Speaking for Myself (51 page)
My relationship with JMU began in 1997, when they offered me an honorary degree, confounding the aphorism from Saint Mark’s Gospel that a prophet is not without honor except in his hometown. To be honored just down the road from where I grew up was for me the ultimate accolade. Two years later they asked if I would become chancellor, and I was delighted to accept. JMU has a great mission about access for young people whose families haven’t been to university — in other words, for people like me. The role of chancellor is largely ceremonial, turning up once a year to award degrees and cutting the ribbon at the opening of new facilities and buildings.
Everything at JMU is wonderfully theatrical. Recipients of honorary degrees have a gown designed and made by the fashion department which is unique to them. When I was installed as chancellor, a special fanfare was composed and played. After two terms as chancellor I was obliged to stand down, and my successor, Dr. Brian May, famous virtuoso guitarist of the rock band Queen and less famous astrophysicist, is proof that academic excellence and popular culture are not mutually exclusive. My successor’s appointment was highly appropriate: in addition to its well-known involvement in the artistic life of Liverpool — Phil Redmond of
Brookside
fame is an honorary professor — JMU has one of the most important astrophysics departments in the UK.
The Labour Party Conference in 2006 was my last as wife of the leader, and we all knew it: times they were definitely a-changing. For a start there were no bracing photo opportunities in front of a lashing sea, be it at Blackpool, Brighton, or Bournemouth. We were in landlocked Manchester. Not only that, but our old friend Bill Clinton came along — proof, if ever it was needed, that leaving high office is not the end by a long shot.
Then there was Tony’s speech. It was greeted with a standing ovation, and no wonder. Even the archconservative
Daily Telegraph
called it “the most dazzling speech of his career.” He urged the party not to turn in on itself. We had grown so used to things only getting better, he said, that it was salutary to remember just how grim things were in the bad old days before New Labour. “Take a step back and be proud,” he said. “This is a changed country.” The challenges in 1997, Tony reminded us, had been largely British, while the challenges before us now were largely global. What he didn’t say was that he intended to be very much a part of it.
In Gordon’s speech the previous day, he had said that he felt it had been a privilege to work with Tony. The news agency Bloomberg subsequently reported that I had been overheard saying, “Well, that’s a lie,” and the press went for it like starving rats tossed a single crust of bread. The truth is that whatever I might have felt, I never said it. It seemed as if the press had to have its “Cherie’s crass-behavior moment,” and that was it — another Labour Party Conference tradition that had hopefully come to an end.
As for the manner of our leaving, I would have preferred to stay in Downing Street for another month, but that was entirely for practical considerations: the end of the school term would have been less disruptive, and I had hoped that the house in Connaught Square might be ready for us to move into, though it wasn’t. The fact was that Tony needed to resign his seat at least six weeks before the summer recess to give time for a successor to be elected, as elections can be held only while Parliament is sitting. He had been determined to go on his own terms and had achieved that, and he was passing the country on to his successor in good shape.
Unlike some previous tenants of Number 10, for whom leaving came as a shock and sometimes at barely twenty-four hours’ notice, our move was carefully planned. The packing itself took months. In addition to the accumulated possessions of ten years of family life, there was a entire room full of mementos of government and charity visits. I must admit to being by nature a hoarder, and I found it hard to throw away these gifts that had been so thoughtfully given, many of them by children. We have them still.
Tony had chosen Wednesday, June 27, as his last day in office. Children are not usually permitted to attend Prime Minister’s Questions, but the Speaker gave special dispensation for Leo and the older children to come along to hear their father face the Leader of the Opposition for the last time. (Nicky sadly missed it due to floods in Oxford.) It was a wonderful House of Commons occasion: dotted round the chamber I saw many of Tony’s colleagues, past and present, who had come to share this moment — all so important to his years in power, all there to salute him and wish him well. When the House stood up to applaud, emotion got the better of me, and I found I could barely see.
Saying good-bye to our home after ten years was difficult, and we were all sad to leave. But in my case, it was less the building than the people. Although inevitably there are comings and goings in any government-run organization, among the nonpolitical staff there is some semblance of continuity, and the relationships that we’d built over ten years were not washed away like sand castles with the next tide. Before walking out of that famous front door for the last time, we had first to walk out of our own front door, the door to the Number 11 flat, which for a decade had formed the frontier between our home — with its scattered toys, PlayStations, guitars, iPods, computers, board games, and general family chaos (not to mention my collection of files and law books) — and the tight-lipped center of British political power, a frontier that far too many people seemed to think they could cross without knocking. There were times when all I’d wanted was to ram a bolt across the door and say, “Closed.”
All that was now in the past. Pulling the door of the flat shut for the last time, we made our way, down and then up (there is no direct link between Number 11 and Number 10 on the first floor) to the state rooms, where the staff was already assembled. Tony made a speech thanking everybody for their hard work, and I made a short speech thanking them for being so good and welcoming to us as a family. Then we were asked to wait while everyone else went downstairs to clap us out — the final tradition for all outgoing Prime Ministers.
As we stood waiting for the word to proceed, Tony walked across to the window and stood there motionless and alone for a few moments, gazing out for the last time. Then, turning abruptly, he led us down that historic staircase lined with portraits of Prime Ministers — where a space now awaited “Tony Blair 1997–2007” — into the hall and corridors below, lined with all those familiar faces.
I hadn’t anticipated how hard it was going to be to say good-bye, and how emotional. There had been times over the past ten years when the outside world had seemed a very hostile place indeed and the support of the people around me meant more than any of them will ever know. Garden girls, messengers, comms people, drivers, custodians, ’tecs — they came to be like an extended family, the only people in the world, apart from my blood relatives, who knew me as I really was: the Cherie they chatted to about family crises and joys; about relationships and careers; about parenting and children — not the Cherie they saw portrayed in the media. “It’s a good thing you’ve got a sense of humor, Mrs. B,” I remember one of the ’tecs saying after a particularly unflattering photo of me appeared.
“Luckily the ability to laugh is one thing I’ve never been short of,” I replied. “I’m a Scouser, remember. It’s hardwired, part of the DNA.”
After all the hugs, the embraces that were hard to pull away from, the bowed heads, the wrists raised to eyes to wipe away tears, the occasional ripple of subdued laughter, there came a moment when it was only the six of us, simply there as a family, standing in that hall with its familiar black-and-white-checkered floor, the long corridor extending away toward the Cabinet room at the back of the building, looking at each other and thinking,
This is it.
Then Tony straightened his back, took hold of Kathryn’s hand, and said, “Okay, guys, that’s it. Let’s do the business.”
Sitting in the back of the Daimler, Tony stone-faced beside me, I stared out the window as we passed the Cenotaph, that haunting memorial to our unknown soldiers. He was right to be angry. Even though I had tossed my remark to the press lightheartedly — “Bye. I won’t miss you!” — I didn’t have the right. We had discussed it so often: leaving was to be on his terms and was to be done with dignity and grace, and what I had just done was neither gracious nor dignified. It was not my day; it was Tony’s day. I knew it, and he knew it, and I sat beside him feeling both foolish and small. Then, just as the car turned into the Mall, he shrugged his shoulders, took my hand, and gave me a grin, that infectious grin that I have never been able to resist. He grinned because he loves me. Because he knows that I just couldn’t help myself. In the end part of the reason he loves me is my unpredictable character. I am impulsive, and he is not. I am the abrasiveness against which he can spark.
He didn’t say anything, nor did I expect him to. When you have known someone for thirty years, a lot of things go unsaid, because you know each other so well they don’t need to be said. Tony has a very quick temper, which I have always suspected he inherited from his redheaded mother, but it flares up and is gone in a minute. When he says something unkind, I know he doesn’t mean it. I know it’s simply the tension talking. But when he asks me my opinion, I know he wants to make up.
In all those years, whatever strain he was under, Tony never lost his temper either in public or with his staff. The one place where he could release his frustration and anxiety was at home. Even the children understood and learned not to take it personally. He was under incredible pressure, and if he was short-tempered, we knew he wasn’t really cross with us. And we were more than happy to pay that price to have him at home as much as we did. Home was always where he felt happiest, one of the reasons we’d had an open house from the beginning of our marriage and continuing at Number 10. Why have a meeting in an office when you can have a meeting at home?
As the Victoria Memorial came into view at the end of the Mall, I saw once again the jubilant crowd of ten years before. I’d felt proud of him then, and I feel proud of him now. I remembered the vulnerable young man I’d first met, who had just lost his mother, and the resilience and determination that took him all the way to Downing Street and across the globe. But more than anything, I am proud of what he has achieved for us as a family. We went in there together, saw our kids grow up and our family expand, and we came out the other side still happy and united, all of us, in our different ways, coming to terms with the weight of ten years of experience and looking forward to the next phase of our lives.
F
irst and foremost, this book is about a family on a journey, so I could not have written it without the blessings of Tony and our children, Euan, Nick, Kats, and Leo, who know they are the center of my life. My mother, my sisters (yes, all of them), and the wider Blair clan are always there for me, and I thank them for standing by me. I have shamelessly tapped into their memories for this project.
One question I’m always asked is how I keep so many balls in the air, and the truth is that I could not and do not do it on my own. There are many special people who have helped me on my way, some of whom are mentioned in these pages, some of whom are not. I certainly could not have coped without a wonderful group of women who have kept my life ticking over and helped care for the family, so thanks especially to Jackie and Maureen, but over the years to many others as well. Eternal gratitude, too, to Angela Goodchild and Sue Geddes, who together keep me organized and sane. To Martha Greene, who sorts out so many aspects of my life; to Hilary Coffman for her advice and support; to David Bradshaw for his speechwriting talents; to Faith O’Hara for her skill and understanding; and to the unflappable André Suard for his patience, loyalty, and unfailing good humor.
At work there is Amanda Illing and the great team at Matrix, who have had to cope with the disruption to my practice caused by writing this book just when they thought they had got my full attention. As for all those who have been such an inspiration and help to me in my charity work, to name individuals here would be invidious, as they are legion.
I could not have got through ten years at Number 10 without my girlfriends, and I thank them wholeheartedly for all their support; you know who you are! I want especially to thank the wonderful staff at the Labour Party, whose hard work got us to, and kept us in, Number 10; and all those at Downing Street, especially those in the events and visits department, who worked so closely with me on the Number 10 receptions, as well as overseeing our domestic and foreign visits. I am glad to have this opportunity to thank the unsung heroes of the corner of Whitehall I got to know so well: The members of the information technology and comms department, who put up with my amateur interest in the subject of computers with such good humor. The garden girls and ’tecs, who over all those weekends at Chequers and family holidays became like our surrogate family — and not forgetting the drivers. David Heaton, the house manager at Downing Street, and all his staff, who helped the house function twenty-four hours a day. And to the wonderful “switch,” without whom Number 10 would cease to function at all. A big thank-you to all the staff at Chequers — our refuge every weekend. As for my fears on arriving that first day at Number 10, they proved utterly groundless. I can guarantee that these loyal and hardworking people will serve every Prime Minister with the same dedication and professionalism they showed to us.
I should like to thank everyone at Little, Brown for their encouragement, advice, and patience, especially Ursula Mackenzie, Antonia Hodgson, and Vivien Redman. I couldn’t have even contemplated writing this book without their stalwart support. They had much more to do than would usually be the case, and I am truly grateful for all their hard work.
Finally I should like to pay tribute to Kate Jones, my agent, who first had faith in this book and whose vision and encouragement got me started and kept me going. Although she read the early drafts, she never saw the completed version. Like so many other good people, she was taken by cancer far too young.
