The Real Iron Lady (9 page)

She did not seem to understand that colleagues could not answer back without being disrespectful, in front of others, to a woman and to a Prime Minister. She was too ready to blame others when things went wrong, and gave too little praise or credit when it was due. None of these things would be forgiven when her position became weaker.

But the most startling treatment of my Statement came from next door, in the form of a last-minute row about the presentation. The Prime Minister had been closely informed about, indeed engaged in discussing, the substance of everything that I had to say, and had not objected. But when, on the day before the Statement's delivery, she was routinely sent the full text, she protested vigorously. She delivered this presentational broadside (and she was right about the problem though short of a solution) at an early-evening meeting with me. This led me to summon a group of senior advisers and drafters to a late-night meeting in the downstairs sitting room at No. 11. We met at about 9 p.m. Some were in favour of sticking to the original text, John Kerr and some others were for
revision, if only on the ground that it would be politic to make at least some changes.

We were still at work on this exercise when we were interrupted (and astonished) by the arrival of the Prime Minister through the connecting door with No. 10. Margaret had apparently just returned from a dinner engagement (I never did find out where), and been told by her Treasury private secretary, Michael Scholar, of the meeting taking place next door. To his dismay, she decided to join the proceedings. We had no time to think of reducing the large cast present. Margaret, who was in most unprepossessing mood, proceeded to play to the gallery outrageously, more than I had ever witnessed before. Anyone who attempted to describe the reformulations on which we had agreed was shouted down. So was I. At one point she exclaimed, ‘If this is the best you can do, then I'd better send you to hospital and deliver the Statement myself.'

The storm eventually blew itself out and the lady withdrew. A shaken handful of trusties stayed on to complete our redraft. Michael Scholar and John Kerr prudently decided to withhold the product from Margaret until the morning after. It was a little shorter and perhaps to that extent, better, than the original. But it was not in substance any different from the first version, or from the reformulations that Margaret had derided so fiercely. There was no further comment from that quarter until after I had delivered the Statement. By the time I got back to No. 11 there was a note in her own hand: ‘Well done in a difficult
House. We have cut the 5.30 meeting – come this evening [for a pre-arranged working dinner] when you are ready. TV presentation matters more than anything else. Your quiet confidence goes over very well there, as in the House.'

I cannot recall Margaret ever coming closer to an apology than this. Neither of us ever mentioned the incident again.

to discuss the ‘progress' of Pym's persistent, but intrinsically hopeless, search for an honourable settlement of the Falklands dispute. On those occasions, when I sensed that she felt at her most lonely, we reached perhaps the high point of our relationship. It was clear to me that the Argentine leadership was never seriously committed to such an outcome.

When victory finally came, there was a transformation in Margaret's standing, throughout the world, even more than at home, and deservedly so. There can be no doubting the extraordinary importance, from start to end of the crisis, of her sustained courage in the face of uniquely personalised pressures. The role of victorious warrior queen was one into which she grew very naturally. Her confidence in her own
judgement was certainly not diminished. And her respect for the wisdom of the Foreign Office had certainly not been enhanced by the whole story. Nor, I have to confess, had mine. On the day after the invasion (Saturday 3 April 1982), I had to preside over a ministerial meeting to consider the economic consequences of the conflict. The only department not represented there was the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. ‘Surely,' I exploded, ‘they're going to send someone along to tell us whether or not there's a war on?' It was a serious question, with important legal consequences, but it went, that day, unanswered. At any rate, these changes in Margaret's perception did not bode well for the years ahead.

In my case, (at least in my Treasury days) I had the satisfaction of knowing that Margaret and I were working to basically similar guidelines, even if we should not always handle the details in the same way. This sense of ideological security is what came, I suppose, from being ‘one of us'. This central sympathy of purpose gave one more rather than less room for manoeuvre in the management of policies. Often indeed I was able to enlarge or accelerate actions on which we both agreed, and less often, to modify or tailor their impact so as to make them more sensitive to the anxieties of others: restraining, for example, Margaret's
passionate wish to preserve the real value of mortgage interest relief or even to embark upon the replacement of the rating system.

This kind of unspoken deal is to be found, I suspect, in many management or team relationships – is indeed essential to their survival. It becomes intolerable or unacceptable, either to the partnership itself or to the world that is affected by it, only if the relationship is manifestly or chronically unbalanced or irretrievably fissile.

Margaret's most important weakness – the flipside of her strength – was the extent to which her partners were driven in the end to choose between submission or defection. Perhaps inevitably, the closer the original bonding, the longer the life of the partnership, the more dramatic the final rupture. ‘I must prevail' was the phrase that finally broke Nigel Lawson's bond of loyalty and affection. Is almost all real leadership foredoomed to produce such rupture?

His last Cabinet meeting on the morning of his resignation was the worst of all. Geoffrey and Margaret were sitting side by side, directly opposite me. They could hardly bring themselves to look at one another. Geoffrey stared down at his papers, his lips pursed; Margaret had a disdainful air, her eyes glittering. When he looked down the long Cabinet table, she looked up it. When she put her head down to
read her notes, he looked straight up. The body language said it all. This treatment of a senior colleague was embarrassing for the whole Cabinet.

FOUR

It is worth noting that – however combative she might have been with her peers – she would never once raise her voice to those who were in no position to answer back. This was a Prime Minister who engendered great affection from her staff.

On informal occasions she was always very considerate and kind to her staff. I never came across anyone who did not enjoy working for her and the devotion of many who worked for her years ago is still to this day very much there, and will be there forever.

Before I joined No. 10, I worked at the Department of Education and Science in Curzon Street, as it was then named. Mrs Thatcher was the Secretary of State, and, even now, I remember there was a buzz with her at the helm. Little did I know that I would be working for her again in the future, in very different circumstances.

As a Garden Room secretary (so called because the secretaries' rooms overlooked the rear garden at ground level), I, with other colleagues, performed the ritualistic welcoming party for incoming Prime Ministers in the Front Hall of No. 10. May 1979 was the start of a very special welcoming, and we all felt that we were going to experience not only history being made, but different and exciting times ahead. We were proved right, and those memorable years while Mrs Thatcher was in No. 10 proved to be very special times for those privileged to work there.

I was one of twelve secretaries who worked closely with the private office and travelled with the Prime Minister wherever she went, either in the UK or overseas. Especially at Chequers, there was an opportunity to see a more relaxed and less pressured side to Mrs Thatcher. I recall conversations about food, clothes, family and so on.

I recall the visit to Lusaka in 1979, for the Commonwealth heads of government meeting – Mrs Thatcher's first of many – where the heads of state and government were accommodated in Mulungushi, a sort of tribal village complex which Kenneth Kaunda had had specially built some time earlier. However, the bungalows allocated were, to say the least, below standard, and a colleague recalled someone describing them as ‘glorified mud huts'. Horizon House was the accommodation for the support staff – far superior to Mrs Thatcher's own, and she joined the staff there after a few days. There were some memorable meals there, all support staff sitting at a large round table with her. Clive Whitmore, at that time Principal Private Secretary to Mrs T., Brian Cartledge, Private Secretary for Overseas Affairs at No. 10, and Sir John Hunt, the Cabinet Secretary, were there too. I also remember that Mrs Thatcher was unwell for a time during the Lusaka visit, but just had to get on with the business of the day. All marvelled at her ability to keep going.

I became Head of the Garden Rooms in 1985 when my travelling days came to an end. This allowed me to work more closely with Mrs Thatcher again, but in a different way. There were decisions to be made on gifts which were to be given, and caretaking the gifts which Mrs Thatcher received. Since she had come to power, the correspondence received had risen to 5,000 letters a week, and one needed to be selective about which should be shown to the private office and the Prime Minister. It was important that she saw a wide range of letters and learned of the personal difficulties and problems experienced by the general public, and thereby the issues that most concerned them. She took a great interest in these letters and would often add manuscript sentences in her responses.

Long-serving staff were permitted to hold their leaving parties in No. 10. Mrs Thatcher's government driver, Ken Godber, was one of these, and I remember at that party that some of those attending could not hear Mrs Thatcher's speech clearly, so she whipped off her shoes and stood on a table!

When her resignation was announced in 1990, No. 10 received many sacks of mail which entailed asking the whole office to help to open. The support she received from the general public was quite overwhelming, and one could see just how touched she was when she sat on the floor with me and my staff, opening and reading just some of those letters. It wasn't only going to be her staff who would miss her.

I feel so very fortunate to have worked at No. 10, and especially while Mrs Thatcher was there. Those who worked with and for Mrs Thatcher felt very privileged, and the admiration and respect they held for her was unquestionable. It was one of those periods when all – political staff, civil servants, protection officers – worked together in the most wonderful family atmosphere in my time in Downing Street, not repeated either before or after Mrs Thatcher's time as Prime Minister.

I was one of those who lined up to welcome Mrs Thatcher in 1979 and again lined up to say farewell in 1990. It was the end of over eleven years of history, eleven happy years, and a sad end to an extraordinary period, her years in Downing Street.

Finally Mrs Thatcher decided that we should stop – until the next day. But she must be sure that I was comfortable. So at three o'clock in the morning, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom was running a bath for me, bringing me a night dress and toothbrush, popping a hot-water bottle into the bed just in case it was cold! Nothing was too much trouble for her – it was incredible.

The cold light of morning did not diminish her kindness. She was at my bedside at 7 a.m. with a cup of tea. At around 8, a maid appeared to cook breakfast. Then it was back to work. When I left at noon, the speech was some 3,500 words long and almost finalised, in good time to be delivered on Monday. The Prime Minister said that she would polish it over the weekend at Chequers.

My extraordinary twenty-four hours was over. I went home, exhausted but elated. The lecture was duly delivered at the Institute of Electrical Engineers on Monday 26 July. Mrs Thatcher's thank-you letter followed promptly. ‘It went down rather well, although I say so myself,' she wrote, ‘I hope you know how grateful I am.'

I felt that I was the one who should be expressing gratitude for a unique and unforgettable experience.

Maggie had a huge sense of personal loyalty and personal responsibility. After the meeting in Lusaka, I had travelled ahead to New York to prepare for her speech at the fortieth anniversary of the United Nations. In those days, Prime Ministers were away from their countries for longer than they ever are today and she had been out of the country for close to two weeks when she came to the hotel in New York.

While she had been away, a Cabinet member had been having a quiet go at me and my style of presentation, largely through the Peterborough column in the
Daily Telegraph.
Nothing too serious, but enough to hurt a bit, as these things do when you read them about yourself.

I never found out how she picked up on it after being out of the country for two weeks, but she strode into the hotel room where I was waiting and her first words were, ‘Hello, Harvey dear, I hear they've been saying silly things about you in the Peterborough column. Don't worry, dear, I know where it's coming from and it will stop as soon as I get back to London.' And it did!

She had a huge capacity to focus both on individual issues and her overarching objective of ‘making Britain great again'. Because this was such a passion for her, it took precedence, not over family and loved ones, but over all the routine activities that are part of daily life.
Having spent fifteen years working for Dr Billy Graham, I had already learned the importance of ‘the right time'. Hundreds of people, during the thirteen-and-a-half years I worked for Mrs Thatcher, asked me if I would introduce them to her, and there were probably not more than a dozen occasions in all that time when I felt it appropriate to do so.

On one occasion, my parents-in-law, Erich and Irene, were visiting Marlies and me in London. I had no thoughts of introducing them, but in the constituency office one afternoon, the ‘timing' was suddenly exactly right. Mrs T. asked how they were, and it was just the right time for me to ask if I could bring them into the office the next day to meet her, and of course she was delighted, and we have wonderful photographs.

the usual photo call for candidates to be photographed with the Prime Minister. She came to the meeting, but announced that as she had a very bad cold she preferred not to have the photographs taken. I remarked to my neighbour, quietly as I thought, ‘What a shame, I wanted to give a copy to my ailing father for his birthday.' She obviously heard me, because she immediately said that if I wanted a picture for my father she would do it, despite not feeling or looking at her best.

There was a similar act of kindness, also indirectly involving my father, who died in April 1986. My brother was in London for the funeral, and, while he was there, I took him to an Association afternoon tea, which Mrs Thatcher was attending. She immediately
sought us out, having heard of our loss, and despite there being many other guests to meet, took the time to spend a few minutes with us both, asking about my father and offering us both very sincere condolences.

Margaret perfected her speech and Denis watched the Test match on television with my husband. The battle bus was huge and took up the entire lane, stopping any traffic from our neighbours' getting past. This would not normally have caused any problems, but, unknown to me, it coincided with a young family moving in next door and meant that the removal people could not leave for the duration of the visit. Far from becoming angry and impatient, our new neighbours lined the lane as the bus moved on, cheering and waving excitedly as she left. The next day, I received a handwritten thank-you letter – this was true of wherever she visited and the letters always showed such warm appreciation with a personal touch. This was shown again when my husband had a stroke while we were away in Switzerland. Somehow, Margaret found time to send a two-page handwritten letter wishing us well, and offering generous support. I shall always treasure it. These personal touches are at odds with the public image of the Iron Lady, and extraordinary and brilliant as Margaret's political career was, I consider myself incredibly fortunate to have been able to see this side of her as well.