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
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
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
