At the end of the day
Brian Masters
THE JOURNALS OF WOODROW WYATT, VOLUME II edited by Sarah Curtis Macmillan £25, pp. 743
This is essentially a collection of repeat- ed conversations, jotted down in a note- book at the end of the day with an added topping of terse, tart comment from the alarmingly indiscreet diarist. Wyatt obvi- ously intended that their publication should cause trouble, and ensured this effect by turning the reader into a kind of eavesdropper — complicit, confidential and somewhat guilty. Undeniably, it is a very difficult book to put aside, as there is not a page which fails to excite goggle-eyed enjoyment. But what, as they used to say, does it signify?
Principally, that Wyatt was a man of fierce loyalties and unbudgeable opinions. It would not have occurred to him that to record these for posterity might embarrass his friends, for he knew that he and they were right about everything.
The heroine of the book, the person to whom he spoke almost daily on the tele- phone, was Margaret Thatcher, and one may be sure that embarrassment will not visit her. These journals cover her downfall and offer an intimate glimpse of her state of mind — combative, disbelieving, angry, but also lonely, vulnerable, hurt. You can hear her coaxing voice — 'Bless you for ringing, dear', 'I don't know why they don't like me' — and appreciate her gratitude to Woodrow for standing by her, like a gallant knight, against all her enemies. On the other hand, because he worships her uncritically ('my brave darling'), she can never learn from him why she has enemies in the first place, nor whether they might have something useful to say. In a way, she was as much besieged and traduced by blinkered friends as by political foes. It is disarming to hear Woodrow say, 'I really love that girl, she has got such terrific guts,' because you know, in that at least, he is right. And Thatcher is right to complain that no interviewer would ever have dared tell a male politician he was 'domineering'.
The second heroine is the Queen Moth- er, who comes across as mischievous, girl- ish, clapping with delight and effortlessly piling on dazzling charm. It is amusing to learn that Princess Margaret longs to go on a bus for the first time in her life, and very touching to hear the reason why the Queen never allows celebration of her accession to the throne, namely that for her mother the day her husband died still brims with sadness.
A third character (there are, of course, dozens of walk-on parts) is Rupert Mur- doch. Wyatt subscribes to the ludicrous notion that the Sun and the News of the World are morality plays designed to help us become better people by fixing our eyes on wickedness, and that Murdoch's motives are pure. Wyatt also artlessly demolishes the fiction that the proprietor does not control the editors of his newspapers, since we see him during the Trafalgar Square poll tax riots calling the office every few minutes to tell them how to arrange the front page and what to put in.
The diarist himself emerges as a glorious fixer, arranging for people to meet the Prime Minister, persuading her to receive Murdoch, interceding with members of her cabinet, or even better, being sought by cabinet ministers to intercede with her. He passes messages and relays opinions, some- times doctoring them along the way, and has a word or two to suggest how one might deal with Gorbachev or what one might say to Bush. A man of influence, no doubt; events have often been nudged by catering, as duchesses and hostesses have demonstrated throughout the centuries.
But a man of consequence? Le style, c'est l'homme. To describe A. N. Wilson as 'an unutterable shit', Queen Juliana as 'dried up and shrivelled, intensely boring', Heseltine 'a swine' (Mrs Thatcher restored his humanity by calling him 'that bastard'), Christopher Haines 'a wretched squirt', Geoffrey Howe 'vile', does not testify to measured reflection or crafted wisdom. On the contrary, such language suggests shal- lowness of spirit, a sort of adolescent cheek, which robs these journals of gravity or lasting power. The great diaries are those which relate history as it happens, from the inside (Harold Nicolson), or the privileged periphery (Greville), or the sardonic corner (Creevey), or the climber's ladder (Chips Channon). They are all written with care, the observations worked upon, the sentences shaped. In compari- son, Wyatt's journals are slapdash and hur- ried, the thoughts Which informed them simple, direct, unsubtle (which was why Mrs Thatcher was so keen on him).
So, if his intellect is as deep as a puddle in May, he makes up Mr it with an exquisitely naughty candour, which places him closer to Pepys than to anyone else, but without Pepys's breadth of interest.
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