The Real Iron Lady

by Gillian Shephard

  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.

  Elizabeth Cottrell, who in Chapter 1 of this book describes working very closely with Margaret Thatcher in the preparation of an important speech, here tells how the evening in question continued. (Elizabeth of course was not a member of Mrs Thatcher’s own staff, but on this occasion was working with her in her capacity as Head of Research at the Centre for Policy Studies.)

  She takes up the tale of the writing of the speech in the early hours.

  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.

  Margaret Thatcher showed consistent kindness and consideration for Conservative Party workers and volunteers. She had a great and enduring love for the party, took a great interest in its members and staff, and seemed prepared to devote an almost infinite amount of time to it. It could be that her first experience of a Party Conference, in 1946, holds the key to this lifelong enthusiasm for party matters. She had risen up the ranks of the Oxford University Conservative Association to become its President in October 1946. But her passion for the Conservative Party had not won her admirers at her college, Somerville, where the Principal, Dame Janet Vaughan, described her as ‘an oddity. Why? She was a Conservative. She stood out. Somerville had always been a radical establishment and there weren’t many Conservatives about. We used to argue about politics. She was so set in steel as a Conservative’ (Campbell, Margaret Thatcher, p.50). But when the young Margaret Roberts arrived at the Party Conference held in Blackpool that year, 1946, she was ‘immediately entranced. So often in Grantham and in Oxford it had felt unusual to be a Conservative. Now suddenly I was with hundreds of other people who believed as I did and who shared my insatiable appetite for talking politics’ (Thatcher, The Path to Power). After the icy intellectual, political and probably social condescension proffered by Oxford, it must have seemed heady indeed.

  From observation, I believe that she was unique among her predecessors and successors as Prime Minister (with the probable exception of John Major) in that she positively loved contact with supporters, and nowhere more than at the Conference. Many’s the minister I have heard complaining about ‘having to do the Conference’, or ‘having to do a party rally’. I have always wondered why. Do they not realise that politics is about people and support? Margaret Thatcher never doubted it, nor the fact that it was a two-way process.

  Like Janice Richards, Harvey Thomas was also at a Commonwealth heads of government meeting in 1985.

  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.

  Doreen Miller, who in 1982 was a candidate in the European elections, recalls

  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.

  Joan Seccombe remembers Mrs Thatcher, with Denis, her election team and the famous battle bus, visiting her house before an election rally in Solihull during the 1987 election campaign. They filled the house a
nd the lane leading to it for about two hours, while

  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.

  David Simpson at the time of the 1983 general election was a deputy Central Office agent working in the Greater London area and based in Conservative Central Office at 32 Smith Square.

  Now we all know that the Prime Minister was a strong lady, but within that external strength there was also an inner kindness and so it was that at the Greater London election rally held at the Wembley Arena on Sunday 5 June 1983, that inner kindness shone through.

  This was the final major Conservative rally of the campaign, orchestrated by Harvey Thomas, the larger-than-life Head of Communications at Central Office. The Wembley Arena was packed, the legendary DJ and comedian Kenny Everett was the warm-up act, and he also introduced a number of other celebrities from the world of sport and show business. What a show he gave, and with Cecil Parkinson, the Party Chairman, with his urbane charm, the scene was set for a rousing campaign speech.

  The Prime Minister came on to a rapturous reception, it seemed to matter not a jot what she said because everyone knew she was going to win and they all wanted to be part of that victory, and to be able to say, ‘I was there!’

  Once the rally was over, and those of us who had been responsible for the stewarding could relax, I adjourned to the green room with my family. It was there, over tea and biscuits, that Mrs Thatcher saw my nine-year-old daughter and seven-year-old son, both with their autograph books and clearly wanting to approach her. They didn’t have to wait long. Autographs were given, followed by an animated chat, at the end of which the Prime Minister said she thought it was a great pity they were not yet of voting age as they had both shown real interest in her politics. They were thrilled, and were able the next day to tell the story to teachers and school friends alike.

  One of the most enduring myths about Margaret Thatcher is that she loathed and detested the civil service and civil servants. It is true that she was impatient with some of the machinery of Whitehall, which she regarded as impeding the progress of government policy. But it is also true that many civil servants appreciated her ability to master a detailed brief, and her efforts to understand exactly what went on in government departments.

  Ian Beesley, who served in the Rayner/Efficiency Unit from 1981 to 1986, writes,

  It was during that first assignment that I realised that though Mrs Thatcher disliked the civil service, she appreciated individual civil servants and especially those with a bias towards action whom she perceived were trying to change things for the better. Breaking with tradition, two of the early scrutiny examining officers in the Unit, Norman Warner of the DHSS and Clive Ponting of the MoD, were summoned to present their findings in person; and during 1980 she told Rayner that she wanted a Downing Street reception to thank the ‘Rayner supporters’ for their efforts. Spouses were to be invited too, because they also played a vital part in supporting their husbands/wives. Much consternation followed. What about those who had partners but were unmarried? What would this forbidding woman think if they were to be invited? Well, eventually someone plucked up the courage and asked. What is all the fuss about was the answer, of course partners were to be invited, formal status had nothing to do with it. This awareness of the contribution made by the families of those who worked in the civil or diplomatic service was a recurrent concern.

  The reception was on 3 December in Downing Street. A vivid memory is of the Prime Minister kicking off her shoes, climbing on the grand piano and giving an impromptu speech of thanks to her young reformers while Michael Alison (her PPS) tugged at the skirts of her evening gown because she was keeping an appointment waiting in the House of Commons.

  At a personal level she treated us with courtesy and respect. We were neither invisible servants nor privileged. You were only as good as your last intervention and you had better keep at the forefront of your mind that government spent other people’s hard-earned money. Rayner’s maxim, ‘treat every pound as if it were your own’, might well have come from her. But when my successor was involved in a bad car accident, her concern was open and genuine.

  Nothing could be further from the caricature of a Prime Minister/Cabinet Secretary relationship depicted in the TV series Yes, Minister, than the one between Margaret Thatcher and Robert Armstrong, Secretary of the Cabinet from 1979 to 1987.

  He gives an example.

  As regards Spycatcher, when it became clear that a witness would be required to attend the court in New South Wales to speak to the affidavit entered by the British government in support of its application for an injunction to prevent the publication of Peter Wright’s book, I discussed with the Prime Minister and others who should be sent. The conclusion reached was that I should be chosen for this task. The Prime Minister did not instruct me to go; she asked whether I was prepared to go. Since I agreed with the conclusion, I said that I was. While I was out there, she spoke to me on the telephone two or three times to ask how I was bearing up. When I came home, she gave me a couple of bottles of whisky as an expression of her appreciation.

  In my last few hours of service, on New Year’s Eve 1987, my wife and I entertained the Prime Minister and Denis Thatcher at a performance of Die Fledermaus at the Royal Opera House. After the performance, we went back to Downing Street and saw the New Year in with a glass of champagne. It was a happy way to celebrate and give thanks for a crowded and happy eight years of working with Mrs Thatcher and for a close and rewarding relationship of trust and friendship.

  According to the myth that Margaret Thatcher loathed all civil servants, and the Foreign Office even more, Sir Richard Parsons should have suffered a double disadvantage in her eyes, as an ambassador. It was not the case.

  The last time I saw her was when I went back to England for the formal launching of a splendid new ferry to operate between the English coast and Gothenburg in western Sweden. The Swedish owner of the shipping line had invited me to accompany him in his private plane. The ceremony was to be performed by the British Prime Minister, but I did not comment on that to my Swedish hosts. It is usually a mistake to boast that you personally know important people, because there is always the danger that they will fail to recognise you and that will make you look a fool.

  Not on this occasion. As soon as Mrs T. appeared, regally dressed, she shouted out with enthusiasm, ‘Hello, Richard, how nice to see you again.’ The Swedes were duly impressed, not least by my modesty in failing to reveal that I rubbed shoulders with the great and the good.

  Interestingly, when I was posted from Madrid to Stockholm in 1984 I heard that Mrs T. had sent her Private Secretary to the FCO to ask, in vain, whether I could not be given a more demanding final post.

  Even parliamentary colleagues with reservations about Margaret Thatcher’s policies were impressed by her acts of spontaneous kindness. Patrick Cormack is one of these.

  At the time of the Poulson scandal,† a number of Members came in for severe criticism in a rather damning r
eport. One of these was John Cordle, the Member for Bournemouth East. A group of us met with him on the Thursday before the report was due to be debated on the following Monday. We told him that there really was a chance that the House would expel him and that it would be far better if he were to seize the high ground and resign, by applying for the Chiltern Hundreds and making a statement in the House before doing so. Convinced of his own innocence, very probably rightly, but conscious of the witch-hunt atmosphere that was developing, he reluctantly took this advice and on the Friday morning made his statement. The late Sir Peter Mills, Member for Devon West, and I sat on either side of him as he did so. Peter then had to dash back to his constituency and so I had the task of looking after John Cordle and taking him to the Chief Whip’s office. We were joined there by Margaret, who had sat on the front bench with him, talking to him and even holding his hand. There was nothing synthetic about this. This was genuine human warmth and real kindness.

  And that remained part of her makeup, even throughout her premiership. In 1982, my then agent, a young man of twenty-five, had one of the very first heart transplants in the country. Initially, it was a great success (sadly, he died a couple of years later), and I took him, apparently miraculously restored, to the Party Conference in Brighton, where on the eve of her Conference speech, Margaret Thatcher devoted a couple of hours to seeing Andrew in her room, feeding him cake and biscuits, and talking fondly, knowledgeably and sympathetically, as if she had been a combination of family doctor and favourite aunt. It was truly remarkable to witness.

  Michael Jopling, as Chief Whip, was able to observe what he describes as her