Anyway, back to November 1991. After my conversation with Charlie Haughey about my new position in Cabinet, I duly went back to David Gordon in the Department of Education with the news. ‘Heigh-ho, David,’ I said, ‘we are going to the Department of Health!’ We soon learned that we would meet there the new Secretary General, John Hurley (who was later to become Governor of the Central Bank). John would be pivotal to much that unfolded in my new post.
Although Charlie Haughey had for the present won the day and succeeded in quashing his detractors, things were far from harmonious, and once the new Cabinet was in place, we settled back to work in an uneasy run-up to Christmas 1991. Albert Reynolds was now very much the focus for those in the Fianna Fáil parliamentary party who wished to topple Charlie, particularly those led by what I referred to as the ‘Gang of Four’ — Noel Dempsey, Liam Fitzgerald, Seán Power and M.J. Nolan. Other key figures were Noel Treacy, Máire Geoghegan-Quinn and Pádraig Flynn. At the same time Albert Reynolds was much preoccupied with his own domestic troubles, as his wife Kathleen had been diagnosed with breast cancer. Christmas came and went, and Charlie was still at the helm — but many of us had the sense that the current situation was a precarious one.
Regardless of all this, I was determined to make the most of the challenges of my new posting in Health. To that end, every night I would trawl through the huge files — related to various aspects of health — which had come up to me for signature. Some of these dealt with very specialised issues, but which I was determined to master in a factual, knowledgeable way. I had got into the habit in the Department of Education of reading as many of the back files as possible, and I continued to do so now. But in an area I knew so little about, I had to work much harder than previously. Nevertheless, I would bring the biggest dossiers home with me at night and read as if I was preparing to give a lecture or go to a lecture. I was thankful once more for my ability to absorb new information like a sponge.
As it transpired, I would only be in Health for three short months, but some significant episodes from that brief period have stayed in my mind. The first of these was that, within a few days of my having been appointed, I was contacted by Gemma Hussey, who had been my predecessor as Minister for Education. Gemma had since left politics and was now Chairperson of the Dublin Rape Crisis Centre, and she was seeking, with a small delegation from this organisation, to meet with me. I readily agreed. The purpose of their visit to my Dáil office was simple — they were looking for more finance for the running of their Dublin operation. Fortunately, we were able to accommodate this. It is a very good cause, and the women who started the centre were brave in the extreme, to take on what was at that time a taboo subject, even for discussion purposes, let alone in terms of funding. The Eastern Health Board, under whose auspices the Leeson Street Dublin Rape Crisis Centre fell, had been sparse in their funding and indeed had not been very open-hearted about the matter in general. But we changed that, I am glad to say, and set an example which has been followed by subsequent Ministers, luckily. Ever since then, I have kept up great contact with the Dublin Rape Crisis Centre. In the interim, Gemma Hussey has moved on and they have had a succession of Chairpersons there, with all of whom I have been able to maintain very good relationships.
Another very interesting development during my short tenure in Health was in relation to the distressing phenomenon of cot death — such a sad thing for any family. A mother and father will go to sleep with their lovely bonny baby in the cot beside them and wake up in the morning to find the baby still and lifeless, or a baby will be put down for a nap during the day, only to be found lifeless in the cot when the time comes to wake the child. Numerous studies had shown that there was no predisposition in these infants to such an event, which could happen any time from the age of two months to twelve months: there appeared to be no underlying medical cause as to why. Numerous theories were being advanced at the time as to the whys and wherefores, and research efforts were beginning to focus on the physical position in which the child was laid down for its sleep.
At that time I had been following with interest the endeavours of Anne Diamond, the ITV presenter, who had tragically lost a child to cot death and who had taken up the cause. Anne came to Dublin and met with me and we had a very good exchange. It seemed clear to me that, in the end, all of the studies pointed to the fact that when putting a baby in its cot, it was better to lie the child on his or her back. It doesn’t sound like much now, but this realisation then was momentous and hugely significant. Soon we got to work on a circular, which was sent out by the Department of Health to all the health boards and hospitals, maternity homes, nurseries, mothers, and to public health nurses in particular. The main message was that the Minister and the Department were of the belief that, when being put down to sleep, a child was best positioned on his or her back. The following year there was in fact a reduction in cot deaths and this continued to be the case in the years which followed.
Now, why did I make up my mind so readily on this? Well, apart from looking at all the many studies, I also thought back to my time of rearing my own two sons. I had never laid them on their tummies. This practice, of putting a child face-down in his or her cot, had been a newfangled idea which swept Europe and the world at the time. It was thought to be best then, but it was, tragically, proved not to be so. I know that the anguish continues and that there still are cot deaths. I often think of bonny children who would have grown up to be fine adults.
In my time in Health I also undertook to play a prominent role regarding the AIDS issue, in which I had a huge interest. As we know, in the mid- to late 1980s, there was a massive AIDS scare on an international scale, and a belief that it could become a worldwide epidemic, mowing down all in its path. At that time we truly thought that AIDS was going to overwhelm the world.
Rory O’Hanlon, my predecessor in Health, had started the government’s AIDS campaign, and I took it up in a very upfront, in-your-face way. We put out the big ads, hosted seminars and talks, and so on. While everyone was very worried about AIDS, there was also a really unhelpful attitude prevailing at the time — a ‘don’t-talk-about-it-because-it-has-to-do-with-sex’ approach. Working in close conjunction with the new Minister for Education, I aimed in my own way to play a role in the demystification of the disease, trying to dispel the attitude of horror people had, and the hysterical feeling that it was going to sweep the world. I went out and met people with HIV/AIDS; I also did my best to encourage and foster the various support organisations which were being set up. I remember in particular making a valuable contact with a very good guy in Dublin — Ger Philpott, who wrote a book about his partner who had died from AIDS. Ger ran a Trust that had been set up to combat and raise awareness about the illness, and he and I became very friendly. In all the work that I’ve done, I’ve always had a habit of cultivating and working with people I like, and I have always followed my instincts with such people, even if they might be regarded by others as a bit ‘out there’. I was definitely a bit like that in Education too, and also later in Public Enterprise, particularly in relation to the trade unions, in which I was always a believer.
It seemed to me that in that period of the early 1990s, we were living through terrific technological advancements in all aspects of life, and particularly so in the realm of health. Wonderful new drugs were being developed, which promised to prolong life or stave off debilitating diseases. Consequently, the world’s population was getting older, propped up mostly by these technological advances in medicine.
All of this led to a review of health spending. I noticed then — and it continues to be the case — that in the UK, under their National Health Service, such wondrous life-enhancing drugs were rationed. In other words, not every wonderful new drug which might have afforded an extra lease of life to patients was to be dispensed and paid for by the NHS. There were and are no such limitations here — as yet, anyway. If a drug had passed all the national drug tests and was proved to be safe to administer, we
ll then, it was widely made available, either completely free of charge to those on medical cards or, for those on the long-term medical scheme, for a monthly payment which represented a very small fraction of what the over-the-counter costs would have been. I know that we constantly moan about the health system in Ireland, and yet, as I say, just look at the UK’s NHS as regards newly-developed drugs. It is wonderful what research, development and technology has done in the area of life-affirming medicines and I have always felt it is important to pay full tribute to all those involved in that often thankless task.
Equally, while the capital cost of medical practice in Ireland was and is huge, even back in the early 1990s, we in Ireland were able to continue to sustain a variety of hospitals throughout the country — from small cottage hospitals in remote western areas, to wonderful, state-of-the-art places like St James’s, Beaumont, the Mater and St Vincent’s. It was clearly not possible to do all that ad infinitum, and yet any nod towards rationalisation in the hospital facilities on offer led to endless marches, protests and deputations. This was understandable: a hospital means so much to a town. It is a safeguard to the people, a reassuring place to which they can get their loved ones quickly and easily in times of illness and emergency. When cutbacks had to be made, and it was my job as Minister to set them in motion, the rational part of my brain always recognised quite clearly that the right course was being taken. Needless to say, I could fully identify too with the very strong feelings behind the public’s protestations.
I continued to try to learn all I could about health while I was in the Department, even though I had, as others did, the sense that our days were numbered. Many macro health ideas have stayed with me since then and I have a huge and an abiding interest in the big, general issues of health, and its related spending and consumption in the world. I served happily and I hope fruitfully in my short time as Minister in that field.
Over the period of Christmas 1991, rumblings of discontent against Charlie Haughey continued unabated. By this stage Albert Reynolds and Pádraig Flynn — along with Máire Geoghegan-Quinn and Noel Treacy, who had also recently left Cabinet or junior Cabinet positions — were openly speaking against the Taoiseach. Christmas came and went, and when we arrived back in early January, it seemed as if Charlie Haughey might yet be unassailable — but of course this was not to be the case. Leinster House at this time was a hotbed of gossip. Far worse than women hanging over half-doors blethering, men were in corners plotting, their embittered faces and tongues willing on the demise of their wounded leader. Something was going to happen soon.
Quite early on in the New Year, in mid- to late January, I heard that Dr John O’Connell, who had at one time been Ceann Comhairle, had his sights set on the Department of Health and the Minister’s job. This I could understand, I suppose. O’Connell had aligned himself quite firmly with Albert Reynolds and was viewing him as the putative Taoiseach. It was a weird feeling, however, to know that, whilst you were serving and acting as Minister for Health, there was in fact an aspirant for your post waiting in the wings, preparing to jump into Hawkins House and take over your work.
All at once, political turmoil was unleashed, in relation to events which dated back to more than a decade earlier, and would in turn lead to a debacle which was the undoing of Charlie Haughey. The late Seán Doherty TD had been Minister for Justice under Haughey in the early 1980s, and it was he who had taken the rap for a scandal which had emerged over the nefarious practice of phone-tapping, when phones belonging to Geraldine Kennedy (later to be a PD deputy and then Editor of The Irish Times) and political writer Bruce Arnold had been tapped. There had been huge uproar about it all at that stage, with Garda investigations and so on. There the matter had rested until now, in early 1992, when Seán Doherty appeared on a late-night TV programme during which he said that, although at the time he had insisted that Haughey had known nothing about his actions, it had been the Taoiseach himself who had ordered him to tap the phones. Charlie was adamant in his denial. Yet again, uproar ensued and our leader was left with no choice but to resign, paving the way for Albert Reynolds and his cohorts to come onto the political scene.
In the wake of Charlie’s departure, several of us put forward our names for the leadership, but in a half-hearted way only. There was never any real debate as to who should be the next leader: there was only to be acceptance of this wonderful person who had already come along. We had had Charlie and now we were having Albert; later on, we would have Bertie and after Bertie, we were to have Brian Cowen. I think the party has most definitely been too loyal to the leaders who were ushered in. Of course, in organisations that have hierarchies, you have to have a sense of loyalty, but in ours, in terms of the next-in-line, it always seemed that it was loyalty über alles.
And so, even though in February 1992, there was a too easy assumption within Fianna Fáil as to who would be the next leader and it was all laid out that Albert Reynolds was to be Charlie’s successor, I threw my hat into the ring anyway, as did Michael Woods. I suppose from my point of view, it was partly because I thought there should be a woman in the race for the party leadership. It was such a male-dominated environment then, as in many ways it still is — Fianna Fáil was male, male, male! There was a lot of sexism, of which I certainly faced my fair share over the years: ‘Didn’t you do well to get here?’; ‘You should know your place!’ and so on. But my bid for the leadership was never really very serious: I didn’t go all out, lobbying people for support or anything. Apart from the fact that I knew Albert had it sewn up anyway, I felt strongly that, in the end, Charlie had been treated shabbily. Beyond this, I knew deep down that I wouldn’t have liked to have been leader — I would never have had the heart for it. Which is just as well, because in the end both Michael Woods and I got miserable votes: I got six and Michael got ten. It was kind of a non-event, as I had very much anticipated. It would later come to light that, during the two weeks when leadership bids — such as they were — were being accepted, Bertie Ahern too had flirted strongly with the idea of putting himself forward. But he quickly realised that at that stage, the parliamentary party was bound hand and foot to Albert Reynolds and had no notion of being driven off course.
So the Dáil approved of Albert Reynolds and he duly assumed the role of Taoiseach as expected. Then followed the notorious ‘St Valentine’s Day Massacre’, as it would become known in party circles, when Albert proceeded to axe Chief Whip Dermot Ahern, eight Ministers — Gerry Collins, Michael O’Kennedy, Ray Burke, Noel Davern, Rory O’Hanlon, Brendan Daly, Vincent Brady and myself — and ten Ministers of State. Looking back on it now, it was almost comical, the way we were all ordered to line up outside Albert’s office, so that we would be called in one by one to be told our fate.
My own encounter with the new Taoiseach that day still comes so vividly to mind. Albert was standing by his desk, on which was sitting a tray with tea and sandwiches. He was eating the sandwiches because it was all very rushed and he was expected to appear in the Dáil shortly after. I was the last to see him, and it seemed that each Minister who had been in before me had just accepted their fate and bowed out without protest. Now that it was my turn, however, that bold streak in me which comes out from time to time suddenly surfaced again.
‘Why are you sacking me?’ I said. ‘I demand to know the reason why I am getting the sack! Did I not do my job properly? What did I not do right? I’m entitled to know under labour law!’ Now, this last part wasn’t true, but I was livid and I continued to push for an explanation. Albert started to expostulate and argue with me and, as he did, bits of the sandwich he was eating flew all around the room. I couldn’t help it, but at that, a small part of me enjoyed an inner smile and I thought to myself, ‘Ah, you never heeded your mother’s lesson, that you shouldn’t talk with your mouth full!’ I know it sounds caustic now, but it was funny at the time.
Also comical in retrospect was how, at a certain point in the proceedings, history began to repeat itself. As Albert rem
onstrated — spitting his sandwich around him all the while — he suddenly blurted out, ‘Well, would you like to be Minister for Women’s Affairs?’ Clearly there was some civil servant in an advisory capacity still floating around, who wanted me to be Minister for Women’s Affairs!
‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘I refused it in ’87 and I am refusing it now!’ And with that, I flounced out of the room. I know ‘flouncing’ is one of those words always associated with women, but that is exactly what I did!
It was funny too, when, later on, after Albert had finished with us, all of us — the massacred ones — had to file into Dáil Éireann — one by one, in a long line — just before the new Taoiseach walked in with his new gang. Among them was Bertie Ahern, who was to be Minister for Finance, Máire Geoghegan-Quinn as Minister for Justice and, as was loudly proclaimed beforehand, Dr John O’Connell as Minister for Health. Later that evening, I met up with Enda, who was up in Dublin to be with me for what we knew was going to be a difficult time. We went out for dinner and commiserations with a few friends, and then Enda drove home to Athlone, while I had to go back to my rented flat in Dublin. After a few stiff gins, I cried into my duvet cover for quite a considerable time.
I was awoken the next morning by my telephone ringing. It was Dr Martin Mansergh — who had been invited by Albert Reynolds to stay on as his advisor on the North — saying that the Taoiseach was going to telephone me later that morning. It appeared there had been a huge flood of telephone calls into Albert’s office since the day before, protesting about me being flung out with the rest of them, and demanding that I be reinstated in a decent government job. Later that morning, I did indeed receive a call from Albert’s office. I was asked to come over and meet him, which I did.
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