeys abroad, they discovered a mutual frustration about the party’s direction and a common bewilderment about the solution. But in his maiden speech on 27 July 1983, Brown revealed no ideological dilemmas. His theme was the plight of his unemployed constituents. In an engaging delivery, he described ‘a new arithmetic of depression and despair’ – the ‘tragic toll’ of mass unemployment: ‘The chance of a labourer getting a job in my constituency is 150 to 1 against. There is only one vacancy in the local careers office for nearly five hundred teenagers who have recently left school.’ He criticised the government for not only causing unemployment in the crumbling coal, linoleum and textile industries, but for penalising the helpless victims of those closures. There was heartfelt grief in his description of those in the desolate communities expecting redundancy and fearing permanent financial hardship. Ignoring their plight, he continued, the government proposed to reduce benefits while taunting the unemployed that new jobs were available, if only they looked. The government’s task, he said, was to create those new jobs: ‘The House was told in 1948 that the welfare state was created to take the shame out of need. Is that principle to be overthrown by an ever-increasing set of government assaults on the poor that are devoid of all logic, bereft of all morality and vindictive even beyond monetarism?’ Brown was pleased by the murmurs of approval his ardour evoked. In his opinion, only state intervention and the imposition of a minimum wage could help those at the bottom of the social ladder. The conviction socialist derided the notion that free markets and self enterprise were preferable to planning by Whitehall.

On the Conservative side there was respect for the feisty newcomer, but also some derision. Brown ignored the Tory riposte that Labour was responsible for unemployment in Fife. Jim Callaghan’s government had plunged the country into chaos, and now this young Scotsman was proposing to reintroduce the same discredited politics. Labour’s cure for ‘the sick man of Europe’ was similar to the Marxist dogma then crippling the communist countries of eastern Europe. Brown might win smiles by ridiculing the notion of the unemployed becoming self-reliant, if only by buying a ladder, bucket and cloth and offering themselves as window cleaners; he might arouse titters of laughter by taunting the Tories that ‘Up your ladder’ appeared to have replaced Norman Tebbit’s ‘On your bike’ speech; but the nation had now voted twice in succession against the legacy of Attlee, Wilson and Callaghan.

Brown was undeterred. To him, self-improvement was as repulsive as the government’s plan to persuade the young unemployed to accept lower wages or face a cut in their benefits if an offer of training was refused. ‘Essentially,’ he told the Commons, quoting confidential government documents leaked to him by a sympathiser, ‘the papers say that the DHSS are to inculcate good working habits in the unemployed. What the government would be better doing is bringing new jobs to the area.’

Penalising the personal behaviour of the working classes through taxation had been attacked in 1937 by Ernest Bevin, Attlee’s future foreign minister who was then leader of the TGWU. For Bevin and all socialists, the worst aspect of such retribution was the means tests to assess whether the poor should receive assistance from the state. The degradation of the inspections to assess poverty, argued Bevin, inhibited the poor both from saving and from seeking work. Forty-seven years later, Brown repeated the same arguments as an attack on the Conservative government’s review of universal payments of benefits to all, irrespective of wealth. In his opinion, even to consider targeting payments exclusively towards the poor was heresy. Means tests, he believed, were inhuman because they ‘would deter the claims of those most in need’. In his excitement he criticised the right-wing Adam Smith Institute on BBC TV’s Panorama on 10 December 1984 for, as he claimed, recommending the end of child benefit and the abolition of the welfare state. Sixteen months later, after difficult negotiations, the BBC apologised for broadcasting Brown’s erroneous statement. Brown was embarrassed. He prided himself on quoting carefully researched facts, and took exception to any accusation of mistakes or worse, distortion.

In London, his life beyond politics was limited. He shared a flat in the Barbican with Andrew, his younger brother, who was also employed as his personal assistant. He worked relentlessly, rarely appearing in the Commons bars or tea rooms to cultivate friendships. On Friday afternoons, long after most MPs had returned to their constituencies and homes, he sat alone in his cramped office, the floor covered in press releases, books and newspapers, speaking on the telephone. On Saturdays in Edinburgh he was occasionally seen with Marion Caldwell at parties, but he preferred that she remained out of sight. He liked drinking with his friends in pubs and especially working men’s clubs. There was a sincere fraternity in having a pint with workers who shared his love of the Labour Party and its heroes. He fumed against the reduction of grants to the Rosyth naval shipyard in his constituency, deriding proposals to privatise it and publishing a pamphlet attacking the arms trade and proposing that the yard should be converted for civilian use. He also opposed the closure of any coalmines, although they were often uneconomic, and caused many of those who worked in them to suffer fatal illnesses. On every social and economic argument he supported the hard, socialist solution. A test of those sentiments arose during the miners’ strike in March 1984.

Few doubted that Arthur Scargill, the National Union of Mineworkers’ leader, was intent on repeating the miners’ triumph against Edward Heath in 1974. He wanted to prove his power to protect miners’ livelihoods and to embarrass a Conservative government. In 1981 he had humiliated Thatcher by threatening a strike if the government closed down uneconomic mines. Having assessed that the stocks of coal were low, Thatcher retreated. But two years later the government had quietly accumulated sufficient coal stocks to withstand a strike of at least six months. As anticipated, on 1 March 1984 Scargill declared a strike in Yorkshire. Knowing that he would lose a national ballot, he organised strikes in militant localities across the country without organising proper votes. Flying pickets intimidated other miners to strike. The television pictures of fierce clashes between trade unionists and the police, resulting in thousands of injuries and arrests, raised the stakes. If Scargill won, the Thatcher government would be as vulnerable as Heath’s had been. Her advantages were preparation and sharp disagreements among the miners. The outcome was not inevitable.

Regardless of Arthur Scargill’s shortcomings, the miners’ plight became a human tragedy. Neil Kinnock refused to condemn the strikers, while Gordon Brown openly supported them, protesting against the government’s ‘vindictive cuts’ and refusal to pay benefits to their families. Instead of condemning the violence, he pleaded with the police and government to release imprisoned miners, and never publicly criticised Scargill despite the strike’s questionable legitimacy and the lack of support from workers in the power, steel and transport industries. On the picket lines he openly praised the miners despite being irked to be standing with their wives in the cold and rain, organising their communities’ survival, while some strikers were drinking in their clubs. At Christmas a trickle of English miners returned to work, isolating the militants. In March 1985, after one year, the strike collapsed. Brown, however, had never wavered. He earned the miners’ gratitude, accepting in appreciation gifts of miners’ lamps and certificates.

Like most in the Labour movement, he did not fully understand the implications of the miners’ defeat. He thundered against the reduction of regional aid and the gradual loss of manufacturing jobs, and demanded that the government create new jobs, but he was bogged down in an ideological wasteland. Labour had reached a nadir, and was unelectable until the extremists in the party were expelled. Neil Kinnock had many weaknesses, but among his strengths was the courage in November 1984 to confront the militants in order to save the party from fratricide. Unlike many Labour MPs, Brown did not openly join that struggle. He did not travel through England supporting the fight against Tony Benn and the Militant Tendency, nor did he overtly attack the militants. Rather, he preferred to return directly to Scotland from London. Nevertheless, he was among the members of the new intake offered a chance to break the extremists’ stranglehold. Neil Kinnock told Roy Hattersley, ‘I want Tony Blair in the Treasury team.’ To avoid the impression of outright favouritism, Hattersley suggested that Kinnock appoint two new MPs, and that Brown also be promoted to speak on employment and social security. Labour needed his abilities, said Hattersley. Kinnock had met Brown during the devolution debates in Scotland. Although they had disagreed, he appreciated the young Scotsman’s efforts to prevent a party split. Soon after the 1983 election Donald Dewar had proposed that Brown should join the Scottish team, but Kinnock had resisted, saying he should cut his teeth first. By the time Hattersley made his suggestion, Kinnock felt Brown deserved promotion. But while Blair accepted the offer and was appointed spokesman on the City and finance, Brown refused. ‘I wasn’t ready,’ he later explained. ‘It’s crazy that Gordon rejected the offer,’ Blair complained to Hattersley. ‘The problem is that Gordon is so honest,’ replied the bemused deputy leader.

Brown’s refusal was not wholly altruistic. He had, he believed, too much to lose by accepting a junior post, not least a delay to the completion of his biography of James Maxton. If he had written the book a decade earlier, his analysis of Maxton’s life would have lacked his personal experience of political struggle. In his heart Brown idolised his hero’s idealism for social responsibility, education and the abolition of poverty. But in his head he understood how Maxton had undermined his ambitions for a better society by refusing to compromise to obtain power. ‘The party whose cause he championed for forty years could, with justice,’ Brown wrote, ‘be accused of committing political suicide for the sake of ideological purity.’

In spring 1985, as the biography neared completion, Labour moved ahead in the opinion polls and the opposition parties won important victories in the local elections. Electorally, Labour’s devotion to traditional socialism appeared justified. Despite the defeat of the miners, the government had been shaken by the botched privatisation of British Leyland, rising inflation and high unemployment. Brown was writing a regular weekly column for the Daily Record, the Scottish version of the Daily Mirror, providing money to pay his researchers and access to a wide audience. Through his many contacts he sought confidential information to embarrass the government in the Commons and in the newspaper. Once it was seen that he handled leaks properly and could be trusted, he expected a regular supply.

In May 1985 he secured a confidential government review proposing to encourage the young unemployed to find jobs by reducing their social benefits. This, he raged, was ‘a raid on the poor’. In July he attacked the government for employing undercover agents to investigate young mothers claiming benefits for single households while secretly cohabiting. Those investigations, he claimed, punished the poor. Brown’s pride lay in his probity. Lawyers at the Daily Record were disturbed by the threat of a libel writ following an item in his column about the sale of council houses in East Kilbride. The newspaper wanted to settle, but Brown refused. He was, the newspaper’s lawyers remarked, ‘obsessive to be perceived as utterly truthful’. He discreetly warned the complainants, ‘If you want to carry on and do business in the future when we’re in government, you should drop the libel action.’ The complaint was withdrawn, and eventually Brown’s allegations were confirmed. Since Robert Maxwell had bought the Mirror Group in July 1984 Brown had refused invitations to his parties, albeit without revealing his reasons. Nevertheless, he was content to take Maxwell’s money and promote his own profile.

The change of the political atmosphere in 1985 persuaded Brown to accept a front bench appointment. The invitation in November to work with the shadow spokesman for trade and industry by specialising in regional affairs was issued from John Smith’s office. Initially the two men forged an easy relationship, convincing themselves that the omens for electoral success were good. Thatcher’s position looked vulnerable, especially in Scotland, after a huge increase in rates. As the value of sterling fell following a drop in the price of oil, Labour was convinced that capitalism was in crisis. The mini-earthquake caused by ‘Big Bang’, the deregulation of the stock market in October 1986, confirmed their belief that capitalism was besmirched. The sight of bankers and brokers selling their companies for huge sums to foreign invaders aroused disdain about Thatcherism and free markets. Brown did not anticipate the social revolution sparked by the disappearance of the City’s traditional classes, or the rise of a meritocracy who would be unimpressed by his campaign to renationalise the privatised industries. Others close to him did understand however. In conversations with Gavyn Davies, then an economist at Goldman Sachs, the American merchant bank, and husband of Neil Kinnock’s assistant Sue Nye, John Eatwell, a Cambridge economist who was advising Kinnock, and especially Peter Mandelson, the party’s new director of press and public relations, he heard the first arguments in favour of a reconsideration of Labour’s policies.

Peter Mandelson, the grandson of Herbert Morrison, a prominent minister in Atlee’s government, and a former television producer, was attractive to Brown. He appreciated Mandelson’s vision for the party to ‘modernise’, although neither fully understood the obstacles to Labour’s re-election. Both were encouraged by a new self-confidence at the party conference in 1986 in Blackpool, not least by the first defeat of the extremists. Under Mandelson’s influence, Labour was distancing itself from the Attlee legacy to attract the middle classes. The red flag, the party’s traditional symbol, was replaced by a red rose, to suggest the abandonment of a strident socialist agenda, especially confiscatory taxes, although the party’s actual policies contradicted the impression. Brown returned to Scotland to fight the 1987 election pledging to abandon Britain’s independent nuclear capacity, close America’s military bases, halt the sale of council houses and repeal the Tory laws limiting trade union power.

Labour’s certainty that the Tories would not win a third consecutive election should have been shaken in the new year. The economy improved – growth increased to 4.8 per cent – and despite violent picketing outside News International’s new headquarters in Wapping, Labour refused to condemn the trade unions outright. Three million were unemployed, but the opinion polls swung back in the Tories’ favour, showing Labour at 29 per cent, the SDP-Liberal Alliance at 26 per cent and the Conservatives at 43 per cent.

In the early days of the election campaign at the end of May 1987, Brown and his party leaders were nevertheless optimistic. Mandelson’s coup of a glossy election broadcast by Hugh Hudson of Neil Kinnock and his wife walking hand-in-hand in visually stunning photography roused the party’s spirits. Kinnock’s popularity rose sixteen points overnight. The reports from Conservative Central Office of arguments among Tory leaders gratified Labour’s planners, convinced of their strength on health and education. Labour’s undoing started in the last week of the campaign. In a television interview, Kinnock was asked what would happen if Russia invaded Britain, unprotected by a nuclear bomb. He replied that guerrilla bands fighting from the hills would resist the invader. That strategy found few sympathisers in the Midland conurbations, London and the south-east. Portrayed as a leftist loony, Kinnock was also vulnerable on taxation. Roy Hattersley and John Smith had pledged to reverse privatisation and restore most social benefits. The cost of that, the Tories claimed, would increase income tax to 56 pence in the pound. At first Kinnock insisted that only those earning over £25,000 a year would face higher taxes, but under persistent questioning he admitted that those earning over £15,000 would pay ‘a few extra pence’. The newspaper headlines ‘Labour Tax Fiasco’ frightened the middle classes. Thatcher’s accusation that with Labour ‘financial prudence goes out of the window’ struck a mortal blow.

Campaigning in Scotland, Brown was distanced from these misfortunes. The swing to Labour in his area suggested that there would be a rout of Tory seats. He did not believe the national opinion polls, and was heartened on election night by a BBC Newsnight exit poll predicting huge Tory losses and a ‘hung’ parliament. His smile disappeared long before his personal result came in. The Tories lost in Scotland but would be returned with an overall 101-seat majority. Brown won his seat with an increased majority of 19,589, practically 50 per cent of the votes cast. His personal pleasure was suffocated by the national result. ‘He was shaken by the defeat,’ reported a close friend the next morning. ‘He thought Labour would win nationally as it had in Scotland.’ Ten years later, Brown would claim to Paul Routledge that at the time of the 1987 election he had blamed Labour’s plans for high taxation for having ‘put a cap on people’s aspirations’. In reality he appears not to have contemplated lower taxation until long afterwards.

In the autopsy of the defeat, the dissatisfaction with the party’s deputy leader Roy Hattersley was widespread. John Smith, popular, funny and fast at the dispatch box with a joke or a mocking aside, was expected to inherit the shadow chancellorship despite his poor grasp of economics. He encouraged Brown to stand for election to the shadow cabinet, impressed by the young man’s loyalty, hard work and use of leaked documents to discomfort the government. Brown was pleasantly unintoxicated by his status, arriving at meetings like an overgrown student with bundles of ragged papers spilling onto the floor. He was also noticeably devoid of the argumentative stubbornness that would emerge later. Smith’s endorsement was critical to Brown’s campaign in the election. Helped by Nick Brown, a northern England trade union officer also elected to parliament in 1983, he came eleventh out of forty runners, an unexpected success. John Smith was duly appointed shadow chancellor and Brown shadow chief secretary to the Treasury, the youngest member of Neil Kinnock’s new team. ‘He’s going to be the leader of the Labour Party one day,’ Kinnock told Tom Sawyer, a member of the party’s National Executive Committee. Kinnock regarded Brown as a kindred spirit against John Smith, of whom he was wary, although he judged both Scots to be reliable. The Scottish MPs were a group of experienced politicians, held together despite personal differences by a tribal brotherhood based upon ability. United by their hatred of Thatcher and not scarred by Militant, their principal shortcoming was provincialism. Everything was interpreted from a Scottish point of view, and as a result their contribution to the inquest into the causes of the unexpected election defeat was muddled.

Kinnock ordered a review of the party’s whole ideology. Labour, he acknowledged, was unelectable without the support of the middle classes. The review of the economic policies was entrusted to Bryan Gould, a New Zealander and the shadow spokesman for trade and industry. Gould, an organiser of the recent election campaign and a member of Labour’s left wing, believed that traditional socialism remained the party’s anchor. Brown no longer agreed, and refused to participate in Gould’s work. His unease had emerged after forensic discussions about the party’s policies with Doug Henderson, John Smith and Murray Elder – all Scotsmen who would spend one week every August hill-walking and mountaineering in Scotland with their families. ‘Brown wanted a break from the past,’ reflected Gould sourly. ‘His idea was to be more congenial towards the City.’ Gould, more senior than Brown, was unwilling to accommodate Brown’s ill-defined opinions, and was encouraged to pursue his course by Peter Mandelson, whose patronage had promoted Gould’s importance in the media. ‘Peter gave me a very comforting feeling,’ Gould acknowledged, ‘introducing good contacts and placing my name in very good contexts.’

The stock market crash on 19 October 1987, ‘Black Monday’, confirmed Gould’s conviction about ‘capitalism’s irreversible crisis’. Ideologically, Brown could offer no solution to Labour’s unpopularity in the polls or suggest an alternative to Thatcherism, apart from announcing that Gould’s intention to re-impose economic controls would guarantee electoral disaster. ‘Bryan’s being unhelpful,’ Brown was told some weeks later by John Eatwell. ‘His report to the party conference will recommend the renationalisation of some privatised companies.’ Brown agreed that Gould’s proposals, the springboard for his ambitions to be party leader, were reckless. He combined with Blair to urge Mandelson to abandon Gould. While Mandelson pondered, Brown and Blair took it upon themselves to frustrate the review.

Busy preparing to dispatch his final report later that day to the printers, Bryan Gould was surprised when Gordon Brown, Tony Blair and John Eatwell entered his office in the Norman Shaw building unannounced. ‘We want all references to nationalisation and renationalisation taken out of the report,’ announced Brown. ‘You’re too late,’ replied Gould angrily. ‘You refused to sit on the committee and do any work, and now you want to interfere. No way. Go away! All of you!’ Gould stared particularly at Blair. His presence was inexplicable, since he, as shadow spokesman for employment, was not even eligible for membership of the committee. The report was dispatched and printed. Gould’s victory, however, was bittersweet. At the end of 1987 a series of unfavourable references to him appeared in newspapers. He suspected that he knew the identity of the source, but his repeated attempts to reach Peter Mandelson were unsuccessful. Eventually he elicited an unexpected response. ‘You should get to know Gordon,’ said Mandelson. ‘He wants to be a friend of yours.’ Gould realised that he was being abandoned. Mandelson’s seduction – the offer of friendship, with its concomitant demand for emotional commitment – had been aborted. Even worse, Mandelson had switched. He was now briefing against Gould and promoting Brown and Blair. ‘It’s an ideological war,’ Gould realised, but was nevertheless relieved when his report, ‘The Productive and Competitive Economy’, was approved by the party executive on 25 May 1988. Unintentionally, he had prompted the conception of an emotional, triangular relationship between Mandelson, Brown and Blair.

Peter Mandelson had become persuaded that Gordon Brown was the party’s future. Compared with so many Labour politicians, Brown was immensely attractive. Unaware of his lurking volcanic aloofness, Mandelson regarded Brown as a sensitive, handsome, entertaining professional tainted only by impatience and intensity. Among other MPs he was regarded as unselfish, willing to help those in difficulty, extending personal kindnesses even to those with whom he disagreed if they had won his respect as an intellectual equal, and arguing from knowledge rather than purely prejudice. Watching him at receptions, as he glad-handed and back-slapped the faithful with apparent conviction, and without betraying his dislike of the performance, few would have recognised the brooding workaholic who invariably arrived late at a restaurant for dinner with friends and, after gobbling down his steak and chips or a plate of spaghetti, would rush back to his rooms to either type a speech or read a book.

Brown’s combination of intellect, sophistication, ambition and popularism appealed to Mandelson. Standing on the steps of the party’s headquarters in Walworth Road, he told Andy McSmith, a Labour press officer, ‘Gordon will one day be the party’s leader.’ Mandelson’s prediction surprised McSmith. Brown was still largely unknown. Mandelson acknowledged that obstacle, but had repeatedly promised Brown that it would be overcome. During their frequent meetings Brown constantly complained, ‘I’m not getting enough mention in the papers. My name’s only in a couple of them.’ Mandelson reassured him that his hard work would be rewarded. Both were grappling with the party’s ideology, and belatedly welcomed the opportunities of the 1987 defeat. With the support of the party’s left wing and the endorsement of Neil Kinnock, Brown believed he would eventually succeed the Welshman as the party’s leader. He dismissed the chances of his rivals, except possibly John Smith, who was handicapped by his poor relationship with Kinnock. Brown’s quandary was how to develop an alternative to Thatcherism. Marooned among orthodox Scottish socialists, he was still estranged from the consequences of ‘Big Bang’.

Nigel Lawson’s boom had visible fault-lines, but Thatcherism appeared irreversible. Relying on people and markets rather than Whitehall civil servants to manage the economy was attractive to electors. Mandelson, alert to the new ideas, understood the dilemma. ‘I think you should go to Gordon,’ he told Michael Wills, a television producer at LWT’s Weekend World who drafted policy documents and speeches for him. ‘Help him become prime minister.’

Interested in the failings of British industry, Wills had just completed a series of documentaries revealing the limitations and frustrations of British managers. In particular he had been struck by an interview with a supplier of car components who volunteered that he had resisted borrowing money from the banks in order to build a new production line to manufacture gearboxes for Honda. His reason was depressing. In the early 1980s he had borrowed for a similar venture, but interest rates had soared and he had been financially crippled. Ever since, he had decided to remain small and safe by not borrowing. He spoke eloquently and authoritatively about the Conservative government’s failure to help industry. This was fertile ground for Labour to exploit, Wills told Brown. Wills introduced Brown to the experts consulted by Weekend World, with whom he discussed the essence of Thatcherism and its American counterpart, Reaganism. Reluctantly, he began to recognise the strength of some Tory policies and the disadvantage of Labour’s adherence to Attlee’s consensus. There was reason to acknowledge that the growth of Europe’s and America’s successful economies was not the result of state intervention. Listening and brooding, he agonised over how to balance incentives to entrepreneurs, the restriction of public spending and the financing of social justice. ‘We need a fairer Britain,’ he repeated as he learnt to sympathise with the market economy. ‘We’ve got to work from first principles towards policies,’ he told his confidants, irritated by Kinnock’s ignorance of economics and John Smith’s resistance to change. Under Smith as shadow chancellor, Labour’s economic policies remained rigidly anti-market, against joining the ERM and in favour of controlling exchange rates. ‘We must persuade the rich of the need for fairness,’ Smith had said, apparently without realising the inherent contradiction. Wealth creators, by definition, are not social philanthropists, but ruthlessly ambitious to earn money for themselves.

Three successive election defeats had convinced Brown that simply damning the Tories’ sympathy for the rich would not reverse Labour’s political decline. The party needed new ideas. That summer he spent three weeks in Harvard’s library, studying industrial policy and discussing the cause of America’s economic success with local academics. He returned to Westminster emboldened by his intellectual rejuvenation. His task was to find a compromise between old Labour’s philosophies and Thatcherism. There were many false starts. Essentially, he was searching for ideas to help him write a new Labour epic that could rank with Anthony Crosland’s Future of Socialism, a 500-page analysis of how to create an egalitarian, socialist Britain, published in 1956. Throughout, Brown asserted with evangelical sincerity that social Christianity could provide greater fairness and prosperity through a more efficient economy, all in the cause of socialism.

Nigel Lawson’s budget in 1988 was another ideological challenge. Treasury statistics showed that the reduction in the top rate of tax – from 83 per cent under Labour in 1979 to 60 per cent nine years later – had actually increased the amount of money received by the Treasury, as the rich had less reason to evade and avoid taxes. In his penultimate budget, Lawson announced that the top rate of tax would be reduced from 60 per cent to 40 per cent, and the basic rate cut to 25 per cent from 33 per cent. The Labour benches erupted in uncontrolled protest. The Commons was suspended for ten minutes. Brown joined in the protest. He rejected Lawson’s argument that encouraging enterprise would benefit the poor. Too many millionaires, he raged, were enriching themselves from tax loopholes, not least from share options. Lawson’s budget allowed company directors to buy shares at 1984 prices and take the profits in 1988, paying capital gains tax of 30 per cent rather than 60 per cent. ‘Britain is fast becoming a paradise for top-rate tax dodgers,’ Brown protested, demanding that the ‘share option millionaires’ should be penalised. Instead of rewarding the rich, the government should invest in education and training. Brown was echoing the mantra voiced by Harold Wilson twenty years earlier, although six years of Wilson’s government had ended, at best, in economic paralysis. His unoriginal accusations did not dent Lawson’s claim to have achieved a hat trick – higher spending on public services, lower tax rates and a budget surplus.

Overshadowing Lawson’s self-congratulation was the rising value of sterling and his bitter row with Thatcher about whether Britain should join the Exchange Rate Mechanism (ERM). The growing strain between Lawson and Thatcher, and the prospect of rising inflation and an implosion of the boom, encouraged Brown’s belief that the government’s economic policy was doomed. Neil Kinnock’s misfortune was that his alternative policies were unattractive to Labour’s far left. Their representative, Tony Benn, launched a bid for the leadership, and the old internecine war erupted once again. Benn’s bid was trounced at the 1988 autumn party conference in Blackpool, but all the percentage points gained from the Tories shown by the opinion polls evaporated. Labour remained a party of protest, and not an alternative government.

At the end of the party conference Brown returned to Edinburgh with John Smith. Over the previous week the shadow chancellor had as usual enjoyed himself, living up to his reputation at many parties as a heavy drinker, and smoking cigars after big meals. On reaching home he felt unwell, and was examined in a hospital. While getting dressed afterwards, he suffered a heart attack. Smith’s misfortune was Brown’s opportunity. For twenty years he had prepared himself for the spotlight, and now his chance had arisen at the most favourable moment as, during Smith’s convalescence, he took his place on Labour’s front bench. Nigel Lawson’s strategy appeared to be crumbling. The Tories were becoming the victims of their own mistakes. There were widespread protests in Scotland against the new poll tax, inflation was climbing above 4 per cent, interest rates were rising towards 14 per cent, unemployment was stuck at three million and, with a worsening balance of payments, there was a run on sterling. Lawson’s boast about his ‘sound management of the economy’ was an easy target.

‘This is a boom based on credit,’ mocked Brown, eager to prove his skills during the debate on the autumn financial statement on 1 November 1988. Standing at the dispatch box in a crowded chamber, glancing at a speech printed out in huge letters to compensate for his poor eyesight, Brown relished the occasion. Countless speeches in dank Scottish assembly halls had primed his self-confident, exquisitely timed flourishes, mixing statistics and oratory while displaying his mastery of the dialectic, the rapier of eloquent Marxists. He deployed artful mockery to rile an arrogant chancellor for allowing consumption to spiral out of control and for making consistently wrong forecasts. ‘Most of us would say,’ scoffed Brown at his crestfallen target, ‘that the proper answer is to keep the forecasts and discard the chancellor.’ Each cutting jibe, accompanied by whoops of derision from the Labour benches, rattled Lawson’s pomposity. The chancellor had not anticipated the humiliation or the lukewarm support from the Tory benches. His pained expression was Brown’s reward. The result, Brown would later say, was ‘an unequal dialogue between a chancellor who had not yet made up his mind when to retire and a prime minister who had not yet made up her mind when to sack him’. During those magical minutes, Labour MPs felt a surge of hope. Here, perhaps, was the new hero they had sought so desperately. Brown sat down to roars of approval.

Walking through the arched corridors of Westminster later that afternoon, he was suitably modest, feeling an inner calm about his good fortune. In just two days, Labour MPs would vote for the shadow cabinet. The combination of his Commons performance with his astute handling of a series of leaks had earned him an irreproachable reputation. Once again, he sought the help of Nick Brown to lobby for votes. The result, late on 6 November, was electrifying. As he rushed from Committee Room 14, Brown was laughing. He was top of the poll. Following him out of the room, Tony Blair was seen telephoning his wife Cherie to report his own first appearance on the list, his reward for humiliating Lord Young, the secretary of state for trade and industry, about the government’s misconduct of supervising Barlow Clowes, an investment company which collapsed as a result of dishonesty. The next morning’s newspapers praised Brown as ‘high flying’ and ‘a horse for early investment’. One sage wrote, ‘He appears to possess the ultimate political quality of luck.’ A few, aggressively briefed by Mandelson, speculated that Brown had become a future contender for the party’s leadership. Willie Whitelaw, the Tory elder statesman and former home secretary, said that both Brown and Blair were ‘improved and becoming a little dangerous’. Another observer noted that even at that moment Brown appeared affected by self-doubt: ‘He is very ambitious, but he seems to lack the nerve to go right to the very top.’ Brown’s image among the agnostics was not of a leader but of the Scottish engineer on the ocean liner, toiling away below decks in the engine room, polishing the pistons and removing the grease.

An opportunity to shed that reputation was again provided by Lawson. After journalists briefed by the chancellor reported that he intended to target the poor and pensioners with benefits while withholding the money from the rich, Lawson complained that he had been misquoted. The furore allowed Brown to parade his Christian conscience. ‘The government’s real objective,’ he taunted the tarnished chancellor in the Commons, ‘is to move from a regime of universal benefits to a regime of universal means testing, jeopardising for millions of pensioners security in ill-health and dignity in old age.’ Means testing pensions, said Brown, was ‘the most serious government assault so far mounted on the basic principles of Britain’s postwar welfare state’. His reputation harmed by scathing headlines whose implication – ‘Veteran Chancellor Bloodied by Upstart’ – was clear, Lawson’s misfortunes resulted in rich kudos for Brown. The Commons was the perfect platform from which to parade his loathing for complacent Tories feigning to help the poor. They were men, he sniped, who cared for power and money rather than principle. Lawson and Nicholas Ridley, the secretary of state for the environment and High Thatcherite minor aristocrat, ranked among the worst. Ridley’s aspiration was to deregulate, to withdraw subsidies, and to delight in not pulling the levers of power. Ridley sneered at Brown’s ‘supply-side socialism’. Standing in the crowded chamber, Brown reacted with genuine anger to the chain-smoking minister who appeared to care more about his ashtray than his departmental in-tray. Above all, Brown reviled Thatcher’s affection for photo-opportunities: one day she was seen promoting science, the next day campaigning against litter, then advancing the cause of women and later urging the regeneration of the inner cities. ‘Today a photo-opportunity,’ he wrote, ridiculing the ‘Maggie Acts’ headlines, ‘tomorrow a new issue, the last one all but forgotten. The government’s main new investment in these vital concerns has been in its own publicity.’ His incandescence at the rising cost of official advertising, from £20 million to £100 million, seemed genuine. Four years later he would adopt the same tactics as virtuous ploys to help win an election.

Brown’s pertinent strength in 1988 was his patent sincerity. Like a machine-gun, around the clock, seven days a week, he worked to capture the headlines, firing off press releases on every subject, with newsworthy coups offering leaks of confidential Whitehall information. One day he publicised a government memorandum about civil servants not encouraging grants for high-technology research; another day he produced secret government statistics showing that the poorest four million homes were worse off than they had been ten years earlier; another day he trumpeted a report by Peter Levene, the personal adviser to Michael Heseltine at the ministry of defence, recommending that, to save money, Royal Navy ships should be refitted by private contractors. Levene’s discovery that the efficiency of the naval dockyards could not be assessed because their accounting systems were ‘entirely meaningless’ was derided by Brown’s assertion, to cheers, that ‘this is the most devious government we’ve had this century’.

Success fuelled his passion: at 7.30 on Boxing Day morning he telephoned Alistair Darling, a lawyer and Scottish activist educated at Loretto, a private school outside Edinburgh. ‘Have you seen the story in today’s Daily Telegraph?’ he asked. ‘No,’ replied Darling. ‘I’m still asleep.’ Deprived of a personal family life, Brown had become preoccupied by politics. Gradually, his passion distorted his perspective on life. Some accused him of hyperactivity, of becoming over-exposed as a rent-a-quote politician, robotically spouting One True Faith. He confessed his awareness that ‘rising can turn into falling pretty quickly’, and blamed his irrepressible desire to lead Labour away from its past and towards new policies. His fervour would brook no opposition, especially from other members of his party.

Among the most difficult were his fellow Scots. His old foe George Galloway and John Reid, previously a sociable partner, had become argumentative and occasionally unreasonable. Reid and his group, Brown suspected, were quintessentially sectarian west Scotland left-wing hardmen, meeting as a caucus before general meetings to agree their arguments and votes. ‘He’s a music hall artist,’ Brown said of one agitator whom he castigated as ‘a prisoner of his upbringing’, perhaps failing to recognise that he too was a hostage to his own past.

Among the shackles of that past was the feud with Robin Cook. ‘It’s chemical between those two,’ John Smith told friends, concerned about the sour relationship. Cook was himself renowned as a good hater and not a team player. ‘A bombastic pain when I first met him,’ was Jimmy Allison’s judgement about a man accused of flip-flopping on major policies – the euro, nuclear weapons and Britain’s relationship with the United States. While Cook spoke impromptu on those issues, alternating between vehement opposition and support, Brown avoided extremes, courteously delivering written speeches based upon intellectual reasoning, only rarely being wrong-footed. His success increased Cook’s tetchiness. In turn, Brown became convinced that Cook, as he told friends, was ‘trying to destroy me’. No one regarded this apparent paranoia as serious, but there was a less attractive personality beginning to emerge. Success and publicity had transformed Brown into a man with an unqualified belief in himself, convinced that he was the best socialist, the best thinker, the best persuader, the best media performer and the best at everything else. The political truth was gradually defined as what suited Gordon Brown at that moment, and socialism was defined as those ideas that best served his interests. If his black-and-white judgement about Cook was challenged, a grim mood enveloped a man now increasingly consumed by hatreds. Only occasionally could he restrain his monochrome ambition.

To help John Smith’s recovery, Brown accompanied him in regular ascents of Scotland’s mountains over 3,000 feet in height – known as Munro-bagging – occasionally with Chris Smith, the MP for Islington, and Martin O’Neill. Those walks inspired Brown to write a pamphlet, ‘Where is the Greed?: Margaret Thatcher and the Betrayal of Britain’s Future’. At heart, the pamphlet revealed an old-fashioned Christian socialist concerned to alleviate suffering, seeking a modern way to vent his spleen against the Thatcherite conviction that state interference was a principal cause of society’s faults. Only the state, he claimed, could redress the growth of poverty and inequality since 1979. Eager to win the next election, the ‘new realist’ despaired about the past decade of Labour history and the danger of following John Maxton into oblivion. His solution, using new words to promote old ideas, was a rehashed attack on ‘free market dogma’.

John Smith sympathised, but was alarmed by his friend’s hyperactivity. During his convalescence he regularly telephoned Roy Hattersley, the deputy leader, and asked, ‘What’s Gordon up to?’ ‘Nothing,’ replied Hattersley, ‘but being loyal.’ To certify his reassurance, Hattersley invited Brown to lunch the week before Smith’s return. ‘What job would you like to do?’ he asked. ‘I think I’ll remain as shadow chief secretary,’ replied Brown, ‘to help John back to health.’ Brown’s restlessness for change and personal success did not appear to endanger Smith.

In early summer 1989, Margaret Thatcher became personally vulnerable. The poll tax had provoked violent protests, and her antagonism towards the ERM was dividing her from Nigel Lawson and Geoffrey Howe, the foreign secretary. To reinforce her position, Howe was demoted to leader of the House and Sir Alan Walters, an enemy of Lawson, was recalled as her personal economic adviser, based in 10 Downing Street. Lawson was incandescent. The disarray among the Tory leadership was oxygen for an accomplished political debater blessed with sharp wit, and Brown deployed his invective in a masterful Commons performance. ‘Many lonely, sad and embattled people,’ he said, mocking Lawson across the dispatch box, ‘labour under the delusion that their thoughts are being influenced by the Moonies next door … I assure the right honourable gentleman that he is not paranoid. They really are out to get him.’ Lawson sat stony-faced as Labour MPs jeered, ‘Go on, smile,’ and roared their approval as Brown recited the wretched statistics about inflation at 6 per cent, interest rates at 15 per cent and a growing trade deficit which undermined the chancellor’s reputation. No Labour politician wanted to hear that unemployment had fallen to 1.7 million and that manufacturing output had increased every year between 1983 to 1989 by an average of 4.75 per cent. Brown feigned deafness to Lawson’s assertion that Britain’s managers had finally been liberated to earn profits because of real competition, the destruction of protectionism and the strangulation of the trade unions’ restrictive practices. Devotion to socialism, retorted Lawson, was restricted to Albania, Cuba and Walworth Road. Not so, replied Brown spurred on by a party cheered by their discovery of a potential leader; there was socialism in Sweden, France and Spain. And soon, they hoped, in Britain. Lawson’s misery fuelled his opponent’s morale. As the chamber emptied, the crowd followed Brown and John Smith to the Commons bar. Endless hands smacked the dark-suited back of the man who fellow MPs were convinced was the star of the new generation, the future leader who would expunge the miserable memories of Wilson, Callaghan and Foot.

That evening, Brown was congratulated by Neil Kinnock. Confirming Brown’s potential to inherit the leadership, the Welshman offered two pieces of advice: ‘For credibility, you need to vote against the whip. And secondly, you’ve got to learn to fall in love faster and get married.’ Brown laughed. He had introduced Kinnock to Marion Caldwell, but had no intention of proposing marriage, despite her fervour. ‘Oh, there’s lots of time for that,’ he replied. Kinnock’s advice may not have been followed, but an unlikely source would possibly be more influential.

Just before the summer recess, Brown was travelling with Michael Howard, the secretary of state for employment, on a train from Swansea to London. Howard recognised Brown as a fellow intellectual. Flushed by the Conservatives’ continuing supremacy despite their difficulties, Howard settled back in his seat and presented a detailed critique of Labour’s unresolved electoral weaknesses. The party, he said, would never win another election until it ceased alienating the ‘margins’. Brown listened silently as Howard lectured him about appealing to voters’ personal interests in taxation, schools and health. To overcome middle-class antagonism, concluded Howard, Labour needed to address the details of those individual issues rather than blankly preach socialism. On arrival in London, the opponents bade each other farewell. In later years Howard would wonder whether his free advice had helped Labour finally to defeat his own party.

Brown was certainly anxious to learn during that summer. Americans had become his inspiration. The previous year he had met Bill Clinton in Baden-Baden, in Germany. Clinton was touring the world to meet other politicians before declaring his bid for the presidency. His big idea to roll back ‘Reaganomics’, with its greed and debts, was to introduce a ‘New Covenant’, reasserting the existence of a ‘society’ in America and declaring that citizenship involved responsibilities as well as rights. Brown found Clinton engaging, although intellectually muddled. There was nevertheless scope for a partnership between Clinton’s advisers and Labour’s ‘modernisers’, including Peter Mandelson and Geoff Mulgan, a policy adviser. One year later, Brown would spend the summer in Cape Cod, reading through a suitcase of books on which the airline had levied an excess weight charge, and seeking out Democrats to hear about their new ideas.

He returned to Westminster anticipating excitement, but not the earthquake of 26 October 1989. Margaret Thatcher’s refusal to join the ERM and her protection of Alan Walters had humiliated Nigel Lawson. Insensitive to the danger, she allowed Lawson to resign, and then dismissed Walters. The prime minister’s relationship with Walters was an easy target for Brown’s derision: ‘It was the most damaging appointment of an adviser by a head of government since – I was going to say, since Caligula’s horse, but at least the horse stayed in Rome and worked full-time.’ Turning to the choice of John Major to replace Lawson as chancellor, Brown jeered, to the unrestrained acclaim of the Labour backbenches, ‘He has had the right training for the job over the past few weeks when he was foreign secretary – private humiliation, public repudiation and instant promotion.’ In the shadow cabinet elections in autumn 1989 he again topped the poll, and was appointed shadow spokesman for trade and industry.

For the modernisers, especially Blair and Mandelson, Brown embodied their best hopes for Labour’s eventual success. Suggestions that he was a candidate for the leadership inevitably roused his personal enemies and political critics on the left to question the essence of the man. The sceptics sensed a lack of ruthlessness, judged his charm as weakness, and doubted his willingness to grasp the jugular in order to advance his cause. Perhaps, they speculated, he lacked a game plan eventually to win the leadership. Their doubts were reinforced by Brown’s notorious disorganisation, persistently arriving late for, or completely missing, meetings. He was known to be irked by the practical details of life. Frequently he arranged a meeting in a restaurant but forgot to book a table, or even found the doors locked. His sometimes uneasy relationship to reality led to gossip concerning his uncertain commitment to others. His obsessive privacy, suggesting a fear of embarrassing revelations, also fuelled rumours, while his provincial rough edges suggested foreignness to the metropolitan media. ‘I think most Scots are pretty reserved about their ambitions or personal lives. I think I am,’ he told an interviewer in 1989 who asked why he so rarely smiled. His friendship with Nigel Griffiths, a confirmed bachelor and the MP for Edinburgh South since 1987 who worked devotedly for him, excited unjustified gossip, not least after Owen Dudley Edwards said the two were like ‘Christopher Robin and Pooh Bear in an enchanted place in the forest’.

Outside Edinburgh, few were aware of ‘Dramcarling’, Brown’s new double-fronted red-brick house in North Queensferry, set on a hill above the road with a garden rolling down towards the Firth of Forth and with a view of Edinburgh Castle on a clear day. He had after many years found his dream. The house epitomised his love of Scotland – its poetry and scenery. The interior reflected another trait, having been neither redecorated nor refurnished. The dirty sofas from the shambolic top floor of his Edwardian house in Marchmont Road were dropped into the rooms overlooking the garden, and a familiar pile of books, government reports and newspapers began accumulating across the floors, around the battered typewriters and discarded word processors, towards the ramshackle kitchen. The man without taste hated domesticity.

During the decade Brown knew Marion Caldwell, his attitude towards women and relationships aroused bewilderment. Although he spent holidays with Caldwell in America, she remained in her own home in Edinburgh. He regularly disappeared for substantial periods, arriving at her doorstep when it suited him and failing to excuse himself if he was absent. Relationships with women in Brown’s life tended to be one-way affairs. Nurturing them was unimportant; affection was only perfunctorily acknowledged and reciprocated. Caldwell was among those women who were fascinated by his magnetism – the Alpha Male – and who pandered to his demand for immediate attention whenever requested. He happily allowed her to develop her career in Scotland. She was welcomed to the North Queensferry house at weekends, to sit quietly while he wrote endless articles, speeches and pamphlets. On Saturday nights he often refused to go out, preferring to watch Match of the Day. He expected Caldwell demurely to enjoy his pleasures, grateful that she was unable to visit London during the week. Sharing a flat in Kennington with his brother Andrew, he liked partying among high-achieving Scots in London. Although some have described a blissful romance with Caldwell in Scotland, Brown was interested in other women in the south. Some witnessed him pursuing Maya Even, a pretty Canadian presenter of the BBC’s Money Programme, while others recall him considering forging a relationship with Anna Ford after a dinner party at her home in Chiswick. The discretion of witnesses and the absence of chitchat protected Brown, who was classed by one Conservative newspaper as ‘single, reticent, good humoured and charming’.

Divergence of opinion about a politician’s character is not unusual, but in Brown’s case it became particularly pertinent as he and John Smith reached a Rubicon. Economics, they agreed, had become a more serious business in politics. In any future election manifesto, Labour would need to provide statistics to establish its financial responsibility and to substantiate its challenge to Thatcherite orthodoxy. Any promises would require proof of proper costing. ‘Competence’ was the buzz word both bandied. To expunge the memory of Harold Wilson’s devaluation of sterling in November 1967 and the humiliation of Denis Healey begging for help from the International Monetary Fund in October 1976, it was best, they agreed, to support Britain’s entry into the Exchange Rate Mechanism. Labour’s support for the ERM would convince the electorate of the party’s commitment to non-inflationary policies. Smith and Brown approached Neil Kinnock for his support. Kinnock, who was equally worried about Labour’s image as irresponsible economic managers, was persuaded by the other two that the party needed to become conventional about spending and inflation, and against devaluation. Supporting the ERM, he was told, would prove Labour’s responsibility. At the same time, the party should also abandon its undertaking to withdraw from the European Union and even pledge to revalue the pound if the Tories devalued.

During those weeks, Brown did not ask himself how he, an anti-monetarist, could support the identical policy as Nigel Lawson, a monetarist. The more important conundrum was preventing new divisions in his own party. Inevitably, there would be arguments and casualties. Once Kinnock had committed Labour to Europe, the anti-Europeans would fight back, especially Bryan Gould, the aspiring left-wing leader of the party who was still promoting renationalisation and devaluation. The only solution to Gould’s opposition, Brown and Smith might have agreed with Samuel Brittan of the Financial Times, was to ‘put him on a slow boat to China’. Brown’s method was more subtle. By stealth, Gould’s influence was to be obliterated.

At the shadow cabinet meeting on 16 November 1989, John Smith described his proposed embracing of the ERM. By not joining, Brown added, Britain’s prosperity had been damaged. As predicted, Gould protested, outrightly opposing a policy switch. Kinnock did not respond. ‘It’s like fighting a marshmallow,’ Gould realised. ‘No one is willing to take me on.’ At the end of that day Gould blamed Mandelson for his humiliation, but in retrospect he understood his mistake. Gordon Brown, not Mandelson, had been planning his downfall, but Brown’s opposition had been so ‘subterranean’ that Gould had wrongly identified his enemy. He was being sidelined by Brown on the grounds of personal dislike and political disagreement. Lacking a powerbase within the party, Gould could not outwit a machine politician with fifteen years’ experience in Scotland of settling grudges without overtly plunging the dagger. ‘I’m being destroyed by stealth,’ Gould complained. ‘I’ve never been confronted with the reasons for my demotion.’

Brown misunderstood the ERM. At a subsequent meeting of the Parliamentary Labour Party (PLP) to discuss the system, he told MPs that by linking the value of sterling to that of other currencies, Britain would be applying socialist planning to the economy rather than relying on market forces. In crude terms, he was convinced that the ERM would disarm, even punish speculators. ‘We can fight speculators if we join the ERM,’ he told the PLP, revealing his ignorance of the mysteries of markets. He failed to understand that speculators profit from fixed exchange rates, and that membership of the ERM would prevent Britain from unilaterally changing its interest rates. ‘This is the economics of the madhouse,’ thought Gould as he listened to Brown’s arguments. Brown and Smith, he realised, genuinely believed that the ERM was ‘a new magical device which would insulate their decisions about the currency against reality’. Brown was deluded that a handful of central bankers could beat the money markets.

To improve his understanding of economics and improve his relationship with the media, Brown recruited three advisers – Geoff Mulgan, Ed Richards and Neal Lawson. Mulgan, the senior adviser, had already established a relationship with Bill Clinton’s staff in order to learn how Labour might change its image and policies to appeal to the middle classes. Richards and Lawson were young and inexperienced, but satisfied Brown’s need for help both to mount a sustained attack against Thatcherism and to promote himself within the party.

Margaret Thatcher’s encouragement of greed, according to Brown, had splintered British society. In a seminal article published in the Guardian on 21 September 1990, he expounded his loathing for ‘an ageing leader’ who sounded too old to care and who was, like Mao, determined to stay on at any price. His accusations were harsh. The result of her ‘dream of unrelieved competition to produce improvement’, Brown wrote, accompanied by the ‘nightmare of any support by the state’, had been that ‘the rich have done better, the poor worse’. He railed against Thatcher’s ‘unfettered market’, her ‘promoting self-improvement of the poor’ and the ‘weaning [of the poor] from welfare’. He attacked the proposed privatisation of prisons, air traffic control and London Transport as sinful, cursed by ‘the enthusiasms of an extremist tendency too young to care’. The Thatcherites’ pretensions and wild assertions were, he wrote, merely a smokescreen to ‘promote self-indulgence among the very rich’.

In a similar vein he toured Labour associations, occasionally helped by Douglas Alexander, a young Scottish lawyer crafting his speeches, damning the ‘markets [which] cannot educate’ and urging investment in British technology to fill the country’s ‘innovation gap’ and ‘training gap’. His campaign was not universally applauded by his colleagues. He was accused of being an effective critic, delivering coruscating diatribes against Thatcherism, but providing few new ideas for a cure. He spoke fluently, full of certainties, simultaneously as a moderniser and a traditionalist, but seemed uncertain about the consequences of his proposals. His reputation rested on his industry, but the party’s intellectuals wanted a heavyweight, left-wing analysis of Thatcherism. They questioned whether Brown was merely a Labour loyalist, promising the creation of ‘economic powerhouses’ to create jobs and an end of unemployment, or an original thinker. His journalistic, broad-brush approach to politics, rarely arguing about socialist philosophy, was proof for his critics of frivolity. ‘He has a moral revulsion against the government,’ wrote Paul Addison, ‘but you felt he would only offer a more decent form of Thatcherism in its place. It’s no longer really a socialist solution.’

Brown hated any criticism, and these attacks were particularly serious. His reaction was noticeable. The formerly witty, approachable man was gradually assuming the posture of a burdened statesman. To prove his suitability for power and to protect himself from making mistakes, he adopted a new gravitas in order to help establish Labour’s reputation for competence. Journalists travelling with him noticed how his good humour evaporated when a camera appeared, and despite his friendship with an interviewer, a sheet of plate glass would suddenly seem to separate the two. Anxious to micro-manage his appearances, Brown adopted a habit of robotic repetition. One memorable example of his repeated attempts to manipulate the agenda occurred during an interview with David Frost. In reply to an enquiry, Brown said, ‘That isn’t the question.’ Frost retorted, ‘Yes it is, because I just asked it.’ The mystery for his new audience was whether Gordon Brown would emerge as an undisputed leader thanks to some hitherto unseen magic, or whether the enigma merely masked blandness.

His opportunity to disarm the cynics came on 5 October 1990, the last day of the Labour Party conference in Blackpool. After many bitter arguments, Margaret Thatcher had reluctantly announced that Britain would join the ERM, at the rate of £1 for DM 2.95. Critics immediately predicted disaster, believing that the pound was overvalued. The prime minister was beleaguered. By contrast, Smith and Brown appeared serene. Labour’s lead in the polls had soared to double figures, and the party leadership, convinced of the country’s weariness with Thatcher, believed that electoral victory was inevitable. The question was whether Labour would support the government’s application to join the ERM at the high exchange rate. Most people were unaware that a year earlier, John Smith had quietly announced his support. At 4 p.m. on the last day of the conference, Roy Hattersley called Smith. ‘What’s our policy on ERM?’ he asked. ‘No alternative but to support the government,’ said Smith.

Five years earlier the party, including Blair and Brown, had supported a policy of withdrawal from the European Union. Brown had played a significant part in transforming Labour into a more electable party, as had Blair. Charles Clarke, Neil Kinnock’s chief of staff, had asked John Monks, then deputy general secretary of the TUC, to meet the two MPs as examples of the party’s encouraging future prospects. In Monks’s opinion, Blair had proven his abilities in 1988 by astutely negotiating an agreement with the unions to acknowledge that the new Conservative laws ending the closed shop (which compelled workers to belong to a union) would not be revoked by a Labour government. That success had, in Monks’s opinion, catapulted Blair up to Brown’s level.

Although the two were close, their differences were marked. Blair took a metropolitan view of politics, eager to lobby for the support of the rich and to criticise the trade unions. By comparison, Brown refused to attack the trade unions, and remained antagonistic towards capitalism. The similarity between the two was that both felt ‘modernisation’ was necessary to win an election. While Brown’s journey had been a struggle through a mass of research and intellectual reasoning, Blair acted largely by instinct. One marked difference was in their attitude towards John Smith. Brown was committed to his mentor, but in Blair’s opinion Smith was tainted by his toleration of cronyism and corruption among local party activists employed by the council in his Monklands constituency. Similarly, Blair had little confidence in Kinnock. By the end of 1990, Brown’s mood about the party’s leadership was edging closer to Blair’s. The countdown to the test of his character began on 28 November 1990. The outcome would depend upon his courage.

Eight days after failing to win sufficient votes in the first ballot of Conservative MPs in a leadership vote brought about by Michael Heseltine’s challenge following Geoffrey Howe’s devastating resignation speech, Margaret Thatcher resigned as prime minister. John Major’s election as the new leader revived the Tories’ fortunes in the opinion polls. Labour fell 5 per cent behind the Conservatives. Overnight, Brown’s unease about Labour’s election chances increased. The task of persuading the electorate of Labour’s financial competence fell to him and John Smith. Smith proposed launching an offensive in the City, which had been rapidly denuded of Tory grandees following ‘Big Bang’, which transformed not only the City but Britain as a whole.

Over the next two years, Smith and Brown frequently visited financial institutions in a ‘prawn cocktail circuit’ in an attempt to attract supporters. They were successful among the American, Australian and continental bankers who lacked tribal prejudice against old Labour. But British stalwarts like Lord King, Rocco Forte, Lord Delfont, Stanley Kalms, Alan Sugar and Clive Thompson were incontrovertibly grateful to Thatcher’s revolution. Few were convinced that Smith and Brown actually liked the City’s denizens, or understood the complexities of bank capital. Brown appeared not to have lost his conviction that ministers and civil servants could manage industry better than the entrepreneurs. His references to the Guinness and Barlow Clowes scandals cast him as a mudslinger, unaware that the development of the City as the world’s third-largest trading centre would destroy the amateurs he loathed.

Brown was scathing about such criticism. Honesty, he said, was more important than undeserved wealth. His ‘vision for the new world’ to replace the Tories’ ‘bleak, gigantic marketplace of self-seekers, each in lonely competition with each other’ was ‘a community of opportunity’. The rottenness of Thatcherism was epitomised by the appointment of fourteen former Conservative ministers as directors of companies they had helped to privatise. Those appointments suggested more than greed. ‘Privatisation,’ Brown said tersely about the new millionaires, ‘began with selling the family silver. It is now ending in the farce of golden parachutes for departing cabinet ministers.’ The recipients of ‘jobs for the boys’ included Norman Fowler, the former transport minister who joined National Freight, a company privatised by his department; Norman Tebbit, the ex-industry secretary who became a director of the newly privatised British Telecom; Peter Walker, formerly energy secretary and now a director of British Gas; and Lord Young, another former industry secretary who, after overseeing the privatisation of Cable and Wireless, was appointed a director of the company.

Those apparent conflicts of interest were to Brown as repellent as the huge profits earned by the newly privatised utilities and the unprecedented pay increases which their directors awarded themselves. His cure was a reaffirmation of the virtues of public ownership, a national investment bank, legislation to ban ‘unjustified rises in company directors’ pay’ and a ban on ‘huge perks’. Labour insiders including Charles Clarke noticed Brown’s cautious retreat from ‘modernisation’ as he once again opposed the privatisation of state monopolies. Nothing was said, however, because his attacks helped bring John Major’s honeymoon to a quick end. Electors voiced their disenchantment about perceived corruption, the faltering economy and bickering ministers. Major, who irritably described Brown as ‘a master of the personal insult’ and ‘a dismal Jimmy, always jumping onto bad news and ignoring anything good’, appeared vulnerable.

Rattling the prime minister emboldened Brown. He had won a reputation as a serial embarrassment to the government by regularly revealing confidential information supplied by disgruntled civil servants; his latest had exposed the government’s refusal to increase consumers’ rights against the privatised utilities. By spring 1991 he consistently appeared the outstanding member of the shadow cabinet, ranking among Labour’s giants. The perceptive interpreted his speeches as reflecting his serious disenchantment with the party’s leadership. To Kinnock’s irritation, he was mentioned as the leader-in-waiting. Dissatisfaction was particularly prevalent among Scottish MPs fearful of a fourth election defeat.

Although the opinion polls had swung back in Labour’s favour, a weariness was infecting the party, and there was uncertainty about whether Kinnock could win an election victory. With Blair’s encouragement, his personal assistant Anji Hunter and Peter Mandelson were touring Labour constituencies to identify kindred spirits who supported radical change despite intimidation and threats of deselection. The roots of the New Labour project, forging a brotherhood of survivors before the outbreak of renewed conflagration, started just one year before a general election which Kinnock anticipated winning. The birth of this magic circle, born from despair and cemented by bonds of close friendship, was gradual. In Mandelson’s version, he was uncertain whether Labour could ever win an election with a Celtic leader. Over lunch with a sympathetic journalist in 1991, shortly after his selection as the parliamentary candidate for Hartlepool, Mandelson mused, ‘It’s time we had an English leader.’ He was already veering towards Blair. ‘People listening to the BBC’s broadcasts of Blair’s speeches,’ continued Mandelson, ‘say here is the next leader of the Labour Party.’ He would later deny having turned away from Brown so early.

Brown was more concerned by the substance than the image. Despite his visits to the City, John Smith favoured the old-style socialist command economy rather than an equal partnership between the government and capitalists. Brown’s conversations at his regular dinners with Doug Henderson, Martin O’Neill and Nick Brown revolved around replacing Smith’s obsolescent ideology with a new agenda. ‘You’re promising things you can’t deliver,’ O’Neill told Brown. ‘It’s the same trap as the seventies.’ Usually, Brown did not comment. Despite the Glasgow versus Edinburgh friction, he shared the same Christian socialist values as Smith. Both favoured community values rather than satisfying the aspirations of the enfranchised ex-working classes. Like Smith’s, Brown’s world revolved around Scotland’s party machine and the plight of Kirkcaldy and similar Scottish communities – uneconomic coalmines, decrepit linoleum factories and Harold Wilson’s failed investments in technology – and what he called ‘the causes of poverty which are unemployment and a welfare state that isn’t working’.

To avoid criticism from the trade unions, Brown resisted questioning Smith’s agenda even among friends, although he knew he would have to break away from that view. During 1991 he confided to Peter Mandelson that Smith would be unsuitable as chancellor if Labour won the 1992 election. Smith, he believed, was too dogmatic and simplistic on economic matters. Mandelson and Brown agreed that electoral success depended upon committing the party to as little as possible. Contrived obfuscation was the ideal strategy. The obstacles were Smith, who was antagonistic towards such tactics, and Kinnock, who was reluctant to endorse Brown’s proposals to prove Labour’s economic competence.

The disputes between the three – Kinnock, Smith and Brown – Kinnock complained, were loud and long. They agreed not to revoke the Conservatives’ trade union legislation or to advocate a return to 83 per cent tax rates; but they were firmly committed to the redistribution of wealth. Would it be inviting electoral suicide, they wondered, to mention tax increases and a commitment to full employment in the manifesto? Watching John Smith ploddingly composing the tax plans for the shadow budget depressed Brown. Despite his sparkling performances in the House of Commons, Smith lacked originality. The more he insisted that the manifesto would pledge to levy ‘fair taxes’, the angrier Brown became. Smith spoke of ‘one more heave’ to prevent a fourth Tory victory, a term condemned by Brown as self-revealingly crude and destined to end in a similar fiasco to 1987. Brown believed that only he foresaw the imminent disaster. He alone was certain of the proper route to victory. In response, Smith castigated him for offering no new ideas.

Quietly, Brown began consulting trade unionists, key party activists and sympathetic MPs about the possibility of an alternative to Smith as party leader if Labour was defeated at the general election. He calculated the permutations to see whether he might beat Smith, or at least achieve a sufficient vote to mark his future inheritance. The more Smith insisted on the manifesto overtly pledging higher taxes, the more resolutely Brown sought out dissidents. His unhappiness climaxed during one stormy meeting. Kinnock had agreed with Smith to pledge tax increases in the manifesto. Brown disagreed vociferously, and questioned Smith’s principles. Did Smith actually understand economics? Brown found his bonhomie irritating, and suspected his regular attendance at church was deceptive. Brown’s dislike of what he saw as the bigotry of western Scotland – the area of John Smith, John Reid and Helen Liddell – swelled. In the back of his mind lurked new doubts about Smith’s tolerance of corruption in his local party. The murkiness in Monklands seemed to reflect Smith’s self-limiting terms of reference towards house prices, wages and human motives. All his attitudes were shaped by his experience in Scotland. His caricature of middle England was the expensive, eccentric neighbourhood of Hampstead in north-west London, and he did not understand the real middle England’s reaction to the prospect of higher taxation. Nor did Kinnock. As for John Reid, Brown was disdainful of a man he characterised as an untrustworthy, indiscreet, alcoholic thug.

Despite his disparagement of John Smith’s insularity, Brown himself was uneasy with England’s growing multi-culturalism. His integrity, grittiness and clannishness – the essence of his Scottishness – were familiar characteristics in the English shires, but not across the urban sprawls. Proud of his background, he felt only contempt for the criticism of him by London’s media classes and those Labour MPs who disliked his refusal to peel away his Scottish skin. Like Smith, Brown knew little about middle England’s mood beyond the windows of the northbound express train from King’s Cross to Scotland on Friday nights. Neither man had much affection for England’s neat villages, picturesque market towns and manicured countryside. To Brown London was a workplace, not a cultural home. He was rarely seen in the capital’s theatres or concert halls, in contrast to his attendances at the Usher Hall in Edinburgh. Scots, he was happy to remind others, are an internal people, well known to each other but distant from outsiders.

The gap between the two cultures irritated Mo Mowlam, Brown’s deputy as shadow DTI spokesman. In 1991 he criticised her slapdash approach and coarseness, sparking her dislike of the northern cabal around him. After one dinner in an Indian restaurant with Brown, Henry McLeish, Nigel Griffiths, Doug Henderson and Nick Brown, she told friends the experience was so appalling that she believed Brown was unfit to become the party’s leader. His companions were hardly impressive praetorian guards. Unlike Winston Churchill, Brown did not like dominating first-rate minds. The esprit de corps his loyalists engendered magnified his character traits.

In a rare attempt to humanise his image and attract support, he agreed to co-operate with Fiona Millar, a young Labour supporter employed by the Sunday Express, on a newspaper profile. The overt reason was Brown’s candidacy to be the party’s next leader. Naturally, he told Millar that he was ‘cool towards the notion’. He did however admit that his personality and policies irritated many Labour MPs. ‘It’s the old story,’ he confessed, ‘that your opponents are across from you in the House of Commons and your enemies are next to you. There are a number of people who resent me, but all I have done is get on with my job, and I don’t think anyone would accuse me of not being a team player.’ The profile’s first public description of his home was not encouraging. The austerity of a new floral three-piece suite in the living room, and the undisguised sparseness of the other rooms with their bare walls and a solitary piano, a present from his mother, were not mitigated by his exclamation, ‘Moving here has changed my life,’ or the disclosure that he played golf and tennis, watched football and ‘many films’, and read detective novels. Piles of books were scattered around the house, most of them about political theory and ideology. Only a few looked unread. The humanisation of Gordon Brown required something to fill the glaring gap – a woman in his life. Coyly, he explained, ‘Marriage is something that hasn’t happened yet. I’ve been too busy working, but everything is possible.’ He admitted to a ‘girlfriend who is a lawyer’, but stipulated that Caldwell should not be named, to which Millar agreed. To compensate for that self-censorship, she conjured the colourful depiction of Brown as ‘the thinking woman’s crumpet’, apparently known as ‘the awayday favourite’ by female staff on BBC’s Question Time because he was their choice of companion when travelling outside London.

The interview, however, was a failure. Brown’s resistance to introspection and reluctance to admit to any ambitions beyond politics left the reader baffled about the real man. There were no clues about his personal life, his ambition, his inner turmoil or even any mention of his unusual habit of always wearing dark blue suits, bought in bulk, and red ties. Unanswered was the question of whether Brown was merely a product of his era, or a man who might one day shape the nation’s destiny. Some would say that he was not so much unwilling to reveal himself as incapable of self-analysis or even self-deprecation. Outside politics, he was unable to define himself. While there was no doubt that following his progress would be worthwhile, his destination was unresolved.

The only real consequence of the interview was to encourage Neil Kinnock to suspect plots. In the fevered atmosphere, he believed that Donald Dewar, with John Smith’s support, was seeking to mount a coup against him in favour of Smith, an accusation Dewar’s confidants laughingly derided. For his part, Smith was convinced that Brown was plotting against himself, and asked the GMB trade union leader John Edmonds to warn Brown off. Edmonds telephoned Mandelson at his home in Hartlepool on a Friday night. ‘I gather the mice are playing,’ he said. ‘What are you talking about?’ replied Mandelson. ‘People say you’re plotting for Gordon and against John.’ Mandelson denied the allegation. Brown, Edmonds continued, should cease manoeuvring to become the leader after the 1992 election. In Edmonds’s opinion, the party would not skip a generation. John Smith was the party’s candidate. Brown heard about the threat within minutes. Frustrated by Kinnock and irritated by Smith, he pondered whether he should strike. His opportunity was short-lived.

Smith complained to Kinnock about Brown’s ‘precociousness’. Kinnock appreciated Brown as a ‘bright spark’, and since Smith was a year older than himself, half-favoured Brown as the next leader; but Smith refused to countenance the jump of a generation. Kinnock made no attempt to reconcile the two, except to bark, ‘Grow up.’ To reinforce his position, Smith summoned Brown and demanded a personal assurance that he would not stand in the next leadership election. Instead of outrightly refusing to commit himself, Brown mumbled some inconsequential platitudes. At the crucial moment, calculating the compromises and betrayals that would be necessary for success, he lacked the courage to accept the challenge. ‘You won’t stand in my way after the next election?’ asked Smith directly. ‘No,’ Brown meekly replied. He would tell his staff that he had refused to join any plot because he feared that rumours of division could cost Labour the election. The self-discipline of the machine politicians protected Kinnock from newspapers reporting disenchantment among the parliamentary party.

Gordon Brown had harmed his own cause. He emerged from the foothills of a botched coup neurotic about the whispers. ‘Who’s saying things about me?’ he asked Mandelson. Doubts and distrust became embedded in his relationships. In self-protection he began minutely controlling every aspect of his life. At private meetings he became irascible, although in public his carefully written and rehearsed speeches, liberally sprinkled with original jokes, concealed his anxieties. His self-discipline suggested an assured future. At the 1991 party conference in Brighton he taunted the Tories about their grubby relationship with City ‘fat cats’: ‘First a privatisation write-off, then a City sell-off – and then a Tory party pay-off.’ The Conservatives, he mocked, depended on financial support from mysterious foreign billionaires, including a tainted Greek shipping owner. ‘Most shamefully of all, [they take donations from] a Greek billionaire moving his money out of colonels into Majors.’ The cheers temporarily reinforced his self-confidence.

Brown’s contribution to the party’s manifesto for the 1992 election – ‘It’s Time to Get Britain Working Again’ and ‘Looking to the Future’ – reflected the next stage of his journey away from the Tribunites. He favoured regulation and competition rather than nationalisation, private business rather than state intervention, and supported seeking private venture capital on ‘strictly commercial lines’ for investment in public services. The flipside was his regurgitation of Harold Wilson’s thirty-year-old mantra of the ‘white heat of technology’ in a ‘new agenda for investment’. Using Wilsonian buzz words – technology, innovation, revolution, investment, modernisation – he castigated the Tories’ ‘trust in simplistic market answers’, especially to create a skilled workforce.

Even Brown was frustrated by the lack of originality in relying on Wilsonian vocabulary. He blamed Neil Kinnock personally, and the coterie around him including Charles Clarke and Patricia Hewitt, who professed to understand ‘modernisation’ and ‘the Project’ but who in his opinion were an albatross around the neck of the party as it prepared for the election. His revenge was to take pleasure in irritating Clarke by arranging meetings with Kinnock without telling his chief of staff. The consequence was uncoupling during the weeks before election day, 9 April 1992. Working from an office near Waterloo station, Brown barely spoke to John Smith, and fumed about the self-indulgence and lack of professionalism among the ‘London losers’, the wild and woolly left in the London Labour Party who were organising the hopeless campaign. He cursed the fact that Smith was approving policies without asking, ‘Can we win with this?’, and speaking to Donald Dewar about policy while ignoring himself. He cursed the party’s refusal to promote him as a spokesman on television, although he himself was partly to blame for that. Unlike every other shadow minister, he refused to appoint a liaison official at Walworth Road as a point of contact while he toured the country. Charles Clarke urged him to do so, but was rebuffed. Geoff Mulgan, his senior aide, never discussed Brown’s personal campaign with David Ward, Smith’s campaign manager. ‘You’re not a team player,’ Smith raged at Brown. ‘The problem is that you want to be the team leader.’

Smith was right, but was too stubborn to understand the reason. Convinced that tax increases were vote-winners, he had arranged a dramatic unveiling of his proposals on the Treasury’s steps in Whitehall just days before the election. As Smith stood in Whitehall surrounded by his smiling Treasury team, Brown seethed. Two years later he would praise Smith’s passion for equality, but at that moment he knew the folly of honesty. As they walked to their cars from the Treasury steps, Brown sniped at Smith, ‘You’ve lost us the election.’ Smith was visibly shocked, more by the disloyalty than by the prediction. Even Kinnock, under pressure from Brown, had confessed over dinner with friendly journalists at Luigi’s restaurant that Smith’s shadow budget was ‘wrong’, and had pledged to row back. Smith was unperturbed. A telephone call on Monday, 6 April, three days before election day, from Terry Burns, the Treasury’s permanent secretary, reinforced Smith’s conviction. Burns invited Smith to visit the Treasury to discuss Labour’s intentions if elected. There had been several previous conversations about Labour’s plans, which included possible withdrawal from the ERM. As Smith confidently drove to Whitehall carrying some papers prepared by Brown, he was convinced of victory. Left behind, his assistant Helen Liddell said quietly, ‘We’ve lost. Taxation has lost us the election.’

On advertising billboards across England, Smith’s tax increases were exploited by the Conservatives as Labour’s ‘double whammy’ of ‘more taxes’ and ‘higher prices’. John Major, parading as the victor of the Gulf War, exploited Kinnock’s waltz into the Tory trap of Labour’s reputation for economic incompetence. Although in Labour’s folklore the polls rose in their favour after Smith presented his shadow budget, nothing could save the party after Kinnock’s disastrous performance at a premature victory rally in Sheffield. Middle England decided that Labour could not be trusted. Tax and his own personal image, Kinnock was told, had extinguished their chance of victory. Five years later Brown would say, ‘I was always loyal to John Smith in public, but in private I had disagreements about the 1992 proposals.’

Just before election day, Tony Blair invited Robert Harris, an intelligent journalist and friend of Peter Mandelson, to lunch at L’Escargot in Soho. ‘Do you think Labour will win?’ asked Blair. ‘Yes,’ replied Harris. ‘I don’t think so,’ said Blair. ‘We’re going to lose.’ Labour had failed to break its dependence on the trade unions, and failed to understand the aspirations of hard-working English people of all classes. After the defeat, continued Blair, Gordon Brown would run against John Smith for the leadership, and Blair would stand for deputy. That scenario would require Brown to be courageous, and Blair appeared convinced that he would be. In fact Blair’s conjecture was either naïve or provocative. Over the previous twelve months, he knew, the trade unions had vetoed a challenge to Smith, and the parliamentary party was divided. He was deftly promoting his own interests. Brown was close to Smith, while Blair’s impatience with the Glaswegian was well known. Blair’s influence in a shadow cabinet led by Smith would be less than Brown’s. A Brown coup was the best option for Blair’s future.

Watching from Scotland as the election result was announced for Basildon in Essex, Brown exploded in anger. The sitting Tory MP had held on to a seat that Labour had to win if it was to have any chance of gaining power. ‘Basildon man’, cursed Brown, was ‘selfish’. Labour’s defeat was humiliating. The Tory majority fell from 102 to twenty-one, but it was their fourth successive election victory. Although there was a 2 per cent swing to the Tories in his constituency, Brown personally achieved a massive majority of 17,444. At that desperate moment Brown could not understand why England’s aspiring working class seemed to hate Scotland’s passion for collectivism and government interference. Both he and Blair were in despair.

THREE Turbulence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOUR Retreat

The telephone call soon after 9.30 on the morning of Thursday, 12 May 1994 was shattering. Saul Billingsley, Gordon Brown’s assistant, reported that Murray Elder needed to speak to him very urgently. Brown was in his flat in Great Smith Street as he listened to his childhood friend’s trembling voice. At 9.15, said Elder, John Smith had died after another heart attack. Brown was thunderstruck. His grief was genuine.

The night before, Brown and Smith had attended a fundraising dinner at the Park Lane Hotel. The party had been jolly. Many rich men, former contributors to the Tories, had pledged their new loyalty to Labour. Success in politics, Smith knew, is the talent to exploit unexpected opportunities. John Smith’s misfortune was Gordon Brown’s chance.

During those first hours, Brown was not wholly in mourning. Instinctively, he considered his tactics. He had dedicated his life to becoming number one. The prospect of failure was intolerable. Those close friends whom he telephoned noticed that his voice was sombre but not distraught. Nothing, he urged his confidants, should be said or done. The son of the manse understood human suffering and respect for proprieties. Decency demanded delay, if he was to avoid accusations of opportunism. Sue Nye, Ed Balls and Charlie Whelan arrived. Their conversation was short, and they departed. In the era before the widespread use of mobile telephones, communications would be slow.

Among Gordon Brown’s telephone calls was one to Tony Blair, who had just arrived at Dyce airport in Aberdeen to start a campaign tour. So many words had already been exchanged about John Smith that they got straight down to practicalities. They agreed to meet later that day, after Blair had cut short his journey and returned to London. Brown assumed that Blair would wait until after they had met before making any decisions.

After eleven o’clock, Peter Mandelson arrived in the flat. Whatever his faults, Mandelson was a serious politician who had dedicated himself to the party’s election success. He was also an astute judge of people’s strengths and weaknesses. Gordon Brown, he noted, did not regard Smith’s death just as a tragedy, but also as an opportunity which he was willing to grasp. There were few words of mourning. Mandelson spoke to Brown only about the succession. The Scotsman was emphatic that he would stand. When Mandelson did not comment, Brown misread his neutrality as support. Shortly afterwards, Nick Brown joined them.

Sheena McDonald arrived at lunchtime. The three men’s discussions had reached stalemate. Mandelson was endlessly on the telephone, Nick Brown was sitting silently on a chair, while Gordon Brown paced quietly around the room listening to Mandelson’s conversations. McDonald departed, leaving Brown to write an obituary for the next day’s Independent which would be notable for its hyperbole. John Smith, he repeatedly emphasised, was witty and good company. His premature death deprived ‘the country as a whole of something irreplaceable’, because Smith was ‘uniquely equipped … to bind this nation together and to heal the deep wounds of the past fifteen years’. He lamented that Smith had been standing ‘at the brink of his greatest achievement’, victory in the next election. In truth, Brown knew, Smith was singularly ill-equipped for that challenge.

Sitting in a corner of the untidy living room following the media coverage of Smith’s death in telephone conversations, Charlie Whelan’s temper rose. Commentators were privately predicting that Blair was the favoured candidate for the leadership. More alarming was the early edition of the agenda-setting London Evening Standard. The newspaper’s editor had heard about Smith’s death from a doctor at the London hospital. Charles Reiss, the Standard’s political editor, baldly stated that Blair was the heir apparent in a ‘dream ticket’ with John Prescott as his deputy. Brown, by contrast, was dismissed as the son of John Smith, the new representative of Old Labour. By mid-afternoon, Brown was working behind closed doors in his Millbank office. Outside, Caroline Daniel, a new researcher, sensed an unusually tense atmosphere. Sue Nye was warning everyone not to speak to anyone on Blair’s staff. ‘It could all get heated,’ she said. ‘We need to ensure that everyone can be trusted.’ This warning was odd, because two nights every week Anji Hunter, Blair’s personal assistant, slept at Nye’s home. During those visits they conveniently settled any outstanding differences between the politicians. Towards the end of the afternoon, after speaking with Nick Brown, Gordon Brown agreed that his closest confidants should gather at 6 p.m. in his office.

The six men who met that evening in Brown’s corner office – Alistair Darling, Martin O’Neill, Doug Henderson, Nick Brown, Tom Clarke and Murray Elder – were all from Scotland and the north-east of England. Their purpose was to discuss how to bring about Brown’s election as the new leader. The mood was businesslike. ‘There’s everything to play for,’ announced Nick Brown. ‘You’ve got an even chance to win.’ Gordon Brown nodded. He acknowledged that Blair was his obvious rival, and did not mention any personal understanding between the two – either an agreement that Blair would stand aside for Brown, or that they would not campaign against each other.

Doug Henderson disturbed their composure. He had spent the day ‘intelligence gathering’ around Westminster and consulting his constituents. ‘I’ve already spoken to my people in Newcastle,’ he said, ‘and you’re not going to win there.’ He then dropped a bombshell. ‘I just don’t think you can win. You’re behind in the press stakes. We’re half a lap behind. I didn’t need a glass against my wall to hear Mandelson at work today.’ ‘What do you mean?’ asked Brown. ‘His room is next to mine,’ explained Henderson. ‘He’s spent the whole day speaking to his favourites in Fleet Street promoting Blair.’

Brown’s face fell. He was unsure whether Blair had approved Mandelson’s activities, but Mandelson had for long been contemplating a coup against John Smith. Smith’s death had possibly triggered a prepared plan. Brown never contemplated the possibility that Henderson might have been mistaken. Later, Derek Draper, Mandelson’s assistant, would insist that Mandelson did not brief in Blair’s favour for the first twenty-four hours.

The short silence was broken by Nick Brown. ‘You’ve got to take him on,’ he said in a pleading tone. ‘You can win, and in any case you can’t trust Blair. If you do a deal, it will be ignored and he’ll welch on it.’ Gordon Brown’s childhood friend Murray Elder, a decent but uncombative man, cautioned him to ‘wait and see’. Impaled more than Brown by fear of failure, Elder believed that the hurt of defeat would be worse than to take a risk. Charlie Whelan did not commit himself, although he would later say that Brown could have won if he had been better prepared.

Brown became gradually more grim-faced and silent. Someone opened the midday edition of the Evening Standard. A glowing profile of Blair by Sarah Baxter added to the misery in the room. ‘I don’t like talking about this on the same day as John died,’ Brown unexpectedly announced. His friends nodded, although they might have been excused for thinking they had been doing nothing else since that morning. Brown looked up: ‘I’m not going to make a decision until after John is buried.’ In the folklore constructed over the next years about the events immediately following the death of John Smith, that first meeting in Brown’s office was, like so many other details, erased from the record.

Tony Blair had flown back to London during the afternoon. He was met at Heathrow by his wife Cherie. Cherie didn’t like Brown. She resented his brusqueness towards herself – the coolness and lack of respect he often showed to women. Even in the Blairs’ own home, the temperature dropped whenever he appeared. As they travelled towards London, the Blairs agreed on their agenda. Tony Blair wanted the leadership, and key relationships had already been forged. Since 1992 he had established a network of supporting MPs across the north-east, and he knew that he could count on the majority of London’s politicians, many of whom, like Chris Smith, were neighbours of his in Islington. Even some Scottish MPs, insulted over the years by Brown, had promised their support. Peter Mandelson, he believed, was also a firm supporter.

Months earlier, Mandelson had decided that Brown’s abrasive style, provincialism and lack of populist appeal was not certain to win a general election. Not only was Brown seen as ‘John Smith Mark 2’, but in recent years the number of Celts among the party leadership had hampered Labour’s appeal in England. There had been John Smith from Scotland, Neil Kinnock from Wales, and both Michael Foot and Jim Callaghan represented Welsh constituencies. Unlike Blair, Brown resisted giving interviews to Cosmopolitan magazine about his favourite cars, his record collection, his guitar and his haircuts, nor could he dress casually for a loving pose with a young family. Mandelson’s opinions were shared by Donald Dewar, the senior Scottish MP. Although they were friends, Dewar doubted Brown’s organisational skills. Dewar and George Robertson would agree that Blair was the best candidate but, to avoid ‘letting Gordon down’, they would say nothing. Over the following days Brown would be allowed to find his own way to withdraw.

That evening Brown and his confidants left Millbank unaware of those allegiances and attitudes. The task of rounding up Brown’s supporters was delegated to Nick Brown, who was ignorant of Gordon Brown’s vulnerability in England. A physical factor also limited his efforts. While Gordon Brown’s office was in Millbank, Blair had remained in Parliament Street. Nick Brown would not know who was meeting Blair, and did not realise that on that very evening Mandelson and Blair were talking in the Commons. Mandelson’s opinion was critical. His decision on whether to support Brown or Blair would determine which of the two modernisers possessed a significant advantage. Gordon Brown was also handicapped by his lack of an Anji Hunter, a ‘gold star schmoozer’ according to her targets, who successfully persuaded the party’s power brokers to meet and like Blair. Brown relied on Sue Nye, loyal but abrasive, who deterred rather than attracted.

At the end of the day Gordon Brown travelled to Islington, to the home of Blair’s brother Bill. The outstanding issue to discuss was an agreement not to divide the modernisers’ vote, which would benefit John Prescott. Derek Draper drove Tony Blair to his brother’s house. ‘You know,’ Blair told Draper during the journey, ‘I told Gordon ages ago that he could not be leader of the party without a wife and kids.’ Inside the house, Brown and Blair affirmed that they would not compete against each other, but nothing more. Blair revealed that he was under pressure to stand, an admission carefully contrived to disarm Brown. Even as they met, the mood was swinging against the Scotsman. On Newsnight, Alastair Campbell, the assistant editor of the Today newspaper, openly supported Blair as the new leader. The Evening Standard’s last edition highlighted Sarah Baxter’s article ‘Why I Say Tony Blair Should be the Next Leader’. Broadcasters were naming Blair as the favourite. Brown returned to Westminster in a deflated mood.

Early on Friday morning he arrived at the Labour headquarters at Millbank. On the coffee table at the entrance was a pile of newspapers clearly marked ‘Do Not Remove’. Grabbing the papers, he brushed past the receptionists without a smile and rushed to his office. The newspapers were discouraging. Others had followed the Evening Standard’s prediction of Blair’s success. A poll of Scottish MPs in the Scotsman showed that a majority opposed Brown. His friends would subsequently claim that the poll was fixed by Mandelson, but the tilt was certainly accurate. The comparisons unflatteringly mentioned Brown’s lacklustre performances in the Commons and Blair’s superior mental agility. English socialists, it was reported, had had enough of the Scots and the Welsh.

Those criticisms, Brown believed, would not determine the outcome of the leadership election. Under Labour’s constitution, the votes of the MPs, the trade unions and the constituencies were of equal value, and the outcome was still uncertain. The question was whether he was prepared to fight. He still hoped to gain the backing of Peter Mandelson, whose unrivalled ability, proven over the past seven years, would enhance his candidacy. He could also rely on Charlie Whelan, whose voice was heard in a neighbouring room. Using two swear words where one would have been more than sufficient, Whelan was phoning journalists, urging them to understand that Brown would win the leadership. Nearby, Nick Brown, inexplicably wearing sunglasses, nodded his agreement although he had not yet contacted any allies in the trade unions or constituencies. Inside his office, Gordon Brown sat depressed.

Over the weekend he returned as usual to Scotland. His first call was on Elizabeth Smith, the former leader’s widow. Helen Liddell, the party’s former secretary, was outside the house waiting to give a television interview as he arrived. Tony Blair, Liddell noted, had not yet crossed the border to pay his respects.

The weekend’s newspapers did not improve Brown’s self-confidence. Their opinion polls showed that Blair was the favourite in the party and the country. Brown, it was implied, might withdraw on the basis of a prior agreement with Blair not to stand against each other. Brown called the party’s pollster Philip Gould and asked who was the favourite to win. ‘I said Tony without hesitation,’ Gould recalled. ‘Gordon asked me why, and I replied that Tony not only met the mood of the nation, he exemplified it. He would create for Britain a sense of change, of a new beginning, which Gordon could not do.’ More irritating was Mandelson’s appearance on Channel 4 News describing his ideal candidate as the person ‘who would fully maximise support for the party in the country’.

Brown was stewing, and his mood worsened the following morning, Monday, 16 May, when a letter from Mandelson, setting out the position as he saw it, was delivered to Brown’s office on the other side of the corridor. Brown, said Mandelson, was attracting sympathy from the lobby for his position, not least because of his unrivalled intellectual position, but he had a problem in not appearing to be the front-runner. The conclusion was painful. If Brown ran it would be a gift to the party’s enemies, and he would be blamed by the media for creating the split. The remedy would be intensive briefings to sell himself, wrote Mandelson, but the regrettable consequence of that would be to weaken Blair’s position. Even then, success could not be guaranteed. Ultimately, the card the media were playing for Blair was his ‘southern appeal’.

Mandelson may have been stating the obvious in unpartisan words, but to Brown, coiled like a spring in his lust for power, the truth was intensely hurtful. He regarded the weekend’s media analysis, the suggestion of an agreement between himself and Blair, and Mandelson’s letter as calculated to undermine his chances. ‘We’ve been betrayed,’ he muttered to a friend. He also suspected that Mandelson was helping Blair, and encouraged Tribune to report the alliance. Blair was alarmed by that possibility and directed Anji Hunter and later Michael Meacher to telephone the editor Mark Seddon. ‘It’s simply not true,’ Hunter exclaimed. The newspaper did not publish the accurate story.

Four days after John Smith’s death, the message was ‘Brown in mourning’, but the reality was also of a politician fretting. Brown required a bandwagon if he was to win the prize. Mandelson’s judgement was unfortunate but not necessarily decisive if Brown actively campaigned for support, seeking out and converting dissenters. Secluded in his office, he relied on an inner circle of MPs – Nick Brown, Doug Henderson, Andrew Smith, Nigel Griffiths and Eric Clarke, the former leader of the Scottish miners – for advice. He never paused to contemplate the possibility that outsiders might dislike a Scottish clique as much as he disdained the London establishment. Nor did he recognise how the personal weaknesses of his political advisers reflected poorly on himself. ‘Tell me what you think,’ Brown said to Henderson, who had been tramping around Westminster. ‘I don’t think you can win,’ reported his ambassador, knowing that Brown’s two brothers were urging him to stand.

While Brown hesitated, Blair, encouraged by a personal message from David Ward that Brown had not been John Smith’s favourite son, was actively seeking support. Chris Smith, David Blunkett, Adam Ingram, the MP for East Kilbride, and Frank Dobson each expressed their support. Brown was shocked. Dobson, he had thought, would favour his redistributive socialism. Instead, Dobson complained that rather than encourage consensus government, Brown would cluster his favourites around himself. ‘He’s an iceman,’ was the hurtful quotation. Brown was perplexed that even his assumption of Neil Kinnock’s endorsement was wrong. The former leader wondered aloud about Brown’s suitability. He was a bowler, not a batsman, suggested Kinnock. Not surprisingly, Charles Clarke, Kinnock’s chief of staff, was telling everyone that he had telephoned Blair immediately after Smith’s death to urge him to run for the leadership. Presentation and personality rather than politics was the issue. The party was desperate for an election victory. Blair may have been too right-wing for many in the party, but he was likely to appeal to the English middle class.

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