But that was for tomorrow. First I must break the good news to my family back in Grantham. Denis was entirely incommunicado, blissfully unaware of what I had been through at Finchley. I had written him a letter some time before about the prospects, but he never received it. A couple of days later he was on his way from Johannesburg to Lagos via Kano in northern Nigeria. On changing planes he picked up a copy of the London Evening Standard which someone had left behind, and as he leafed through it he discovered the astonishing news that his wife had been selected for the safe seat of Finchley. I always seemed to be giving him surprises.
My first opportunity to impress myself on the Finchley Association as a whole was at the Adoption Meeting early the following month. This time I again appeared in a plain black outfit with a small black hat. I received what I afterwards learned was an almost embarrassingly glowing introduction from Bertie Blatch, the constituency chairman, who was to be a great patron and protector. (It was an added advantage then and later that Bertie owned the most important local newspaper, the Finchley Press.) As I entered the hall, I was met with warm applause. I used the occasion to speak at some length about both international and domestic affairs. I pulled out every stop. I knew that though I was the only duly selected candidate, this adoption meeting was not, as it should have been, a mere formality. There was still some die-hard opposition to my candidature, centred on one woman and her little coterie, who were trying to have the contest re-run. I was determined to overcome this. There were no problems in dealing with the three questions from the body of the hall. As Conservatives do on such occasions, they gave me a terrific reception. But at the end — and contrary to the newspaper report of the occasion — a few of those present refused to vote for my adoption, which was overwhelming but not (that magic word) ‘unanimous’. I left the meeting knowing that I had secured my candidature and confident of the loyalty of the great majority of the Association, but aware too that some were still determined to make life as difficult as possible.
I went as far as to write to Ted Heath, then Chief Whip but previously my near neighbour in Dartford, about the problems I was having. Partly as a result of his assistance, and partly because I used my own personal contacts, I managed to attract a distinguished field of speakers to come and speak on my behalf between my adoption and election day. Iain Macleod, Keith Joseph, Peter Thorneycroft and John Boyd-Carpenter — all people around whom my future political life would soon revolve — were among them. Denis’s belated but extremely welcome arrival on the scene also helped in a rather different way. Bertie Blatch gave me constant and unstinting support.
Finchley had been run with a degree of gentlemanly disengagement that was neither my style nor warranted by political realities. I intended to work and then campaign as if Finchley were a marginal seat, and I hoped and expected that others would follow my lead. From now on I was in the constituency two or three times a week and regularly went out canvassing in each of the wards, returning afterwards to get to know the Party activists over a drink in the local pub or someone’s house.
By the time I arrived as candidate, there was a good deal of concern that the Liberals in Finchley were becoming strongly entrenched. They were always excellent campaigners, particularly effective in local government elections. A few years before, there had been a famous local scandal over the barring of Jews from membership of Finchley Golf Club, in which a number of local Conservatives had been involved: the Liberals never missed an opportunity to remind people of it. I simply did not understand anti-semitism myself, and I was upset that the Party should have been tainted by it. I also thought that the potential Conservative vote was not being fully mobilized because of this. So I set out to make it absolutely clear that we wanted new members, especially Jewish Conservatives, in our branch organizations. Though I did not know it at the time, I was subsequently to find some of my closest political friends and associates among Jews. What was clear was that the potential Conservative vote was not being fully exploited, and that however many feathers might be ruffled in the process it was vital to strengthen our branch organization. I also put a good deal of effort into strengthening the Young Conservative organization in the constituency: I was sure that it was by attracting energetic young people that we could most surely resist the challenge of activist Liberals. By the time the election was called in September 1959 the constituency organization was looking in better shape, and I had begun to feel very much at home.
I also felt that the Party was on course for winning the general election. There had been a large number of Tory gains in the local elections in May, and conditions looked increasingly favourable for a Conservative general election victory. In Finchley we got on with our final preparations. In fact, I was on holiday with Denis and the twins on the Isle of Wight when the general election was called, and so I hurried back to London. The campaign itself, though the issues of Suez and rent decontrol were thrown back at me, was largely about which party could better secure and manage prosperity. In the debates I held with the other candidates in the churches and synagogues of Finchley that was always the underlying question. This was favourable territory. For, as we claimed, life really was better with the Conservatives — in Finchley as elsewhere. On top of the sense of prosperity, there was an awareness that in Harold Macmillan Britain had a statesman capable of acting a distinguished role on the international stage, whether it was in the United States or the Soviet Union or Continental Europe.
My first general election polling day in Finchley in October 1959 was very much to set the pattern for the nine such polling days which would succeed it. Soon after the opening of the poll I would vote in my own home constituency — Orpington in 1959, Chelsea and Westminster in later elections — and then drive up to Finchley with Denis. I visited each of the polling stations and our committee rooms, breaking for lunch with Bertie Blatch and others in a hotel. There I rigorously paid just for my own food and drink, to avoid the accusation of ‘treating’ electors, terror of which is instilled by Conservative Central Office into all our candidates. From five o’clock I carefully avoided visiting committee rooms, which should all be sending out workers to summon our supporters to the polls, just dropping into a polling station or two to show the flag. Then at close of poll Denis and I went to the Blatches for something to eat, visited the constituency offices to catch the latest largely anecdotal news, and finally attended the count — on this occasion at Christ’s College, though later all nine constituency counts would be held at Barnet Town Hall.
At the school, I found that each of the candidates had been allocated a room where he or she with a select band of supporters who had tickets for the count could get something to eat and drink and where we had access to that miracle of modern political life — a television. The 1959 campaign had, in fact, been the first in which television played a serious part. And it was the television results service which now told me how the Party was faring in the country. I divided my time between watching the growing piles of ballot papers, candidate by candidate, on the long tables in the body of the hall, and slipping back to my room to catch the equally satisfactory results coming in across the country as a whole.
At about 12.30 a.m. I was told that the Finchley results were shortly to be announced, and was asked to join the Electoral Returning Officer with the other candidates on the platform. Perhaps some people in a safe seat when the Tories were on course for a national victory would have been confident or even complacent. Not me. Throughout my time in politics, whether from some sixth sense or perhaps — who knows? — from mere superstition, I have associated such attitudes with imminent disaster. So I stood by the side of Denis with a fixed smile and tried not to look as I felt.
The Returning Officer began: ‘Deakins, Eric Petro: thirteen thousand, four hundred and thirty-seven.’ (Labour cheers.) ‘Spence, Henry Ivan: twelve thousand, seven hundred and one.’ (Liberal cheers.) And finally we reached: ‘Thatcher, Margaret Hilda: twenty-nine thousand, six hundred and ninety-seven.’ I
was home and dry — and not just with plenty to spare but with a majority of 16,260, almost 3,500 more than my predecessor. The cheers, always more controlled from Tory than from Liberal or socialist lips, rose. I made my short speech of acceptance, thanked all my splendid helpers, received a warm hug from Denis and walked down from the platform — the elected Member for Finchley.
In an unguarded moment, shortly after I had been selected for Finchley, I had told the twins that once I became an MP they could have tea on the terrace of the House of Commons. From then on the plaintive request had been: ‘Aren’t you there yet, Mummy? It’s taking a long time.’ I had known the feeling. It had seemed so very long for me too. But I now knew that within weeks I would take my seat on the green leather benches of the House of Commons.
It was the first step.
CHAPTER IV
The Outer Circle
Backbencher and junior minister 1959–1964
A GARDEN AT LAST
By now my family and I were comfortably installed in a large-ish detached house at Farnborough in Kent. We had decided to buy ‘Dormers’, which we saw advertised in Country Life, after rent decontrol threatened to make it a good deal more expensive to continue renting our flat in Swan Court. In any event, we felt the children needed a garden to play in.
Our new house had seen better days. Though it was structurally sound, the previous owner had not been able to maintain it properly. There was no central heating, and the one and a half acres of garden were heavily overgrown. But I enjoyed setting to work to improve things. In particular I bubbled with enthusiasm for the garden. I had always wanted one, but when my parents finally moved to a house with quite a large garden — very long but narrow — I was no longer living at home. So the garden at ‘Dormers’ was my first real opportunity to don thick gardening gloves and rip out brambles, trundle barrows of leaf-mould from the nearby wood to improve the soil, and plant out flower beds. I read up on the requirements of azaleas, rhododendrons and dahlias. Luckily, in Bertie Blatch I had a constituency chairman who doubled as horticulturist: but for all his tips my roses never quite resembled his.
For the twins, ‘Dormers’ was a seventh heaven. There was the new experience of their own garden, neighbours with children and all the excitement of a wood to walk in — though not alone. The house was part of an estate, so there was no through-traffic and it was safe for the children. I eliminated right at the beginning the dreadful possibility of their falling in the pond by having it filled with earth and turned into a rose bed.
Mark and Carol were six when I became an MP, old enough to get into plenty of trouble if not firmly handled. Nor was Denis at home as much as he would have liked, since his job took him abroad a good deal. Because my parliamentary duties meant that I was not always back before the twins went to bed, I insisted on full family attendance at breakfast. We also had the advantage of the long parliamentary recess and indeed the long parliamentary weekends. But I owe a debt of gratitude to Barbara, the children’s nanny at ‘Dormers’ until she married a local horticulturist who advised me on the garden — and to Abby who replaced her and who in due course became a close family friend. They kept the children in order and I always telephoned from the House shortly before six each evening to see that all was well and to give the children a chance to tell me that it wasn’t.
I had learned from my mother the importance of making every house a home. In particular, I insisted on a warm kitchen, large enough to eat in, as its heart. Although I like somewhere to be clean and tidy, I have no taste for austerity for its own sake. A lived-in house should be both comfortable and attractively furnished — a combination which is less difficult and less expensive than is sometimes thought. Like my mother, I favoured mahogany furniture. And since nothing looks better on a dark mahogany table than silver, Denis and I started to build up a modest collection for a table service.
Antique shops used to cast a dangerous spell over me. Though keeping my sights prudently low and avoiding the grand establishments where, even in those days, price digits seemed to multiply alarmingly, I would spend spare moments from shopping or political work to see what ‘finds’ were on offer. Antique (or reproduction) furniture continued to be a favourite because I felt it was useful and not just attractive. When I lost a sapphire scarf pin one Sunday in Richmond Park — Denis had brought the stones back with him from a business trip in Ceylon — I used the insurance money to buy an antique piece to serve as a cocktail cabinet. Denis thought that I should have bought some more jewellery, but I was annoyed with myself: ‘at least I can’t lose a cocktail cabinet in Richmond Park,’ I told him. And so our house gradually acquired its contents.
It did not, however, acquire many pictures. Apart from a few prints and the addition (in later years) of several drawings and portraits, Denis and I felt that good paintings — and there was no point in hanging bad ones — were just too expensive. Instead, I began to collect porcelain. Porcelain dishes on the walls and figures in display cabinets provided our rooms with plenty of colour, and somehow the purchase of individual pieces always seemed less of an extravagance. I bought my first pieces of Crown Derby at Frinton when we were visiting my sister Muriel and her husband on their farm. On one occasion after an evening’s canvassing in Finchley I discovered that one of our Branch Chairmen had her own impressive little collection that showed her impeccable taste. From then on she would tell me about anything she saw that she thought I would like.
My childhood experiences in Grantham had convinced me that the best way to make a cheerful home is to ensure it is busy and active. This was not difficult. My own life was full to overflowing. Before I became an MP there had been both the law and my search for a parliamentary seat to combine with my duties as wife and mother. Once I was elected the pace was even more hectic. We had a daily help in to do most of the regular housework, but there were some things which I insisted on doing myself. Whatever time the House rose, even in the early hours of the morning, I would drive back to Farnborough so as to be ready to prepare breakfast for Denis and the family — and to grab some fruit and a cup of coffee for myself. I would then take one or both of the twins and sometimes another local child off to their schools — we had a team of mothers who shared out the duties between us. Then I would usually do some shopping before driving the forty-five minutes to Westminster where the House commenced its sitting at 2.30 p.m.
Although there were often constituency duties, the weekends provided the opportunity to sort out the house and usually to do a large bake, just as we had done at home in Grantham. In the summer months Denis and I and the children would work — or in their case play at working — in the garden. But on Saturdays in the rugby season Denis would probably be refereeing or watching a match — an arrangement which from the earliest days of our marriage had been solemnly set down in tablets of stone. Sometimes if he was refereeing an important game I would go along as well, though my concentration on the game was frequently disturbed by the less than complimentary remarks which English crowds are inclined to exchange about the conduct of referees. On Sundays we took the twins to the Family Service at the Farnborough parish church. Denis was an Anglican, but we both felt that it would be confusing for the children if we did not attend the same church. The fact that our local church was Low Church made it easier for the Methodist in me to make the transition. Anyway, John Wesley regarded himself as a member of the Church of England to his dying day. I did not feel that any great theological divide had been crossed.
Weekends, therefore, provided me with an invaluable and invigorating tonic. So did family holidays. I remembered what I had enjoyed — and not enjoyed — about my own holidays at Skegness. My conclusion was that for young children nothing beats buckets and spades and plenty of activity. So we used to take a house on the Sussex coast for a month right by the side of the beach, and there always seemed to be other families with small children nearby. Later we went regularly to a family hotel at Seaview on the Isle of Wight or rented a flat in the v
illage. Crossing the Solent by ferry seemed a great adventure to the children who, like all twins, had a degree of (usually) playful rivalry. On the way down to the coast in the car we always passed through a place called ‘Four Marks’. I was never able to answer Mark’s question about who these four were. Nor could I think up a satisfactory response to Carol who thought that it was all unfair and that there should also be a ‘Four Carols’. Not to be outdone, Mark pointed out that it was no less unfair that Christmas carols had no male equivalent.
In 1960 we had planned to take the children abroad for the summer holidays to Brittany. But at the last moment Mark caught chickenpox and to everyone’s great disappointment the trip had to be cancelled. To compensate, still more adventurously, we decided to go skiing at Lenzerheide in Switzerland at Christmas. None of us had ever skied before, so we joined a ski club in Sloane Square and took a course in skiing from Lillywhites before we went. The holiday was a great success, and we went back to the same hotel year after year. I loved the scenery and the exercise. And I loved the hot chocolate and pastries afterwards even more.
It is a cliché, but no less true for all that, that in family life you have to take the rough with the smooth. Knowing that you have a family to turn to is a great strength in politics, but the other side is one’s emotional vulnerability to their suffering. I was always worried about Mark, who at that time seemed to catch every germ that was going, including pneumonia one winter at Lenzerheide. One of the worst days of my life was when it became clear that he had appendicitis and I had to rush him to the nearby hospital. I spent so much time with him in the weeks which followed that I began to worry that Carol might feel left out. So I bought her a magnificent teddy bear which was christened Humphrey. Whatever Carol thought of her new friend, I became very attached to him, and indeed brought him with me to Downing Street. Only later did he sadly disintegrate when, dismayed by his grubby looks, I tried to wash him. ‘Sic transit gloria Humphri’.
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