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Lord Healey obituary	Lord Healey obituary
2015-10-08 19:36:32 UTC	2015-10-14 12:25:04 UTC (6 days later)
Unfair though this would indisputably be, the life of Denis Healey, the former Labour deputy leader and cabinet minister, who has died aged 98, is likely to be remembered as a story of what might have been. Throughout the Harold Wilson governments of 1964 and 1966 he served as defence secretary; through the whole of the Wilson and James Callaghan terms from February 1974 to the party’s crushing defeat in 1979, he was chancellor of the exchequer.	Unfair though this would indisputably be, the life of Denis Healey, the former Labour deputy leader and cabinet minister, who has died aged 98, is likely to be remembered as a story of what might have been. Throughout the Harold Wilson governments of 1964 and 1966 he served as defence secretary; through the whole of the Wilson and James Callaghan terms from February 1974 to the party’s crushing defeat in 1979, he was chancellor of the exchequer.
But he never made it to foreign secretary, a job for which he was formidably equipped. He never made party leader, though on merit he undoubtedly should have done. And he never made prime minister, though in terms of intellectual range and ability he had a far better claim to the job than several who did.	But he never made it to foreign secretary, a job for which he was formidably equipped. He never made party leader, though on merit he undoubtedly should have done. And he never made prime minister, though in terms of intellectual range and ability he had a far better claim to the job than several who did.
Related: Denis Healey and the Chagos archipelago \| Letters	Related: Denis Healey and the Chagos archipelago \| Letters
There were moments when Healey came close to taking the foreign office. Had Hugh Gaitskell, then Labour leader, lived on beyond 1963 and won the following year’s election, he might have landed the job then. Wilson preferred to give it to Patrick Gordon Walker. When Gordon Walker lost his seat in the 1964 election, Wilson stuck with him, even though he was not an MP. However, when he lost again in a byelection at Leyton, east London, the next year, Wilson sent not for Healey but for Michael Stewart – chiefly, some colleagues believed, because he intended to keep foreign policy in his own hands and judged Stewart as more malleable than Healey.	There were moments when Healey came close to taking the foreign office. Had Hugh Gaitskell, then Labour leader, lived on beyond 1963 and won the following year’s election, he might have landed the job then. Wilson preferred to give it to Patrick Gordon Walker. When Gordon Walker lost his seat in the 1964 election, Wilson stuck with him, even though he was not an MP. However, when he lost again in a byelection at Leyton, east London, the next year, Wilson sent not for Healey but for Michael Stewart – chiefly, some colleagues believed, because he intended to keep foreign policy in his own hands and judged Stewart as more malleable than Healey.
When in March 1968 the then foreign secretary, George Brown, walked out of the government, Wilson again considered Healey, but instead recalled Stewart. Then when Labour came back to power in February 1974, Healey lost out to Callaghan. And when Callaghan succeeded Wilson as premier, he gave the foreign office to Tony Crosland, keeping Healey as chancellor. After Crosland’s premature death in 1977, the doors closed again as Callaghan picked David Owen – though as Healey wrote in his memoirs, at the time he felt he ought not to leave the Treasury.	When in March 1968 the then foreign secretary, George Brown, walked out of the government, Wilson again considered Healey, but instead recalled Stewart. Then when Labour came back to power in February 1974, Healey lost out to Callaghan. And when Callaghan succeeded Wilson as premier, he gave the foreign office to Tony Crosland, keeping Healey as chancellor. After Crosland’s premature death in 1977, the doors closed again as Callaghan picked David Owen – though as Healey wrote in his memoirs, at the time he felt he ought not to leave the Treasury.
As for the party leadership, Healey made a bid for it in 1976 when Wilson stepped down, but took a mere 30 votes in the opening ballot and could push that up to only 38 even after Roy Jenkins, Crosland and Tony Benn had dropped out. When Callaghan resigned 18 months after the 1979 election defeat, Healey began as frontrunner, but was overtaken by Michael Foot, who had not at first intended to stand.	As for the party leadership, Healey made a bid for it in 1976 when Wilson stepped down, but took a mere 30 votes in the opening ballot and could push that up to only 38 even after Roy Jenkins, Crosland and Tony Benn had dropped out. When Callaghan resigned 18 months after the 1979 election defeat, Healey began as frontrunner, but was overtaken by Michael Foot, who had not at first intended to stand.
Though recognised as one of the party’s big hitters, Healey never had the devoted personal following that Jenkins had enjoyed, and made no attempt to build one. In a time of huge turmoil within the party, choosing Foot rather than the combative Healey seemed to many Labour MPs the best way of ensuring a quiet life. Healey, too, had recently been involved in one of his occasional vigorous spats with the Labour left, which had alienated not just his opponents, but some who, while sympathetic to Healey, had found his assault damaging.	Though recognised as one of the party’s big hitters, Healey never had the devoted personal following that Jenkins had enjoyed, and made no attempt to build one. In a time of huge turmoil within the party, choosing Foot rather than the combative Healey seemed to many Labour MPs the best way of ensuring a quiet life. Healey, too, had recently been involved in one of his occasional vigorous spats with the Labour left, which had alienated not just his opponents, but some who, while sympathetic to Healey, had found his assault damaging.
Some rightwing Labour MPs who later defected to the Social Democratic party (SDP) voted for Foot rather than Healey in the hope of wrecking the party. There were enough of these, Healey himself believed, to give Foot his 10-vote majority. As the 1983 election approached, and the polls presaged disaster, it seemed possible for a time that Foot might be ousted or might even step down of his own accord, but Healey’s opportunity never arrived. And when Foot departed after Labour’s abject defeat, Healey, at 66, chose not to run, feeling the party wanted the leadership to pass to a fresh generation.	Some rightwing Labour MPs who later defected to the Social Democratic party (SDP) voted for Foot rather than Healey in the hope of wrecking the party. There were enough of these, Healey himself believed, to give Foot his 10-vote majority. As the 1983 election approached, and the polls presaged disaster, it seemed possible for a time that Foot might be ousted or might even step down of his own accord, but Healey’s opportunity never arrived. And when Foot departed after Labour’s abject defeat, Healey, at 66, chose not to run, feeling the party wanted the leadership to pass to a fresh generation.
The moment when his chances of getting to No 10 had looked brightest was immediately before the 1978-79 winter of discontent, when Labour still had a chance of winning the coming election. Had Callaghan kept the premiership at that election, it might well have passed in a couple of years or so to Healey. But Labour’s defeat in May 1979 put paid to that, and one of Britain’s best potential prime ministers was thwarted to the last. And yet, in perhaps the best political autobiography of the late 20th century, The Time of My Life (1989), Healey reflected on his career with satisfaction, not disappointment. This was in no sense the chronicle of a life unfulfilled, partly because of what he had achieved at Defence and the Treasury, but also because he could never understand how some of his colleagues subordinated everything to their politics.	The moment when his chances of getting to No 10 had looked brightest was immediately before the 1978-79 winter of discontent, when Labour still had a chance of winning the coming election. Had Callaghan kept the premiership at that election, it might well have passed in a couple of years or so to Healey. But Labour’s defeat in May 1979 put paid to that, and one of Britain’s best potential prime ministers was thwarted to the last. And yet, in perhaps the best political autobiography of the late 20th century, The Time of My Life (1989), Healey reflected on his career with satisfaction, not disappointment. This was in no sense the chronicle of a life unfulfilled, partly because of what he had achieved at Defence and the Treasury, but also because he could never understand how some of his colleagues subordinated everything to their politics.
	Related: Denis Healey’s brilliance as a linguist \| Letter from Harry Schneider
His family always came first and, as he wrote in his preface to the book: “I have always been as interested in music, painting and poetry as in politics.” You needed, he often said – though some said he had borrowed the term from Edna, his wife – to have a hinterland.	His family always came first and, as he wrote in his preface to the book: “I have always been as interested in music, painting and poetry as in politics.” You needed, he often said – though some said he had borrowed the term from Edna, his wife – to have a hinterland.
Edna Edmunds, whom he had met at Oxford – where she had been much pursued – and whom he married in 1945, was the heart of that hinterland. But his student travels before the second world war, in France, Italy and Germany, had given him a sense of the world’s possibilities that never faded. The writers from whom he took the texts at the heads of the chapters in The Time of My Life are some guide to the width and voracity of his reading: Yeats (his greatest literary hero), Defoe, Homer, Virginia Woolf, Byron, Hugh McDiarmid, Coleridge, Auden, CP Cavafy.	Edna Edmunds, whom he had met at Oxford – where she had been much pursued – and whom he married in 1945, was the heart of that hinterland. But his student travels before the second world war, in France, Italy and Germany, had given him a sense of the world’s possibilities that never faded. The writers from whom he took the texts at the heads of the chapters in The Time of My Life are some guide to the width and voracity of his reading: Yeats (his greatest literary hero), Defoe, Homer, Virginia Woolf, Byron, Hugh McDiarmid, Coleridge, Auden, CP Cavafy.
Only Healey among political autobiographers, recounting a visit to the office of a US government counterpart, could record: “I noticed a Rouault,” just as only Healey could say of Nigel Lawson, the Conservative chancellor: “He had a raffish insolence which reminded me sometimes of Steerforth in David Copperfield, sometimes of a rather tubby Alcibiades.” And certainly, only Healey would dare to open a chapter with the words: “Hector Berlioz, like me, had found it necessary for much of his life to earn a little extra by writing weekly articles as a feuilletoniste.” Through most of his life, he read greedily, prowled the picture galleries, revelled in nights at the opera, photographed avidly (he had given up painting) and played the piano with passion, if not always with accuracy.	Only Healey among political autobiographers, recounting a visit to the office of a US government counterpart, could record: “I noticed a Rouault,” just as only Healey could say of Nigel Lawson, the Conservative chancellor: “He had a raffish insolence which reminded me sometimes of Steerforth in David Copperfield, sometimes of a rather tubby Alcibiades.” And certainly, only Healey would dare to open a chapter with the words: “Hector Berlioz, like me, had found it necessary for much of his life to earn a little extra by writing weekly articles as a feuilletoniste.” Through most of his life, he read greedily, prowled the picture galleries, revelled in nights at the opera, photographed avidly (he had given up painting) and played the piano with passion, if not always with accuracy.
With his big, ruddy face and his trademark eyebrows, Healey set out to enhance the fun of the nation. He played up to his image which others clearly enjoyed. When the impressionist Mike Yarwood started giving his Healey the catchphrase, “Silly billy”, Healey promptly adopted it, though he had never used it before. When people mocked him for name dropping, he dropped names with even more shameless abandon.	With his big, ruddy face and his trademark eyebrows, Healey set out to enhance the fun of the nation. He played up to his image which others clearly enjoyed. When the impressionist Mike Yarwood started giving his Healey the catchphrase, “Silly billy”, Healey promptly adopted it, though he had never used it before. When people mocked him for name dropping, he dropped names with even more shameless abandon.
Healey also had the gift of the gab. Sometimes that made for trouble. He was a bruiser, and sometimes a bully. His silkily lethal insults, sometimes prefaced by “with the greatest respect”, made enemies. During the 1983 election campaign, after the Falklands war, he accused Margaret Thatcher of “glorying in slaughter”, and had to withdraw the remark (he had meant to say “conflict”). When he claimed that leftwing Labour critics were “out of their tiny Chinese minds”, he had to apologise to the Chinese embassy, too.	Healey also had the gift of the gab. Sometimes that made for trouble. He was a bruiser, and sometimes a bully. His silkily lethal insults, sometimes prefaced by “with the greatest respect”, made enemies. During the 1983 election campaign, after the Falklands war, he accused Margaret Thatcher of “glorying in slaughter”, and had to withdraw the remark (he had meant to say “conflict”). When he claimed that leftwing Labour critics were “out of their tiny Chinese minds”, he had to apologise to the Chinese embassy, too.
Explaining that gaffe, he said in an interview with this newspaper: “The real trouble is that the only politician who doesn’t make that sort of mistake is the sort who tries never to say anything, and my great weakness as a politician is that I always say too much. I dare say I am a bit of a thug ... On the other hand, you know, every party needs some people who will rough it up from time to time.”	Explaining that gaffe, he said in an interview with this newspaper: “The real trouble is that the only politician who doesn’t make that sort of mistake is the sort who tries never to say anything, and my great weakness as a politician is that I always say too much. I dare say I am a bit of a thug ... On the other hand, you know, every party needs some people who will rough it up from time to time.”
Often his lacerating turn of phrase made him the talk of the town. His most cherished target was Thatcher; Rhoda the rhino, he called her, and the La Pasionaria of middle-class privilege. Healey’s difficulty as Labour deputy leader and shadow foreign secretary was that Commons debates pitched him not against her, but against Geoffrey Howe. His chummy insults to Howe were legendary: “Like being savaged by a dead sheep,” he said of one of Howe’s attacks on him.	Often his lacerating turn of phrase made him the talk of the town. His most cherished target was Thatcher; Rhoda the rhino, he called her, and the La Pasionaria of middle-class privilege. Healey’s difficulty as Labour deputy leader and shadow foreign secretary was that Commons debates pitched him not against her, but against Geoffrey Howe. His chummy insults to Howe were legendary: “Like being savaged by a dead sheep,” he said of one of Howe’s attacks on him.
But often, getting at Howe was merely the handy excuse for attacking Thatcher. The most famous passage of all came in 1984, when the Conservative government banned staff at the intelligence agency GCHQ from belonging to trade unions. “The foreign secretary,” he told the Commons, “is not the real villain in this case. He is the fall guy ... Who is the Mephistopheles behind this shabby Faust? ... The great she-elephant, she-who-must-be-obeyed, the Catherine the Great of Finchley ... has drawn sympathetic trade unionists into open revolt.” This was not done simply to entertain. As a Healey attack developed, the Tories began to laugh. Even frontbenchers after a while could not disguise their mirth. And now they were not just laughing with Healey – he had them laughing at their leader. And once they were softened up, Healey would pulverise them.	But often, getting at Howe was merely the handy excuse for attacking Thatcher. The most famous passage of all came in 1984, when the Conservative government banned staff at the intelligence agency GCHQ from belonging to trade unions. “The foreign secretary,” he told the Commons, “is not the real villain in this case. He is the fall guy ... Who is the Mephistopheles behind this shabby Faust? ... The great she-elephant, she-who-must-be-obeyed, the Catherine the Great of Finchley ... has drawn sympathetic trade unionists into open revolt.” This was not done simply to entertain. As a Healey attack developed, the Tories began to laugh. Even frontbenchers after a while could not disguise their mirth. And now they were not just laughing with Healey – he had them laughing at their leader. And once they were softened up, Healey would pulverise them.
Denis Winston Healey – the Winston reflecting his father’s admiration for Churchill, whose reputation was then still scarred by the disastrous first world war campaign at Gallipoli – was born in Mottingham, Kent. His father, Will, became the principal of Keighley technical college, but his son attended Bradford grammar school, where his favourite subject was English. His academic excellence marked him down for Balliol College, Oxford, where he read classics and philosophy; his contemporaries included Jenkins and Edward Heath.	Denis Winston Healey – the Winston reflecting his father’s admiration for Churchill, whose reputation was then still scarred by the disastrous first world war campaign at Gallipoli – was born in Mottingham, Kent. His father, Will, became the principal of Keighley technical college, but his son attended Bradford grammar school, where his favourite subject was English. His academic excellence marked him down for Balliol College, Oxford, where he read classics and philosophy; his contemporaries included Jenkins and Edward Heath.
Throwing himself into student politics, he dominated the Labour club, though by now he had joined the Communist party. “Only the Communist party,” he explained in his memoirs, “seemed unambiguously against Hitler.” Having got his predicted double-first in 1940, he awaited his call-up. His military career began ingloriously, checking travel arrangements at Swindon station, but his expertise in logistics saw him given the job of beachmaster at Anzio, south of Rome, in the allied invasion. He was mentioned in dispatches twice during that campaign and promoted to major.	Throwing himself into student politics, he dominated the Labour club, though by now he had joined the Communist party. “Only the Communist party,” he explained in his memoirs, “seemed unambiguously against Hitler.” Having got his predicted double-first in 1940, he awaited his call-up. His military career began ingloriously, checking travel arrangements at Swindon station, but his expertise in logistics saw him given the job of beachmaster at Anzio, south of Rome, in the allied invasion. He was mentioned in dispatches twice during that campaign and promoted to major.
Healey’s experience of war coloured his life. He was deeply opposed to the Suez adventure of 1956. When he heard on his car radio while driving to a protest meeting that the Russians had taken their chance to move in on Hungary that same year, and that Hungary was calling on the west for help, he pulled off the road and wept. As a young MP to whom Gaitskell listened, he persuaded the Labour leader to temper his early sympathy for a military onslaught on Egypt. Some 25 years later he judged that Foot, of all people, had initially been too ready for military action over the Falklands.	Healey’s experience of war coloured his life. He was deeply opposed to the Suez adventure of 1956. When he heard on his car radio while driving to a protest meeting that the Russians had taken their chance to move in on Hungary that same year, and that Hungary was calling on the west for help, he pulled off the road and wept. As a young MP to whom Gaitskell listened, he persuaded the Labour leader to temper his early sympathy for a military onslaught on Egypt. Some 25 years later he judged that Foot, of all people, had initially been too ready for military action over the Falklands.
Perhaps the most crucial part of Healey’s education, even above Bradford, Balliol and the war, was the job he took in 1945 as international secretary of the Labour party (at a salary of £7 a week). Here he learned hard truths and made contacts and friendships which served him for the rest of his life. He worked closely with the foreign secretary, Ernest Bevin, one of the progenitors of the Nato alliance, to which Healey was also dedicated.	Perhaps the most crucial part of Healey’s education, even above Bradford, Balliol and the war, was the job he took in 1945 as international secretary of the Labour party (at a salary of £7 a week). Here he learned hard truths and made contacts and friendships which served him for the rest of his life. He worked closely with the foreign secretary, Ernest Bevin, one of the progenitors of the Nato alliance, to which Healey was also dedicated.
Above all, he discovered the ugly realities of communist rule, especially the suppression of socialist parties. His task in the countries he dealt with beyond the iron curtain, he said in his book, “was to help the socialist parties to stay alive ... They were hanging on by the tips of their fingers.”	Above all, he discovered the ugly realities of communist rule, especially the suppression of socialist parties. His task in the countries he dealt with beyond the iron curtain, he said in his book, “was to help the socialist parties to stay alive ... They were hanging on by the tips of their fingers.”
His knowledge and grasp of events recommended him not just to Bevin, but to the new generation of Labour leaders, especially Gaitskell, whose plans for nuclear disengagement and reductions in conventional forces in Europe were influenced and sometimes drafted by Healey.	His knowledge and grasp of events recommended him not just to Bevin, but to the new generation of Labour leaders, especially Gaitskell, whose plans for nuclear disengagement and reductions in conventional forces in Europe were influenced and sometimes drafted by Healey.
Unlike Jenkins or Crosland, Healey had not set his sights on an early entry to parliament. He fought an apparently unwinnable seat – Pudsey and Otley – in 1945 and came close, in a Labour landslide, to winning it. But it was not until 1952, when he was 34, that he won a byelection for a safe Labour seat, Leeds South East (which after redistribution three years later became Leeds East). Having grown up in Keighley, he knew Leeds well and developed a great affection for his constituency, matching his local party’s advice against metropolitan fashion.	Unlike Jenkins or Crosland, Healey had not set his sights on an early entry to parliament. He fought an apparently unwinnable seat – Pudsey and Otley – in 1945 and came close, in a Labour landslide, to winning it. But it was not until 1952, when he was 34, that he won a byelection for a safe Labour seat, Leeds South East (which after redistribution three years later became Leeds East). Having grown up in Keighley, he knew Leeds well and developed a great affection for his constituency, matching his local party’s advice against metropolitan fashion.
His maiden Commons speech was made on foreign affairs and defence. He used it, daringly in those days, to argue for the inclusion of Germany in Nato. Though he sometimes felt that Gaitskell’s leadership was too confrontational, he was firmly in Gaitskell’s camp against the recently departed labour minister Aneurin Bevan. That reflected his belief that the left’s idealism too often blinded it to reality.	His maiden Commons speech was made on foreign affairs and defence. He used it, daringly in those days, to argue for the inclusion of Germany in Nato. Though he sometimes felt that Gaitskell’s leadership was too confrontational, he was firmly in Gaitskell’s camp against the recently departed labour minister Aneurin Bevan. That reflected his belief that the left’s idealism too often blinded it to reality.
“There are far too many people,” he declared at the party conference that followed Labour’s third successive defeat in 1959, “who want to luxuriate complacently in moral righteousness in opposition ... We are not just a debating society. We are not just a socialist Sunday school. We are a great movement that wants to help real people at the present time. We shall never be able to help them unless we get power. We shall never get power until we close the gap between our active workers and the average voter in the country.”	“There are far too many people,” he declared at the party conference that followed Labour’s third successive defeat in 1959, “who want to luxuriate complacently in moral righteousness in opposition ... We are not just a debating society. We are not just a socialist Sunday school. We are a great movement that wants to help real people at the present time. We shall never be able to help them unless we get power. We shall never get power until we close the gap between our active workers and the average voter in the country.”
Within three years of his election Labour was deploying Healey as an unofficial frontbencher, winding up Commons debates on defence. He also used the freedom of opposition to develop a network of contacts, some of whom joined him in founding the Institute of Strategic Studies. In 1959 he won a place in the shadow cabinet and became the party’s second-line spokesman on foreign affairs. Two years later he was given responsibility for colonial and Commonwealth issues, and in 1963, the new party leader, Wilson, made him chief opposition spokesman on defence.	Within three years of his election Labour was deploying Healey as an unofficial frontbencher, winding up Commons debates on defence. He also used the freedom of opposition to develop a network of contacts, some of whom joined him in founding the Institute of Strategic Studies. In 1959 he won a place in the shadow cabinet and became the party’s second-line spokesman on foreign affairs. Two years later he was given responsibility for colonial and Commonwealth issues, and in 1963, the new party leader, Wilson, made him chief opposition spokesman on defence.
When Labour won in 1964, Healey was made defence secretary and given a seat in the cabinet ahead of two other contenders, Jenkins and Crosland. The outgoing Tories had got through nine defence ministers in 13 years. Healey stayed there for almost six years. But his preoccupations at this time spilled over into foreign policy. It used to be said that the Foreign Office was divided between those who thought Healey ought to be foreign secretary and those who thought he already was.	When Labour won in 1964, Healey was made defence secretary and given a seat in the cabinet ahead of two other contenders, Jenkins and Crosland. The outgoing Tories had got through nine defence ministers in 13 years. Healey stayed there for almost six years. But his preoccupations at this time spilled over into foreign policy. It used to be said that the Foreign Office was divided between those who thought Healey ought to be foreign secretary and those who thought he already was.
These years confirmed the decisive break with Britain’s imperial past and its old commitments east of Suez. Some of that came from political realism and some from economic constraints. Realism told Healey to get rid of the TSR-2 strike and reconnaissance plane; economic constraints forced the scrapping of the project he had offered as a replacement, the F-111. He fought in vain against its abandonment. In 1966, under Treasury pressure, he agreed to cuts that cost him the services of his junior minister Christopher Mayhew and the chief of naval staff, Sir David Luce, who complained that cuts would making it impossible for the services to meet their commitments.	These years confirmed the decisive break with Britain’s imperial past and its old commitments east of Suez. Some of that came from political realism and some from economic constraints. Realism told Healey to get rid of the TSR-2 strike and reconnaissance plane; economic constraints forced the scrapping of the project he had offered as a replacement, the F-111. He fought in vain against its abandonment. In 1966, under Treasury pressure, he agreed to cuts that cost him the services of his junior minister Christopher Mayhew and the chief of naval staff, Sir David Luce, who complained that cuts would making it impossible for the services to meet their commitments.
By 1967 his insistence on devising and pursuing his own solutions had alienated Wilson, who believed he was far too close to the US defence secretary, Robert McNamara. When they found themselves on opposite sides on the sale of arms to South Africa – Healey in favour, and Wilson, after initial support, against – the relationship began to look terminal. Later Healey would say that he had made the wrong choice on this issue. Yet even those he crossed rarely had any doubt about his record at defence. Roy Hattersley, his junior minister there, later told Healey’s biographer, Edward Pearce, of “the bliss of working for somebody who had the subject absolutely at their fingertips, who knew what he wanted and pursued his own concept of defence policy with a critical rigour which I have never seen from anyone else”.	By 1967 his insistence on devising and pursuing his own solutions had alienated Wilson, who believed he was far too close to the US defence secretary, Robert McNamara. When they found themselves on opposite sides on the sale of arms to South Africa – Healey in favour, and Wilson, after initial support, against – the relationship began to look terminal. Later Healey would say that he had made the wrong choice on this issue. Yet even those he crossed rarely had any doubt about his record at defence. Roy Hattersley, his junior minister there, later told Healey’s biographer, Edward Pearce, of “the bliss of working for somebody who had the subject absolutely at their fingertips, who knew what he wanted and pursued his own concept of defence policy with a critical rigour which I have never seen from anyone else”.
Had Labour won the general election in 1970, he would have been Wilson’s chancellor. As it was, he became shadow foreign secretary and was at last elected to the party’s national executive committee. When Jenkins resigned as shadow chancellor over Labour’s commitment to a referendum on Europe, Healey replaced him. Later he regretted that he had not handled the shadow chancellorship better, that he had not denounced more fiercely and effectively the break for growth engineered by the Conservative chancellor Tony Barber – with cruel consequences for Healey when in 1974 he took over the job after the Tory defeat. That left him saddled with the consequences of Barber’s well-intentioned follies.	Had Labour won the general election in 1970, he would have been Wilson’s chancellor. As it was, he became shadow foreign secretary and was at last elected to the party’s national executive committee. When Jenkins resigned as shadow chancellor over Labour’s commitment to a referendum on Europe, Healey replaced him. Later he regretted that he had not handled the shadow chancellorship better, that he had not denounced more fiercely and effectively the break for growth engineered by the Conservative chancellor Tony Barber – with cruel consequences for Healey when in 1974 he took over the job after the Tory defeat. That left him saddled with the consequences of Barber’s well-intentioned follies.
Some, such as his austere deputy, Edmund Dell, argued for immediate draconian measures. Healey, though he had long believed that Britain was living dangerously above its means, was more cautious. He knew things would have to be changed. He believed in particular that the doctrines of Keynes, to which moderate Labour had long been wedded, no longer suited the times because of the growing influence of world conditions on the British economy and because his doctrines did not square with the strength of trade unions at the time.	Some, such as his austere deputy, Edmund Dell, argued for immediate draconian measures. Healey, though he had long believed that Britain was living dangerously above its means, was more cautious. He knew things would have to be changed. He believed in particular that the doctrines of Keynes, to which moderate Labour had long been wedded, no longer suited the times because of the growing influence of world conditions on the British economy and because his doctrines did not square with the strength of trade unions at the time.
Fear of increasing unemployment, especially at the outset when Labour would have to fight a second election in 1974, together with hopelessly inaccurate figures served up by the Treasury, stayed his hand. Drastic solutions were advocated: devaluation, severe deflation, protectionism. He weighed and rejected them all. He invested great trust in a policy he had advocated throughout this decade: controls on prices and incomes, statutory if they had to be. With the help of sympathetic union leaders, especially Jack Jones of the TGWU, he introduced that policy and steered it quite successfully through successive stages.	Fear of increasing unemployment, especially at the outset when Labour would have to fight a second election in 1974, together with hopelessly inaccurate figures served up by the Treasury, stayed his hand. Drastic solutions were advocated: devaluation, severe deflation, protectionism. He weighed and rejected them all. He invested great trust in a policy he had advocated throughout this decade: controls on prices and incomes, statutory if they had to be. With the help of sympathetic union leaders, especially Jack Jones of the TGWU, he introduced that policy and steered it quite successfully through successive stages.
The raging inflation of Labour’s opening years – just short of 27% a year in August 1975 – was halved by the following summer. “Only the most heroic efforts by Healey,” wrote Dell, “ brought the unions to recognise the dangers of hyperinflation and to accept their responsibility in this matter.” Realism had prevailed. But Healey paid a price: the party voted him off the national executive.	The raging inflation of Labour’s opening years – just short of 27% a year in August 1975 – was halved by the following summer. “Only the most heroic efforts by Healey,” wrote Dell, “ brought the unions to recognise the dangers of hyperinflation and to accept their responsibility in this matter.” Realism had prevailed. But Healey paid a price: the party voted him off the national executive.
Yet his troubles were far from over. The most famous, enduring image of his chancellorship came after he gave up on flying to Manila for the annual meeting of International Monetary Fund (IMF) in the autumn of 1976, and made instead for the party conference in Blackpool. There, against a cacophony of cheering and booing, Healey, who having lost his place on the executive had to speak from the floor, defended his decision to throw himself on the mercies of the IMF as the only way to beat off a crisis brought about by the heavy selling of sterling. Resort to the IMF meant even more grievous cuts in public spending, which many of his cabinet colleagues, left and right, found unacceptable.	Yet his troubles were far from over. The most famous, enduring image of his chancellorship came after he gave up on flying to Manila for the annual meeting of International Monetary Fund (IMF) in the autumn of 1976, and made instead for the party conference in Blackpool. There, against a cacophony of cheering and booing, Healey, who having lost his place on the executive had to speak from the floor, defended his decision to throw himself on the mercies of the IMF as the only way to beat off a crisis brought about by the heavy selling of sterling. Resort to the IMF meant even more grievous cuts in public spending, which many of his cabinet colleagues, left and right, found unacceptable.
Even Callaghan, who had succeeded Wilson as premier in April, seemed at first to waver. When Healey said that interest rates would have to be raised to 15%, Callaghan at first refused to endorse him, though he later said he had merely been testing the chancellor’s resolve. On the one hand, Healey was trying to persuade the IMF to minimise the extent of the cuts it required. On the other, he was having to convince his colleagues that swingeing cuts could not be escaped. In the end, prime minister and chancellor fought the battle against cabinet dissent together, and their will prevailed.	Even Callaghan, who had succeeded Wilson as premier in April, seemed at first to waver. When Healey said that interest rates would have to be raised to 15%, Callaghan at first refused to endorse him, though he later said he had merely been testing the chancellor’s resolve. On the one hand, Healey was trying to persuade the IMF to minimise the extent of the cuts it required. On the other, he was having to convince his colleagues that swingeing cuts could not be escaped. In the end, prime minister and chancellor fought the battle against cabinet dissent together, and their will prevailed.
Later it transpired that this confrontation was never entirely necessary. The forecasts supplied by the Treasury had exaggerated the problem and most of the credit he negotiated was never needed. These, he later confessed, were his worst four months. “For the first and last time in my life,” he wrote in his memoirs, “I was close to demoralisation.”	Later it transpired that this confrontation was never entirely necessary. The forecasts supplied by the Treasury had exaggerated the problem and most of the credit he negotiated was never needed. These, he later confessed, were his worst four months. “For the first and last time in my life,” he wrote in his memoirs, “I was close to demoralisation.”