Illtyd Harrington meets Harold Wilson just after the ‘white hot heat of technology speech’ KenLivingstone with Illtyd Harrington protest against Margaret Thatcher’s removal of grant from the GLC in 1983

Did Falkender really write the Lavender list?

Illtyd Harrington was once up for a peerage, but was nobbled by MI5. Here he wonders whether his name was added to Harold Wilson's retirement honours list by the formidable Lady Falkender

MY first impression of Harold Wilson was of a plump tabby cat, puffing and confidently waiting for the highest political office, which was to come within a year but with only a sparse majority.
My first formal encounter with the future Labour Prime Minister took place in October 1963. This was arranged so that we could be photographed together while he approved my Parliamentary candidature for Wembley North, a strong Tory seat in the forthcoming election.
This event took place in a hotel in Scarborough. The Labour party was holding its annual conference along the sea in the Pavilion. That morning he had electrified them with the “white hot heat of technology” speech. He struck me then as a kind, avuncular man, rather worried that his octogenarian father – an industrial chemist – was being properly looked after in the hotel.
Standing on the side of this minor event were Alf Richman, seconded from the Daily Herald, now The Sun, to act as Wilson’s bag carrier, and two obvious courtiers, a woman who looked on impatiently, and Gerald Kaufman, now Sir Gerald. I smiled for the first time at Mrs Marcia Williams, later the notorious Lady Falkender, Wilson’s political secretary. My blood did not run cold. Ten years later we became loyal and honest friends. She was at the heart of Wilson’s governments and I was running things at the GLC.
Her reputation struck terror into the hearts of civil servants, and anyone found hovering near Wilson with an assassin’s dagger or a bad thought. Consequently she became the target for the most outlandish tales of her sex life, financial dealings and connections with other power brokers. True – she produced twin sons – who the wildest gossips assured their gullible listeners were Harold Wilson’s children.
They were, in fact, the sons of Walter Terry, the political editor of the Daily Mail. Mary Wilson endured this relentless and causal speculation.
At this time, Marcia saw me as one useful conduit to Wilson with my local government background and rather broad interest in the metropolis.
The atmosphere at Downing Street on my visits was nearer to a snake pit in Duran Zoo, rather than the high-voltage paranoia that always seems to fry the air. Public and private enemies never gave up. After twice weekly cabinet meetings, Wilson wandered into a small adjacent room and unwound. This was later to be called the Kitchen Cabinet. Outside he withstood a daily lecturing from Joe Haines, his acerbic press secretary who was in cohorts with Bernard Donoghue, the head of policy. Both men loathed and feared Marcia. This did not prevent them from later working for a disgraced Robert Maxwell. Marcia encouraged me to accept invitations to lunches and dinner to Number 10, and it became clear in 1975 that the boat was rocking and unbearable pressures were building up.
At the beginning of April 1975, the Prime Minister took me to lunch in the House of Commons. As we entered, a wave of curiosity took the room and he whispered “There must be someone notorious here, it can’t possibly be you, It must be me.” He was then still sharp and amusing. In two years time, the commonwealth Prime Ministers were to meet in London. Suddenly he said: “Do you think we can build a modern conference centre from the meeting?” I said yes and that was the origin of the Queen Elizabeth conference centre opposite Westminster Abbey. Secondly he went on: “1977 will be the Queen’s Jubilee year, can you persuade your friend Charles Wintour – the editor of the Evening Standard – we need to launch a campaign of support.”
A week later I wrote the Standard’s front page. Then to my complete surprise he set his china blue eyes on me and whispered he wanted me in the House of Lords, but it would take a year to arrange. And that was how my name appeared on the Lavender List among others including Marcia, Jimmy Goldsmiths and Sir Donald Gosling. According to Lord Donoghue’s diaries my name was removed by an old adversary, the late Bob Mellish, doubtless preceded by personal innuendo and other lies, Mellish’s stock in trade.
My forays into Wilson’s kitchen cabinet were intriguing and riveting. Marcia retained the mind of an analytical historian. Peggy a self-effacing sister, saw that our glasses were full. One day Wilson insisted that I join him on a beer diet before he left Prime Minister’s Question Time. Since then, rumour has it that his doctor Joe Stone had proposed bumping Marcia off. There were signs of MI5 and MI6 being out of control and I have no doubt that the Kitchen Cabinet was bugged. High placed lunatics began discussing a military coup and the IMF demanded cuts in public expenditure that proved unnecessary. You could hear the vultures fluttering down Whitehall.
Was Wilson a Soviet spy? I have learnt from reliable sources that I was listed as part of a Communist cell in Downing Street. What fantasies these intriguers conjure up! Wilson’s long decline could only incite pity. He became repetitive and vague as he took solitary walks along Victoria Street near his flat. He underwent a means test by Westminster council where he was a ratepayer. He paid for some of his care. There were no roubles under the bed.
His departure in 1976 was inevitable. Marcia is reputed to have written his retirement honours list. I doubt it. Shock horror and fanciful tales of financial corruption followed in 1995. After he died in that year, his wish to be buried in his beloved Scilly Isles was bought up. The Labour establishment wept crocodile tears but there was no contribution forthcoming. Of all people, it was Lord Hanson and Tory Prime Minister John Major who helped to make that funeral possible.
Harold Wilson was an effective Prime Minister who stabilised the Labour Party from left of centre. And I enjoyed that period as a sometime insider. Yes, there were times that Marcia reminded me of Margaret Lockwood and the Wicked Lady ready to rob a passing stagecoach. Although wickedly descried as Bugs Bunny, she was an arresting personality in a world of misogynists. Once at the height of her fame, we went to Peter Langham’s brassiere in Devonshire Place for lunch. Two elderly Jewish ladies received her throws as if a Gorgon had looked upon her. Rising to the challenge in sparkling form, she said: “Yes, I am the Jezebel of Downing Street and the bearded one is the Rasputin of County Hall.”
The great tradition of British politics is to kick a man when he’s down. If it’s a woman – kick her really hard. Marcia is wise to keep her peace in retirement in Northampton and enjoy a long friendship with Mary Wilson.

• Illtyd Harrington was a former deputy chairman of the Greater London Council

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