Thirteen years' hard Labour

As I look back over the thirteen years in which my husband was Leader of the Labour Party (and Prime Minister for eight of those years), my strongest impression is of looking at a kaleidoscope, a feeling of fragmentation, of trying to do a little of this, a little of that, and of always being in a hurry.

A Prime Minister's wife creates her own role, within limits; but I see it as purely a supporting role. It's a job completely different from that of a Member of Parliament, who has sought to be a Member and is answerable to Parliament and constituency, instead of having the position thrust upon her. Many people, from their letters, seemed to think that the Prime Minister's wife has a position of authority, whereas she is a private person, with no real power; that is one reason why, although I travelled all over the country talking to women's groups in the Labour Party, I never made a political speech. So that all appeals for help, although answered sympathetically, had to be passed on to the department concerned. Many letters were from people who just wanted to talk to somebody and often at the end of the letter said: "I feel much better now…" I had regular correspondents - one man wrote to me every day for several years, and then there was silence, and although I wrote to enquire, I heard no more.

A Prime Minister's wife is expected to be there on public occasions, to be unobtrusive at times of crisis, to be as wise as a serpent, harmless as a dove; and, to mix the metaphor, I always tried to be the wise owl in the oak - "the more she heard, the less she spoke." Strangely enough, in spite of this, I seem to have acquired a reputation for plain speaking. I remember that Civil Servants were dismayed when, after the departure of one distinguished visitor some time ago, I said that the only fault with the dinner was that government hospitality hadn't provided enough long spoons. Still, I think a certain degree of political naïvety does no harm when one is surrounded with knowledgeable politicians, as it gives them an opportunity to tell you where you are wrong - always an agreeable exercise.

When I first went to No. 10, I tried to work to a system of priorities; family and friends first, Labour Party engagements next, then duties connected with being at No. 10, and then engagements which I could accept for myself. These were numerous - opening hospitals, school speech days, visits and many kinds of delightful and unexpected things like being invited to open an exhibition of heraldry. The only quotation I could find on this was: "The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power." On these occasions, my Oxford Dictionary of Quotations was invaluable.

At the beginning, I decided that my chief interest would be the care of old people (I had already been involved in this) and in the first months I visited a great many old people's homes and centres and talked with the matrons and residents in the GLC district. But although I visited old people all over the world on official trips abroad, I found that this interest could not be exclusive, as other duties intervened. All this involved very careful diary work, and the engagements' diary was made up months ahead, in order to prevent simultaneous engagements.

During the whole period, I found that the most difficult thing to accept was "Public Relations." I had been brought up in a tradition in which showing-off was frowned upon, and in which the Bible was taken literally - "When thou doest alms, do not send a trumpet before thee, and let not they left hand know what they right hand doeth, that thin alms may be in secret." So that when I arrived to visit a hospital or meet deaf children, it was dismaying to be confronted by cameras and reporters; until I came to realize that publicity helped the occasion and interested a wider public than would have been possible otherwise. It's the position, not the person, which receives the publicity.

Another hurdle is the art of making small talk with strangers, an art which I have only partly acquired. I found the personality details supplied before the arrival of foreign visitors a great help. It's important to do your homework: and you can sustain a conversation about wives and children for a very long time, if you are clear in your own mind whether your visitor is married (to one or more wife) and the number and sex of his children. Conversations through an interpreter, as on the occasions when the Russians visited us, can become bizarre.

The interpreter sits between you and the guest, slightly to the rear, and you guiltily eat your dinner, while he fasts. Conversation is a series of platitudes. Jokes are out; you tell a joke, and laugh and the interpreter laughs while the visitor looks slightly apprehensive; interpreter translates and laughs, visitor laughs, by which time you've stopped laughing, and it wasn't funny anyway.

When the Commonwealth Prime Ministers' Conference met in London in 1965, I was determined to get it right. I had a sheaf of photographs of all the Prime Ministers, and my secretary would shuffle the photographs, then draw one out for me to identify the name and country, until I was a hundred per cent accurate. The conference took place in London three times during my husband's term of office, and these were the events which I enjoyed the most. It was so interesting to see new Prime Ministers meeting the others for the first time, and beginning to understand more fully their lives and problems; and all held together with a strong but tenuous link. The Prime Ministers came to Chequers on three evenings - Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, as they couldn't all be accommodated at once, and I greatly enjoyed being hostess on these occasions; no difficulty with conversation then!

While we were at No. 10, I was fortunate enough to go on several foreign visits. I've seen Moscow under snow, the river frozen and silent, the birch trees heavy and still, the Red Army goose-stepping at Moscow Airport, their curved swords slicing the air. And I particularly remember the exquisite grace of the dedicated young dancers at the Bolshoi Ballet school.

I remember Washington in the spring, cherry blossom by the Potomac. And I visited President Kennedy's grave at Arlington, when it was not yet made up with marble, but covered in flowers, his uniform caps lying on the grass, wet with dew,, and the eternal flame burning from a small metal cone.

I remember steel bands in Jamaica, the painted churches in Romania, sleeping in the Grand Trianon at Versailles, driving along the chariot-rutted Appian Way in Rome. But, looking back, most of all I remember the children. Children standing in the dark in Romania to greet us with flowers; children in Russia, dancing the gopak; children of the kibbutzim in Israel, some still going to bed in shelters; orphan children in Italy, all dressed in white; most of all, children in Britain, bunches of flowers in their hands, solemnly making their little speeches; or with torn pieces of paper, clamouring for the Prime Minister's autograph; or shrill-voiced children in Huyton trying to climb on the car - "Here he is! It's good old Mr Wilson!"

The most exhausting experience? General Election campaigns. Thank goodness they don't last long in Britain; American campaigning must be gruelling. I think the constant travelling is the worst part - I'm a bad traveller, although I have become more accustomed to it over the years; rushing over winding roads at night, with a police escort, and always hurrying and late. Stepping out of the car - I usually went first to avoid being swallowed up in the surging crowds - into blinding television lights, to boos and cheers, and sometimes eggs and flour; through the demonstrators with their banners and hoarsely shouted slogans, then in at the rear of the hall, cameras backing up the aisle in front of us, thumps on the back, hearty hand-wringings; on to the platform, smiling, waving, trying quickly to identify and greet the "platform personnel," speeches, more cheers, a few hecklers like a Greek chorus. "For he's a jolly good fellow." Then on to the next town, the next meeting and back to London each night by plane, train or car. And I only had to go along and look pleasant; what must it have been like to deliver speeches, run press conferences, and perform the Prime Ministerial duties too?

One was constantly aware of the vast army of people working away in committee rooms and offices, and on the doorsteps without glory or recognition, because this was what they felt they must do. So, travelling round the country, it's important not to be irritable or to look tired; for many people this is the only opportunity they will ever have to meet a Prime Minister, and it just isn't fair to be off-colour or grumpy if you can possibly avoid it. This is a counsel of perfection, I fear. If people are well disposed towards you, they'll understand, however, that there are times when it's impossible to cudgel up one more word of conversation. And, travelling around, I tried to keep at bay the longing, as if for a drug, for solitude and utter silence.

But what a relief to arrive in Huyton towards the end of the campaign, and to be surrounded by familiar faces - Arthur Smith, my husband's agent, with his cheerful smile and involved Liverpudlian jokes; all our friends - "Come and sit with us, love, and tell us about the children"; smaller halls, more relaxed - "Here is the candidate for Huyton." Then, to stay up most of the night, go down to the council offices for part of the count, and to hear the result. Then back to London to relax for a little while; but not in 1970 - back through the night to start packing.

The manner in which the Prime Minister leaves No. 10 is barbarous. I'm sure no other country does it like this; the exposed front door like a public stage, the crowd in the street, one Prime Minister out, another in, within two hours, to a chorus of boos, cheers, gloating. Furniture hustled out of the back gate, it's just like having the bailiffs in. The press waited for four days to see Mr Heath's piano go out, photographers climbed into Mr Callaghan's furniture van when he became Chancellor. The whole affair seems so undignified.

The best experiences of all? Meeting the men who first walked on the moon; and, of course, the night the Queen and Prince Philip came to dinner. What ambitions have I for the future? When the tumult and the shouting have died, I hope to have more time to spend with our family and our grandchildren; I should like to publish another book of poetry in due course, and, after the disappointment of Kahoutek, I believe Halley's comet is due to visit us in 1985. That I should dearly love to see.

And for the present? I shall, of course, continue with many of the involvements which I started at No. 10; and for the rest - well, I have a great liking for trivia. So I'll make myself a cloak from the durable thread of everyday happenings and familiar things, which will stand me in good stead, and serve to keep out the cold of advancing years far better than the cloth of gold of great events.