At a quarter past 10 on the night of Wednesday 28 March 1979, I sat in the front row of the members' gallery in the House of Commons and, from high above the government front bench, watched the death throes of the administration in which I served. Although I did not know it at the time, I was also witnessing the last rites of "Old Labour" - the party of nationalisation, redistributive taxation and trade union power. Below me, Margaret Thatcher - who had planned our destruction - sat erect enough to win a deportment competition. Opposite her, Denis Healey, Jim Callaghan and Michael Foot - who usually filled procedural longueurs with animated conversation - waited, as far as I could tell from the back of their heads, in complete silence. This 28 March was not a usual day. Had it been, the sight of Enoch Powell - in his place in the far corner of the House - would not have caused me so much regret. But three days earlier, Powell had offered to help the government defeat the "motion of no confidence" by which the Conservative party hoped to force the dissolution of parliament and a general election. And, much to my regret, his offer had been rejected.
The best for which we could have hoped was a six-month reprieve before the five-year parliament ended. But if a week is a long time in politics, six months is an eternity. By the autumn, memories of "the winter of discontent" - public sector workers on strike, rubbish piling up in the streets and hospital porters turning away patients - might have faded. We had recovered from the IMF crisis - the loan which, wrongly as it turned out, we had believed was necessary to stabilise the economy - and would have won if the election had been called in October 1978. I was not ready to abandon the hope of winning in October 1979.
At 10 o'clock, I had jostled through the No lobby - as tightly packed as the Spion Kop at Anfield - and recorded my vote. Then, duty done, I had tried to push my way back into the chamber. So many members were standing shoulder to shoulder around the Speaker's chair, that climbing up to the gallery was my only hope of seeing the result declared. Installed on the front row with my head against the railing, I enjoyed a panoramic view of the final act of a drama - part tragedy, part farce - in which I had played a supporting role. Labour was a minority government. To survive the vote, the party had to make friends and recruit allies. It was a task to which, for the previous week, half a dozen of us had devoted all our energies. I had been made responsible for two of "the odds and sods" - the not altogether affectionate name that the government chief whip had given the members who either had no party or could be detached from their party allegiance. And, since the "odds and sods" were our only hope, I had felt like young Raleigh going over the top in Journey's End.
The government had lived precariously for more than two years - cobbling together majorities night by night by recruiting whatever allies were available. By the carefully chosen day on which Margaret Thatcher had put the no confidence motion on the House of Commons order paper it was too late to hope that salvation would come from the support of the smaller parties. The Liberals had formally ended the "pact" which had sustained Labour since 1977. Their official reason was the failure to deliver devolution but, in truth, they were under the influence of intoxicating opinion polls which gave the Conservatives a 14% lead. Plaid Cymru was safe and solid in its support. But the Scottish National party had declared political independence from the government. On the evening that their decision was announced, Donald Stewart, their genial leader, had argued with me on radio about the wisdom of trying to bring the government down. After the broadcast was over, he had bet me £5 that, in the general election which he hoped to bring about, his party would double its number of seats. Being a man of honour, he paid up within 24 hours of polling day. But he had to send my winnings through the post. Like every other SNP candidate, he had been defeated.
So the hope of survival rested on Labour mobilising every one of its own members and persuading a couple of Irishmen - orange or green, it did not matter - briefly to join its ranks in the No lobby. Only one Labour MP's attendance remained in doubt until the last moment. The rest, there was no doubt, would follow the stern instruction to arrive at the House of Commons an hour before the debate began and register their presence with the whips' office. The potential absentee was Sir Alfred Broughton, the member of parliament for Bateley and Morley. Sir Alfred - a 77-year-old retired family doctor - was mortally ill. Indeed, some months earlier he had suggested that, because he was so unwell, it would be sensible for him to "apply for the Chiltern Hundreds" and retire from parliament. But the party managers doubted if Labour could successfully defend a majority of 8,248. "Doc" Broughton, sitting at home, was much more acceptable to the government than a Conservative member of parliament for Bateley and Morley. Usually his absence was of no consequence as he was "paired" with an absent Tory. But in those days, there were no pairs for the votes that really mattered. In the little group that the chief whip called together to fight the rearguard action, there was deep disagreement about whether or not a dying man should be brought 200 miles to the House and left in the ambulance in Speaker's Court while he was "nodded through" the division lobby by a whip - a procedure which was only acceptable if an invalid was "in the precincts" of the House of Commons when the division was called.
Broughton himself was prepared, indeed determined, to do what he regarded as his duty - even though he had been warned that he might not survive the journey. So it was necessary to discuss what would happen if he was dead on arrival. Someone remembered that, by convention, nobody dies in the Palace of Westminster. Once he had arrived safely in Speaker's Court, his vote was secure. Ann Taylor - subsequently Lord President of the Council and Leader of the House of Commons, but then only an assistant whip - volunteered to travel from Yorkshire with him. Asked what she would do if Sir Alfred did not survive the journey, she was, understandably, unable to answer. Fate - and Walter Harrison, the government's deputy chief whip - decreed that she was never required to take the decision.
It was Walter Harrison, the unsung hero of a dozen votes in which Jim Callaghan's minority government had scraped home, who had the job of liaising with the Broughton family - not an easy task since the House was besieged by journalists who were more interested in the life expectancy of the government than the health of the local MP. The Broughtons answered neither the telephone nor the door, and neighbours, anxious to protect them from intrusion, pretended that they had left home. Harrison sent his wife and daughter from nearby Wakefield to push a note through the letterbox asking for the latest medical prognosis. On the morning of the vote, Lady Broughton telephoned to say that her husband was determined to come to the aid of the party, but it would be madness for him to do so. The time had come to take a decision. Harrison can remember the exact time at which he made up his mind. At 1.20 on the afternoon of Wednesday 28 March 1979, he decided that it would be morally wrong to expose Broughton to the perils of the journey. Not all of us, who scrambled for votes that day, agreed with him. But Harrison still cherishes the letter which he received from Jim Callaghan, the defeated prime minister. It told him that he "did the right thing" on vote of confidence day. Sir Alfred Broughton died a week later.
We had considered the possibility of Broughton's absence since the beginning of the week. Without him Labour needed the support of three Irishmen - just to tie the vote. But a tie would do since the Speaker would declare that the vote was not carried. Two Irishmen ought to have been easy enough to recruit. Gerry Fitt was the leader and effective founder of the Social Democratic and Labour Party - which, as its name implied, was in political sympathy with the government. Frank Maguire described himself on his nomination papers simply as "Independent", but three years' internment under the Special Powers Act qualified him for the title of "republican". Labour took it for granted that, since the Ulster Unionists were Protestant, Six County Catholics in the Commons would vote with the Labour Party. Usually they did. But in February 1979, Fitt and Maguire had a grievance. The Boundary Commission had judged that Northern Ireland was underrepresented in the House of Commons and recommended an increase in its number of constituencies. Roy Mason, the Northern Ireland Secretary, had endorsed the report - thus, it was claimed, offering the Unionists more seats in the "Imperial Parliament". No doubt there were deeper and more personal reasons for Fitt and Maguire's alienation. But when a journalist asks an MP why he wants to bring down a government, the answer has to be better than, "I just don't like the secretary of state." Whatever the real cause of their disenchantment, Fitt and Maguire could not be relied on. So I was recruited to kidnap two Unionists.
On the Sunday night before the confidence vote I telephoned the chief whip's office with the intention of leaving a message which offered my - unashamedly republican - assistance in securing Fitt's vote. Murdo (now Sir Murdo) Maclean (the chief whip's secretary) was, to my surprise, at work preparing the following week's schedule of business. Anxious to steer clear of party controversy, he suggested I saw the chief the following day. When I arrived at his office in 12 Downing Street, the planning was already in progress. Fitt, I discovered, was in the hands of Michael Foot, the Leader of the House and Jock Stallard, a Scotsman who represented St Pancras and, in consequence, had Irish connections. However, Stallard had an idea. There were two Unionists - John Carson and James McCusker - who had talked to him about a recent visit I had made to Belfast. They had complained that inflation, which the government was beginning to bring under control, was worse in Northern Ireland than in other parts of the United Kingdom. A promise to hold down Ulster prices might bring them into the government lobby. I did not need to tell him that such a promise was impossible to keep. Before I could reply he told me, "I know the idea is crazy. But can't you offer them something?" Encouraged by the thought that they were the mirror image of Fitt and Maguire - looking for a reason to support the government - I said that I would try.
McCusker telephoned me the next morning with the startling suggestion that I got in touch with Enoch Powell. The member for Down South and I were not blood brothers. It was not only the "rivers of blood" speech and its reference to "grinning pickaninnies" which separated us. We had a different view of parliament and politics - illustrated in the green room after a television broadcast when he rebuked me for accusing him of lying, with the reproof, "one Privy Councillor should never question the honour of another". But McCusker's message, although implausible, was irresistible. Powell believed that a pipeline should pump cheap energy (I do not recall whether it was for gas or oil) from the mainland to Ulster. If the government agreed, half a dozen Unionists would - by abstaining in the confidence vote - join with him in ensuring the government's survival. I did not look forward to propositioning Powell. But the next day or the day after - memory dims - I summoned up the courage to mumble to him, as we passed in the library corridor, "I'm told that we should meet." When he replied, "If it is the matter of the pipeline ..." I began to take the prospect of his support seriously.
Pipelines were the province of Tony Benn, the energy secretary. But my immediate instinct was to discuss the improbable course of events with David Hill (then my political adviser, but subsequently head of communications in Tony Blair's Downing Street) and John Smith, my cabinet colleague and close friend. Both were impatient with my hesitation. Hill helpfully explained that, as a supporter of Herbert Morrison's public ownership philosophy, I already believed that the benefits of the nationalised utilities should be available throughout the United Kingdom. It was, they had no doubt, my duty to put the offer directly to the prime minister forthwith. With almost as much trepidation as I had felt when I approached Enoch Powell, I told Jim Callaghan of what might be possible. He dismissed the idea out of hand. His government was not up for auction. The idea of a pipeline - if I really supported it - would have to make its slow way through cabinet committees. I remember exactly what John Smith said when I reported how the prime minister had reacted: "He's lost his bottle." He did not mean that Callaghan was timid or afraid, but that he no longer had the will to grind on through long days and nights of minority government. I felt unashamed relief that I was relieved of the duty of negotiating with Enoch Powell. In the weeks that followed, I began to wonder if I had imagined the whole episode. Then Powell appeared on television and, baring his teeth in his characteristic manner, said: "They could have done it. They could have had half of the Unionist Party with them. But they chose not to do so." He was right. However, we still managed to recruit Carson and McCusker.
On Walter Harrison's instructions, I met both men at 12 Downing Street at nine o'clock on the day of the vote. They were not to be let out of my sight until we had brokered some sort of a deal and they had kept their side of the bargain in the division lobby. Harrison, it seemed, had done both men some sort of favour - which he still refuses to discuss - and, in consequence, they were willing to accept his guidance. He told them that they could rely on my help. We spent almost the whole day together - negotiating an agreement and protecting them from intimidation from other Unionists. David Hill, Ann Taylor and I camped out in my office on the upper ministerial corridor. Drinks were offered and usually declined by Carson but accepted in such profusion by McCusker that we ran out of whiskey and had to borrow a bottle from John Smith. At about four o'clock we heard that Stanley Orme, the cabinet minister deputed to make a last ditch appeal to Fitt, had lost his man. Some House of Commons catering staff were on strike and the Strangers' Bar was closed. So their point of contact had disappeared.
It was David Hill who had the idea of offering a separate price index for Northern Ireland as a means of illustrating the province's special problem and making it difficult, if not impossible, to refuse special assistance. I was already considering a separate index for pensioners and the ever-demanding Scots. So it was not a difficult promise to make. McCusker readily accepted. Carson wanted the promise of help to be more specific. I obliged and David Hill typed out an agreed statement on my constituency secretary's portable typewriter. I picked up a ballpoint pen from my desk and signed. For some reason which I still cannot understand, it was green. McCusker insisted that David Hill typed out the statement again. We all signed in black. Ann Taylor, ever the good whip, insisted that I immediately tell the prime minister of what had been arranged. I went downstairs to his room and gave him the good news. He received it with perfunctory thanks. He knew that it made no difference.
The two Irishmen, Gerry Fitt and Frank Maguire, whose support we should have expected, had abstained. Indeed, both of them had flown from Belfast to London expressly not to vote. According to Bernard Donahue, the head of the prime minister's policy unit, Maguire was near to tears. But his wife and two "heavies" who had travelled with him from Ireland "forbade him to vote". Fitt explained his decision to the House, though some members found it inexplicable. He could not, in good conscience, vote to keep the Labour party in office. But, after he had contributed to its ejection, he would fight with all the power at his disposal to see it re-elected. On such fragile threads the lives of governments hang.
At a couple of minutes before 10 o'clock, McCusker, Carson and I went into the No lobby together and voted. Then, my task completed, I felt free to witness the last moment of the historic day. Unable, because of the press of members, to contribute to the mindless noises which mark such occasions, I went up to the members' gallery and watched the obsequies as a silent spectator. There was a sudden hush as Jimmy Hamilton, a government whip, pushed his way to the clerks' table. When he paused in front of the mace and gave the prime minister what looked like a thumbs up sign, the silence was broken by a gasp of disbelief. A Tory whip, a couple of paces behind, passed a piece of paper along the opposition front bench. If I read her lips correctly, when it reached Margaret Thatcher, she hissed - in anger only slightly mitigated by doubt - "I don't believe it." The message that the government had won was a mistake. The rough calculation, which had been made to soothe the party leaders' nerves, had not included the Tory tellers who had counted the votes.
There was a moment when I shared the unreasonable optimism of my honourable friends. Then the clerk handed the official result to Spencer Le Marchant, an opposition whip, and great roar of triumph went up from the Conservative benches. Le Marchant had the right sort of voice for historic announcements. "Ayes to the right, 311. Nos to the left, 310." For the first time in half a century, a government had fallen in the House of Commons. Labour backbenchers, on the rebels' traditional seats below the gangway, began to sing "The Red Flag". In an unusual show of discipline they subsided when Jim Callaghan - who had been in the House when "The Red Flag" was sung as a victory anthem in 1945 - rose to speak. He said all that it was possible to say. "Now that parliament has declared itself, we shall take our case to the country." Members of parliament think that platitudes are the right response to historic occasions and the Tories muttered their approval of his dignified acceptance of reality. It was time to go home.
John Smith and I had a drink in his room, but barely said a word to each other. There was nothing much to say. I was surprised how little grief and despair I felt but, unusually, I was reluctant to go home. I went to the whips' office in the members' lobby, where what could have been mistaken for a party was in full swing. I did not feel in the mood for gallows humour and stood in a corner with Jack Dormand, the elderly "pairing whip" whose job was to make sure that the numbers were right on the day. Did I think we should have sent for Broughton? It was not the moment for recriminations, but I told him that I did. Dormand, certainly older and wiser, said that I was wrong and that in 10 years' time I would think differently. Thirty years have passed and I still think the same. To change the subject, we speculated, pointlessly, about what might have happened. Should we have gambled on winning the two outstanding by-elections? Could Clement Freud have been persuaded to abstain by the promise of an easy passage for his Freedom of Information Bill? Was it true that a Tory - Alan Glynn - would have accepted an instant peerage? Dormand, trying to be cheerful, said that I was young enough to be back in the cabinet before I was 50. I believed him. Even if we lost the election, Margaret Thatcher would not last for long.
As I walked out of the building, I was stopped by Glyn Mathias, a young television reporter. He understood that I was in trouble. There were allegations that I had bribed an Irish MP to vote with the government. When I treated the allegation as a joke, he told me I ought to take the accusation seriously. Lobby rules prevented him from telling me the name of his informant, but the complaint came from my side of the House. When Tony Benn's diaries were published, one of the first entries which I consulted was 28 March 1979. It read "Roy Hattersley, it was said ... had given the member for Fermanagh and South Tyrone three bottles of whiskey ..." It seemed that the defeated cabinet all spent the day in different ways.