The Path to Power

was clear that the tactical balance of advantage had swung away from proclaiming its virtues towards using it as an issue on which to embarrass the Government. I held a series of meetings with backbenchers. Their worries both echoed and increased mine. By the end of 1975 opinion on the backbenches was strongly against devolution. At the same time Alick Buchanan-Smith and Malcolm Rifkind, getting ever more out of touch, were flirting with the idea of a separate Scottish executive. That went yet further beyond the Home proposals and took us well into Labour territory.

The Government’s White Paper which proposed directly elected Assemblies for both Scotland and Wales was published in November. But the Shadow Cabinet was deeply divided as to how to deal with it. In the run-up to the debate on the White Paper in January 1976 Alick Buchanan-Smith and Ian Gilmour pressed for mention of the Conservative commitment to an Assembly in the wording of our Amendment, while the anti-devolutionists argued that if we avoided restating the commitment, abstentions from Labour opponents of devolution might give us victory. For the present, I bowed to Alick Buchanan-Smith’s line.

The arguments continued in 1976. Julian Amery and Maurice Macmillan proved effective leaders of the anti-devolution Tory camp. Willie devised a formula around which it was hoped the Party could unite, which I used at the Scottish Party Conference in Perth in May, repeating support for a directly elected Scottish Assembly, but making it clear that we would oppose any scheme based upon the Government’s White Paper. I added, for good measure: ‘I could not support an Assembly — none of us could support an Assembly — if we thought it was likely to jeopardize the Union.’ The Perth speech was well received, but of course it did not resolve the Party dispute.

I now began to harden our opposition. In November, when the Bill was published, I had dinner with a constitutional lawyer, Professor Yardley of Birmingham, to discuss its details. I also saw a good deal of the constitutional scholar Nevil Johnson. The more I heard and the more closely I read the Bill, the more dangerous it appeared to the Union. It was a prescription for bureaucracy and wrangling, and the idea that it would appease those Scots who wanted independence was becoming ever more absurd. Moreover, a private poll conducted for the Party in November 1976 confirmed my suspicion of the electoral arguments for devolution. Scottish opinion was highly fragmented: the Government’s devolution plans had only 22 per cent support less than our own (26 per cent), and less even than ‘no change’ (23 per cent). Only 14 per cent favoured independence. A far-reaching constitutional change required much more public support than that.

In November/December 1976, with the Bill about to come before the House for Second Reading, there were four long discussions in Shadow Cabinet about whether or not to impose a three-line whip against it. Our position could be fudged no longer. In addition to the overwhelming majority of our backbenchers, most Shadow ministers were by now opposed to devolution, at least on any lines similar to those contained in the White Paper. But there was a rooted belief among its supporters that devolution was the only way of heading off independence, and even some of those who disliked it intensely were wary of appearing to be anti-Scottish or of being seen to overrule the Scottish Tory leaders. In the end, however, in a marathon meeting ending in the early hours of Thursday 2 December we decided — with a significant dissenting minority including Alick Buchanan-Smith — that we would oppose the Bill on a three-line whip.

I had no illusion that this could be done without some resignations. I wanted to minimize them, but not at the expense of failing to lance the devolution boil. The morning after the Shadow Cabinet meeting Malcolm Rifkind, George Younger, John Corrie, Hector Munro, Hamish Gray and Russell Fairgrieve (Scottish Party Chairman) came to see me, saying that Alick Buchanan-Smith must be given a special dispensation to abstain in the vote or else all six of them would resign from their front-bench posts. I could not agree to this. To my irritation, what was said at the meeting appeared in the next morning’s Financial Times. The Tory Reform Group, which represented the left of the Party — when it was set up I had written in assumed innocence to Robert Carr, one of its founders, to ask precisely what it thought it was going to ‘reform’ — described us as ‘set to commit electoral suicide in Scotland’. The backbenchers felt very differently. There were loud cheers when the whipping decision was announced at the 1922 Committee that evening. It was, of course, no surprise when Ted Heath popped up four days later in Glasgow to say that he himself would not vote against the Bill. Alick Buchanan-Smith duly resigned as Shadow Scottish Secretary, along with Malcolm Rifkind. Four other front benchers wanted to go, but I refused their resignations and even allowed one of them to speak against our line in the debate and vote with the Government. No Party leader could have done more. To replace Alick Buchanan-Smith I moved Teddy Taylor, whose robust patriotism and soundness had long impressed me, from Trade to become Shadow Scottish Secretary.

It is generally an unnerving experience to have to speak from the front bench when you know that the debate, and in all probability the vote, will expose divisions on your own side. But the speech I had to give on Monday 13 December at the Bill’s Second Reading debate was exactly the sort of forensic operation that I enjoyed. I said as little as possible about our proposals, making only minimal reference to our residual commitment to an Assembly in Scotland, and saying a great deal about the internal contradictions and inconsistencies of the legislation. At the end of the debate twenty-seven Conservatives, including Ted Heath and Peter Walker, abstained. Five voted with the Government, including Alick Buchanan-Smith, Malcolm Rifkind and Hamish Gray. But Labour were also divided: twenty-nine Labour MPs abstained and ten voted with us. The forty-five-vote majority at Second Reading thus concealed great unhappiness on the Labour side as well as our own over the issue, which was to resurface. In the course of the debate the Prime Minister hinted that the Government would concede a referendum in Scotland and Wales — a commitment that in the end proved fatal to the whole devolution enterprise.

Francis Pym had by now taken over from Willie the task of front-bench spokesman on devolution. But he held radically different views from Teddy Taylor about how to treat the Bill, Francis wanting to make it ‘workable’ and Teddy wanting to bury it. In the end burial was its fate, as the Government’s guillotine motion was defeated by a majority of twenty-nine (with twenty-two Labour MPs voting with us) in February 1977. Suddenly the Government found itself deprived of Nationalist support, which in practice had given it a working majority while devolution was in the offing. Though Labour was to introduce new devolution legislation later in the year, their immediate prospects were encouragingly grim.

Precisely what would happen now was far from clear. On Thursday 17 March 1977 the Government refused to contest our motion to adjourn the House following a debate on public expenditure, for fear of a defection of left-wing Labour MPs. I promptly described this almost unheard-of breach of orderly procedure as ‘defeat with dishonour’. We tabled, as we had to, a Motion of No Confidence in the Government. If it succeeded, there would be a general election. In spite of my natural caution, I thought that it would. I used the speech I made to the Central Council at Torquay that Saturday to put the Party on the alert for an imminent campaign.

These were days of intense manoeuvring between the parties and their Whips. But I refused to engage in it. David Steel, the Liberal Party Leader, had already indicated that he might be prepared to keep Labour in power if the terms and conditions were judged right. Legislation for direct elections to the European Assembly on a proportional representation basis, ‘industrial democracy’ and tax reform were the topics publicly mentioned, but no one believed that the Liberals’ decision as to whether or not to support the Labour Government would be determined by secondary issues. For the Liberals there were two large questions they had to answer. Would they be blamed for keeping an unpopular Government in power? Or would they be credited with moderating its policies? I did not myself believe that they would sign up to a pact with the Government — certainly not unless there was a formal coalition with several Liberals as Cabinet ministers, which it was difficult to imagine the left of the Labour Party being prepared to tolerate.

In fact, my calculation of the political equation was broadly correct; but I left out the crucial element of vanity. Although the Lib-Lab Pact did the Liberals a good deal of harm, while doing Jim Callaghan no end of good, it did allow Liberal Party spokesmen the thrilling illusion that they were important.

After the vote on the Opposition Motion of No Confidence I was attacked in some quarters for not having been prepared to offer some kind of deal to the Liberals. But I was untempted by this beforehand and unrepentant afterwards. The undignified attempts to gain Liberal support for a minority Conservative Government after the February 1974 defeat conclusively showed the dangers. Moreover, it would be hard enough to drag the left wing of the Conservative Party and sections of the present Shadow Cabinet into supporting the measures which I knew would be required in government to set Britain right, without the burden of arrangements with the irresponsible eccentrics of the Liberal Party.

There was, of course, even less prospect of winning the support of the Nationalist parties, now that we had turned our back on devolution. The conservative-minded Ulster Unionists should have supported us. In Airey