My victory in the 2nd Battle of Trafalgar
ONE day in 1994, in my new position as Chair of the Royal Society of Arts, I got it in my head to do something about the monumental plinth on the north-west corner of Trafalgar Square, which had been empty since it was built in 1840.
It had been intended for an equestrian statue of William IV, but when he died he was so unpopular no one wanted it. Ever since, every attempt to fill the plinth had been thwarted by objections.
My first thought was to ask the public for suggestions, but I soon gave up. They were mostly for Gazza; Pooh Bear; and a giant pigeon. The obvious thing would be an equestrian statue to match the one on the opposite side of the square.
But who would be the rider? The Palace never sanctions statues of royals while they are still living; any sculpture favoured by one of the Armed Forces would never be agreed by the others; and political heroes are unwelcome in Trafalgar Square.
I needed help. I set up a committee under the Royal Society of Arts. One member, James Lingwood, had a brilliant idea — why not use the plinth for ‘ contemporary temporary’ exhibitions of a variety of works? That way anyone with objections could comfort themselves with the thought that the hated work would not be there for ever.
We had to raise sponsorship, commission a historic report, a feasibility study, a risk assessment, endless engineering drawings, and consult every sort of expert and all interested parties, from the Victorian Society to the Residents’ Association of Trafalgar Square.
I presented our plans to 13 different bodies. All came round except the Royal Fine Art Com-mission, chaired by Baron St John of Fawsley, better known as Norman St John-Stevas. If they objected, English Heritage would follow suit — and Westminster Council would not move without English Heritage’s approval.
The eccentric Norman would not take my calls. The Secretary to the Commission, Francis Golding, told me Lord St John would not discuss the plinth. He believed it should stay empty.
I asked the developer, Peter Palumbo, a friend of Norman’s, to intercede. He was enthusiastic and picked up the phone. I could hear Norman’s response from across the desk. ‘ Horreur, horreur, horreur!’ he cried. Palumbo put the phone down. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘He’s adamant.’
I even persuaded the then Minister of Culture, Virginia Bottomley to invite Norman to a meeting to discuss the plans, but he dodged every date she suggested. Then I got a letter from the Royal Fine Art Commission baldly announcing that the commissioners had discussed the RSA’s ideas for the plinth and unanimously decided against them.
I was livid and replied that as we’d not been given a chance to outline our proposals, they were in no position to judge the matter. We urgently needed an hour to outline our plans. In the end they agreed. Penny Egan, Director of the RSA, and I turned up at noon armed with a half-hour presentation to be followed by discussion.
We sat downstairs and waited. And waited. We were admitted at ten to one. Norman didn’t introduce any of his commissioners, nor did he intro-duce Penny. His introduction for me went something like this:
‘Well, you all know Prue Leith, the well-known cook. I am sure it will surprise you to find a cook is somehow concerning herself with the arts. But there we are. Prue, I’m sorry but we really only have ten minutes before lunch so I think we must dispense with your presentation.’
Penny and I left, further fired up to defeat the old fox. We set about lobbying individual commissioners and quickly real-ised there was support for us.
After the commission finally met to consider the submission, one of them rang to tell us we’d won the day. But next day a letter came from Norman declaring the Commission had unanimously voted against the scheme.
By now my dander was most definitely up — I wrote to him saying I knew how the votes had gone and I’d like to see the min-utes of the meeting. The Com-mission dropped their objections, which meant English Heritage raised no objections and Westminster gave permission.
It had been a five-year war, but we’d won it. For the first time in its 177-year history, the plinth was filled. And every time I pass it, I feel a little glow of pride.