In this, as in so many respects, Heath wished to place himself in opposition to Wilson. As Kissinger put it, ‘There was a nearly impenetrable opacity about Heath’s formulations which, given his intelligence, had to be deliberate … [He] could not have been more helpful on diagnosis or more evasive on prescription … He wanted Europe to formulate answers to our queries: he was determined to avoid any whiff of Anglo-American collusion.’
Heath went further: the nine countries of the EEC should henceforth act as one in their dealings with the United States. The irony, of course, was that his relentless cold-shouldering of the United States compromised the very advantage that Britain was supposed to be bringing to the EEC. But Heath supported Nixon over Vietnam, and it is one of the more curious ironies of the age that Wilson was accused of sycophancy in his dealings with America, while Heath, who actively supported her when times were propitious, was accused of obduracy. In any case, it was clear to all by now that Heath’s priority was to gain Britain entry into the Common Market. His love of the EEC did not lie in the tradition of pragmatism characteristic of most British Europhiles, and it owed little even to the earnest talk of ‘supranationalism’ characteristic of Thirties and Forties intellectuals. His Europhilia was patriotic in origin – he believed that Britain must shrink to become great again.
Heath had been the chief negotiator during the failed application of 1963. For all his vigour, intelligence, attention to detail and Europhilia, the French had vetoed Britain. But Heath would never give up, and the experience gave him the clue to a solution; he saw that it was France, not the smaller nations, which must be wooed. He turned what powers of charm he possessed to the seduction of Georges Pompidou, the new president. One difficulty presented itself even before negotiations began. This was the Common Agricultural Policy, clearly designed to advance French agriculture. If Heath recognized that France was the chief beneficiary of European largesse, with Germany as the patient provider, he determined to overlook the fact. A greater difficulty was the demand that sterling, as the world’s paramount currency, be removed as a precondition for European monetary union.
The public was to prove itself ambivalent, as was the opposition, with opinion polls suggesting resistance to entry was as high as 70 per cent. As for the opposition, it was deeply divided. On the one hand, Labour under Wilson had also attempted to join the Common Market. On the other, ordinary members and MPs were for the most part highly suspicious, on both socialist and patriotic grounds. The EEC was capitalism incarnate, and a threat to Britain’s sovereignty. It did not help that even with the urbane and benevolent Pompidou at the French helm, negotiations remained halting and ponderous. Once again, Heath determined to deal with matters himself. In conversation with Willy Brandt, Heath pressed the British case with almost messianic urgency: ‘The world will not stand still. If Europe fails to seize this opportunity, our friends will be dismayed and our enemies heartened. Soviet ambitions of domination would be pursued more ruthlessly. Our friends, disillusioned by our disunity, would more and more be tempted to leave Europe to its own devices.’
For the climactic meeting with Pompidou, Heath prepared himself by drinking tea in the park, and receiving the opinions of experts. It was all suitably English. Pompidou himself put the European case, politely but clearly, when interviewed by the BBC. ‘The crux of the matter,’ he said, ‘is that there is a European conception or idea, and the question to be ascertained is whether the United Kingdom’s conception is indeed European. That will be the aim of my meeting with Mr Heath.’ However, the European idea represented, in practice, a French one. Perhaps recognizing this, Pompidou went on to disavow federalism, and thus was the issue of the ‘European conception’ left to slumber. Its reawakening in later years was a reversal that Heath would not live to see.
The meeting was almost uncannily successful. The two men liked each other, and, more significantly, understood one another. It took a mere two days to reach agreement. Nothing was yet official, but nothing needed to be. When Heath spoke before the Commons, a still, small voice raised an objection on the minor matter of sovereignty. Would the prime minister please clarify the nation’s status as a member of the EEC? Heath’s reply was brusque and dismissive. ‘Joining the Community does not entail a loss of national identity or an erosion of essential national sovereignty.’ The first stage had been passed, with the Commons advised merely to ‘take note’ of the terms.
Like it or not, Heath was meanwhile obliged to give his attention to some outstanding matters which the country considered to be of more pressing concern. The first was the continuing issue of industrial relations. For many who grew up in the Seventies, ‘the union’ was a creature of vague menace, endowed with preternatural abilities. By night, it hung ‘closed’ signs on shop doors. It gobbled food from supermarket shelves. It had only to lift its trident and traffic would stop. It was popularly supposed to have power even over the weather; when the union leaders shook their heads, snow would fall in endless, spirit-crushing showers. Nothing could be expected of the world while ‘the union’ was supreme. This dragon was neither red nor white, but grey, its polyester suit defying sword and lance alike.
1970 had been a punishing year for industrial relations, with more days devoured by this dragon than at any time since 1926. Heath’s response was the Industrial Relations Bill. He said, ‘I do not believe for one moment that the unions are likely to put themselves in breach of the law. They will not choose to act in such a way as to risk their funds … in ill-judged and unlawful actions.’ However, he would be disappointed. The bill achieved the remarkable feat of being rejected by the TUC even before its provisions had been published. Barbara Castle, herself carrying the bruises from her attempts to reform the unions, was unimpressed and asserted that ‘We shall destroy this bill!’ In fact, it promised little more than had Castle’s own paper ‘In Place of Strife’, but the unions could hardly treat a Conservative government with greater latitude than they had shown a Labour one. Jack Jones, the head of the TGWU, foresaw difficulties ahead for all sides. The unions had little choice but to man their palisades against a government that refused to compromise.
The act was passed on 5 August 1971, but its weakness soon became apparent. As the unions swiftly realized, a way out of the provisions was to obey only one of them: that which gave them the right not to register. Most unions did just that, and those that did register – notably the electricity union – were suspended. The bill was not killed, but merely atrophied from disuse until it was given its quietus by the next, Labour, administration.
So if the unions themselves were as mettlesome as ever, what of the incomes policy by which the government had set so much store? In principle, inflation would still be kept at bay by nonstatutory wage restraint. For a long time, it represented one of the government’s quiet victories. But it was not to last. In a speech at Eastbourne, Heath trumpeted the achievements of the government by 1971. ‘Our strength is not just figures on a balance sheet, although we have those too, our strength is not just courage in adversity, although we have shown that time and time again … We never know when we are beaten and that way we are never beaten. We know no other way than to win … For too long we have walked in the shadows. It is time for us now to walk out into the light to find a new place, a new Britain in this new world.’ The platitudes rolled out, all the more dispiriting for their hollowness. The fact remained that the government could not honour its electoral promise to leave industry to its own devices.