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missiles at RAF Molesworth, in my constituency, and this began to attract anti-nuclear protesters in large numbers. My constituents, familiar with RAF bases at Brampton and Wyton and American servicemen at Alconbury, were unperturbed by the imminent arrival of the missiles, but they became very anxious as the peace protesters grew in number and their level of activity increased. As one robust Molesworth resident, Stephen Hill, put it: ‘The peace movement will cause more disturbance to our peaceful environment than the missiles will.’ In August 1983 2,500 CND protesters occupied part of the base to protest against the plans, and in October they planted wheat, destined for famine relief in Eritrea, on four acres of the base.

      As the protesters began to establish a permanent ‘peace camp’ on the perimeter of Molesworth, local villagers and their neighbours in Brington and Bythorn set up their own ‘Ratepayers Against Molesworth Settlement’ organisation. Local feelings grew heated, and I spoke at public meetings called by parish councillors at nearby Brington School, at which resentment of the intruders was expressed in lively fashion. Ratepayers’ groups even hired a light aircraft to fly over the base pulling a banner saying ‘CND Go Home’.

      Some of the protesters were on Church land, and Bill Westwood, the Bishop of Peterborough, came to see me in the Commons. When he left, nearly three hours later, I tossed an empty bottle of Glenfiddich in the wastepaper basket and knew I had found an ally. He became a firm friend, was one of the best pastoral bishops I’ve ever come across, was revered in Peterborough, and later became a familiar voice through his regular contributions to ‘Thought for the Day’ on Radio 4’s Today programme.

      Molesworth brought me into contact with Michael Heseltine for the first time. Already a big beast of the Commons, in the government when I was still a councillor, he was defence secretary, and was taking the battle to the anti-nuclear protesters. He willingly met me, alone and with delegations, to discuss how to deal with the problem of the ‘peace camp’ and the three hundred or so campers who were, by 1983, causing real bitterness in Huntingdonshire. Betty Steel, a local farmer’s wife, spoke for many: ‘We value our village, houses, our way of life, and do not look forward to having them devalued, destroyed or disrupted by invasions.’

      Nor did I. Nor did Michael Heseltine, who wanted the Cruise missiles safely installed. On 6 February 1984, in a massive overnight operation, police and Ministry of Defence officers evicted the protesters as 1,500 Royal Engineers from seven squadrons built a seven-mile perimeter fence around the base. It was a huge operation and brilliantly executed. The next morning, Michael visited Molesworth to inspect the work. It began to rain and a concerned officer handed him a flak jacket to protect him: the pictures of a flak-jacketed Heseltine greatly multiplied the already large press coverage.

      My own constituency Member’s role in all this called for no great courage. I was very lucky that my first big issue concerned something in which I personally believed, on which I could support the government, which was popular locally and which brought me into contact with Cabinet ministers, and in a positive way.

      During my first two years in the Commons I prepared many speeches but delivered only a few. One of the frustrations of being a new backbencher of the majority party is that competition to speak is very heavy, and the Speaker will call you only rarely. The government whips too, anxious to expedite the business and being more interested in your vote than your views, encourage short speeches or, better, no speeches at all.

      In 1981 I was invited to become Parliamentary Private Secretary to Patrick Mayhew and Timothy Raison, the two Ministers of State at the Home Office. Paddy approached me early one evening after a vote and offered me the job. He seemed somewhat embarrassed: ‘I hope it’s not too much of a bore,’ he said, ‘but we’d like to have you. It’s lots of work and no pay. What do you think?’

      I thought, ‘Yes, please,’ and nearly bit his hand off. I was lucky in this first job. Paddy Mayhew was later to become one of my closest parliamentary colleagues, particularly during his time at the Northern Ireland Office. Tim Raison was a reserved intellectual who had strayed into politics and loved it. They both had the solid, common-sense instincts of traditional Tories, with a fine distaste for ideology.

      The role of the parliamentary private secretary can be boring – acting as an unpaid Commons caddie, arranging drinks with the minister, being his eyes and ears in the House – but it is often the first step on the ladder. And it does give the opportunity to see government from the inside, albeit peripherally, and to attend ministerial meetings. When the chemistry works, the PPS can often influence the decisions of his minister. At that time neither Paddy nor I could have guessed how closely we would work together years later on the problem of Northern Ireland.

      Being a parliamentary private secretary opened up new avenues to me. I attended regular ‘Prayer Meetings’ at the Home Office chaired by Willie Whitelaw, then Home Secretary and the acknowledged deputy to Margaret Thatcher. The first morning I attended such a meeting I joined the little throng of Home Office ministers and PPSs outside the Home Secretary’s office as we waited to be summoned. Finally, in we went, and at the far end of a large room there was Willie, a huge man, rising from his seat as we trooped in. He singled me out although we had barely exchanged a word before that morning.

      ‘Welcome,’ he boomed. ‘Come in. Come and sit down. So pleased you’ve joined us. Very good news. Yes, very good news indeed. Yes, very!’

      If I was good enough for Paddy Mayhew and Tim Raison, I was good enough for him. Willie’s welcome made it seem that my arrival as the most junior (unpaid) member of the government was vital to its future well-being. He had a gift for inclusion and for inspiring loyalty. And for being loyal himself, for, despite having been defeated by Margaret Thatcher in the battle to succeed Ted Heath, he had been her most loyal lieutenant and remained so whenever she was in difficulty.

      Willie was unique. One morning in July 1982 the Prayer Meeting gathered in sombre mood. An intruder, Michael Fagan, had somehow forced his way into the Queen’s bedroom at Buckingham Palace, which was an appalling breach of security. The Queen had handled the matter with aplomb, but that did not ease Willie’s position as Home Secretary.

      ‘I shall have to resign,’ he announced. ‘I should like to know what my colleagues think.’

      We demurred: ‘No, no, no, Home Secretary, you mustn’t’. Paddy Mayhew led the charge and, in due seniority, we all told Willie that on no account should he go. He listened gravely. We finished. There was a long silence.

      ‘I’m very grateful,’ said Willie. ‘I will accept the views of colleagues.’

      It was a professional performance. Willie Whitelaw had the great gift of leaving you uncertain as to his motives. Had he really been considering resignation? Or was he testing the ground to see if it was secure enough for him to remain in office? I never knew – and that was part of his skill. In any event, to our great relief, Willie did not resign.

      However, he didn’t always ‘accept the views of colleagues’. The Conservative Backbench Committee on Home Affairs was often a bugbear to him. He met them regularly, groaning resignedly, ‘Let them in, are the drinks ready?’ Once they were in he listened to them, encouraged them, flattered them, but rarely changed his intended course of action. The following morning the Prayer Meeting would discuss their demands.

      ‘My colleagues,’ Willie would say of the committee, ‘think I should …’

      He would pause. Sometimes he would ask for views. When he did not, we waited to hear how he would deal with such and such a tricky demand.

      ‘Well,’ Willie would say. ‘If that’s what my colleagues think …’ Pause again. ‘Then,’ he would conclude triumphantly, ‘then that’s what they think.’ That was it. We moved on.

      Behind this bluff act was a sharp and shrewd political calculator of a brain. Willie was never a detail man, but his instinct was superb. He sniffed the political wind and knew which way it was blowing.

      In early 1982 Tony Marlow, the MP for Northampton North, asked me if I wished to join a tour of the Middle East to learn more about the Arab – Israeli conflict. Tony had already made a reputation as a parliamentary-thug-in-waiting,

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