Frank Johnson's campaign trail

Land girl Thatcher, the fisherman's friend

Mrs Margaret Thatcher, she who opened her 1979 campaign by fondling for the cameras a new born calf in Norfolk, yesterday opened her 1983 campaign by fondling a newly dead lobster in Cornwall. On hand to advise, be consulted, and provide warnings, was Mr Denis Thatcher (remember “If we don't look out, we'll have a dead calf on our hands” , his famously wise counsel on that first day four years ago).

We had left Gatwick on the first flight of Mrs Thatcher's campaign aeroplane. Her mission was to hit targets in north Cornwall, a constituency taken by the Conservatives from the Liberals in 1979, and very marginal. Her war aim was to lay waste her moderate enemies' major vote-producing area, the West Country, before turning her attention, after a few days, to Labour's centres of industry.

Forty-five minutes later she landed at St Mawgan, was swept through the idyllic lanes by coach to Padstow harbour, and peered into a tank full of live lobsters.

They scrambled and they slapped at one another. And that was only the television camera crews. Campaign tension and excitement were already high, even at this early stage, for Mrs Thatcher after her late start, was out in the country campaigning at last. She revelled in the task.

A man in overalls briefed the Prime Minister, by the tankside, on all she would ever need to know about lobsters. She contrived to look rather more interested than she would be were it, for example, a Cabinet exposition by her Foreign Secretary. She then peered threateningly into the tank. Her husband was undoubtedly wary. Perhaps he was musing: “If we don't look out, we'll have a dead lobster on our hands.”

The Prime Minister moved off through the throng. Soon she was presented with a lobster which had been dead, by some other hand, for several hours. She held it before the cameras. She moved towards the quayside. There she met a fisherman with a red face, white hair, sailor's cap, blue jersey and richly impenetrable Cornish accent. He was perhaps an actor hired by the Cornish end of the British Tourist Board.

He held up, at the request of the photographers, a huge dogfish for prime minsterial inspection, one of those fish formerly retailed as rock salmon in the London fish restaurants frequented by her back benchers. This fish had world-weary eyes set in a large, round, good-natured, wet face. She would recognize that much-loved visage anywhere. It was Mr William Whitelaw. She gazed at the fish fondly.

Among the people of Cornwall yesterday, particularly among the county's motherhood, having her as Prime Minister seems to be part of the natural order of things. Her husband, too, was immensely popular. When, perhaps wearying of the melée, he would retreat to the fringes of the crowd, he would be instantly recognized and acclaimed. Perhaps he is the quintessential Englishman of our time. “You look after her, won't you?” they often cried. “Of course” , he replied.

We descended on Trelyll Farm, near Wadebridge. Ever prudent, she emerged from her coach in her green wellies, and strode purposefully towards a piece of agricultural equipment in a field. With her scarf and those wellies, she resembled a land girl in a wartime Picture Post doing her bit for Britain.

From the sticky field, there arose a most rural stench. As Mr Michael Foot would argue, Mrs Thatcher was leading us into the mire. Some of the camera crew got bogged down. “Come on, come on” , she urged. Everyone was laughing. Everyone, including her, knew it was ridiculous, and none the worse for that. Her husband fell back. He produced a typical Denisism: “There's no pleasure or profit in this.”

Wading out of the field, she entered a barn containing cattle. There were no vulnerable calves. The beasts were huge. Denis was relieved. “They look fairly well grown, that lot” , he was heard to say.