Our meeting at the Balmoral Hotel in Edinburgh got off to a cold start. Her handshake was cursory. She was unsmiling. The photographer posed her at the piano and asked her to crouch. “This is a strange position,” she muttered, frozen as if in mid-curtsey. “Yes,” I said, “the first man to whom you have bent your knee.”
Her stare was cold. I knew what President Francois Mitterrand of France meant when he said Mrs Thatcher had Marilyn Monroe’s lips but the eyes of Caligula.
As we sat down she realised the seat of her chair was too deep to allow her to support her back and rest her feet on the floor. “Why do people make chairs like this?” she asked. “For people like me with long legs,” I answered. And so we settled – or squared up – for our chat.
After 20 minutes I had managed to ask only two questions. We were halfway through our time and she was doing what she did best: dominating the interview. I had seen her do it often with television interviewers. I wasn’t faring any better. But as she talked about her childhood I realised people who defined her as having pulled herself up by her boot straps had missed the point.
Her father left school at 13 but during her childhood he was a person of stature in Grantham. He was a magistrate and mayor for a time. He was governor of several schools and was, according to Lady Thatcher: “The sort of man called upon to make impromptu speeches at the Rotary. Alf always had some thought to contribute.”
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