 by Dr. Jeffrey Lant. Author's program note. This is what she said. This is what the Iron Lady said on January 31, 1976: "Ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you tonight in my red chiffon evening gown, my face softly made up, my fair hair gently waved... the Iron Lady of the Western World. Me?" The crowd filled with blue-haired matrons and their all too often overweight swains ate it up... and they went wild as she continued, "A Cold War warrior? Well, yes -- if that is how they wish to interpret my defense of values and freedoms instrumental to our way of life." It was quintessential Margaret Thatcher, sometimes playing the woman card, all frilly in lace, every hair in place; sometimes playing the man card, sterner, more serious, with more brass than a barrel full of generals. That was our Maggie... able to play both sides of the gender issue, doing whatever needed to be done to make her point and drive it home. It was great politics... great theatre... great media. And it infuriated most every (particularly male) politician and not just members of the Labour Party either. Quick, can you say Ted Heath, the Conservative Prime Minister she outsmarted and deposed? Those hapless palookas just couldn't land a punch on her, no matter how scatological, venomous, condescending, vulgar, rude, irritating, exasperating, insolent or insulting they were. She knew the game. She played the game. She loved the game. And more often than not, she won the game. There was no false bologna about how hard the messy business of politics could be. No crocodile tears about the mind-numbing pressure of work. No one knew it better than Mrs. Thatcher. And no one, absolutely no one, loved that boisterous, zany, often ludicrous business better than she did. Yes, she loved it... every maudlin, sanctimonious, self-serving, treacherous, back-stabbing stratagem and maneuver. She was the star... the queen of the May... the once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon we all wanted to see, to touch, to know. French President Francois Mitterrand tried to sum her up this way, "She has the eyes of Caligula and the mouth of Marilyn Monroe." Or as pop star Geri Halliwell put it, "We Spice Girls are true Thatcherites. Thatcher was the first Spice Girl, the pioneer of our ideology -- Girl Power." Under these circumstances, it was the work of a moment to select just the right music for this article. It's "I Enjoy Being a Girl" from the 1961 film "Flower Drum Song." This was the eighth musical by the golden team of Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein and was based on the 1957 novel,"The Flower Drum Song", by Chinese-American author C.Y. Lee. Go now to any search engine. While there are many fine versions of this tune by many popular singers including Doris Day and Miss Peggy Lee, purist that I am I like the film version best. And don't tell me its lyrics don't apply to Mrs. Thatcher and the great, mesmerizing, unprecedented act she brought first to England, then to the world. She had twice as many cards to play as any other politician... and she played them, whether with a pound and a half of cream upon her face or not, with a radiance and joy that could never be disguised or hidden, no matter how serious the problem or tragic the circumstances. She adored her job and every single aspect... and we all knew it. "When I have a brand new hairdo/ With my eyelashes all in curl/ I float as the clouds on air do/ I enjoy being a girl!" I learn about the lady. I can tell you exactly where I was when I first heard of Mrs. Thatcher. It was in the spring of 1968, the tumultuous season when the elite at colleges and universities worldwide stopped going to classes and tried on the bombastic language and misinformation of sidewalk revolutionaries. I was spending that year at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland. There to the astonishment of all I became the first American ever elected to the Students Representative Council, as delegate for the Faculty of Arts, by far the largest component of the university. You see, I was a political animal and rapt aficionado, too. Thus with relish and a professional eye I went to the latest demonstration where I heard one of my colleagues from the SRC, dressed in revolutionary chic, denounce everything he had grown up believing in and benefiting from. Whenever his overheated rhetoric flagged, he had Margaret Thatcher to fall back on and the catchy execration, "Thatcher, Thatcher, Milk Snatcher." This referred to an incident from her tenure as Secretary of State for Education and Science in the Edward Heath government elected in 1970. The government wanted to abolish free milk for school children aged seven to eleven. Personally she was opposed to this cut but she was loyal to the administration. As a result she incurred the maximum of odium and a moniker that dogged her for life. Thus she learned that a "friend" (especially one who wants to be Prime Minister) can be far more devastating than an avowed opponent, something she never forgot and came to use with deadly accuracy herself. More accuracy. My next sharp recollection came with the April, 1982 war against the ruling junta in Argentina, determined to regain the British-occupied Falkland Islands. I was in England then and followed the matter closely. This, one sensed, was the "do or die" crisis, not just for her government but for Great Britain itself. Thus when a special news bulletin announced the sinking of the Argentine cruiser ARA General Belgrano I joined the enthusiastic cheers in the parlor of a small hotel. Free drinks and relief were the order of the day. I am proud to tell you my cousin Harold Macmillan had been instrumental in advising her at this critical moment when success and the June 14 Argentine capitulation secured her place in England ... and the world. There was also an unanticipated consequence for me... but not yet. "All good things..." At her acme as the General Belgrano went down with 323 officers and men, over time her enemies -- including an increasing number of Conservatives -- began to snipe, wound, and weaken. By the fall of 1990 they sensed her vulnerability and moved in for the kill. Thatcher sounded pugnacious and promised the fight of her life, but in reality she expected to be re-elected because of who she was, what she had done for party, nation and world. But that never washes. What happened, pure and simple, was that she had lost touch with her base... and that is always fatal, as no one knew better than she did. She withdrew her candidacy... and an era ended in tears, bitterness, recrimination and the grandiloquent and lordly honors which signal you are politically dead and irrelevant. Neil Simmons. Amongst the many honours she received, her statue for the House of Commons by sculptor Neil Simmons was amongst the highest, in both size (eight foot) and significance. As it happened I had the privilege of watching Simmons find the lady (including her celebrated handbag) in the marble. James Lindsay was restoring a number of my Empire clocks; his atelier was next to Simmons. Thus whenever I saw Lindsay, I saw Simmons... and I snapped a number of pictures as the historic work developed. I thought these would make an interesting article one day. I was therefore pleased to receive an invitation to attend a party at London's ancient Guildhall and see the newly minted Baroness Thatcher unveil the work. I had Neil's assurance he would introduce me. And so in May 2002 I got on a plane in Boston flying to an encounter which I thought would be just a minute or two. And that would have been enough... "I believe you know my cousin." Lady Thatcher, as she then was, was famous for being on time, and that day was no different. As the Guildhall clock struck the hour, her foot trod the last stair leading to the party. She was the very definition of exactitude As always, she was meticulously dressed, nothing out of place, a smile for the gentleman greeting her and a quick, strong hand shake. I never took my eyes off her. She then commenced to do the "circle", systematically speaking to each guest, many of whom were MPs past and present; the people who had made her, including some whose support had wavered at the end and now wished for absolution and the kiss of peace. In short order she came to me where a small purple rabbit was clearly visible in the pocket of my sports coat. This was Maximiliano von Rabbit, the most charming icebreaker on Earth. He had arrived in my attache case. The folks from MI5 who ran the case through the metal detector saw him, said nothing, but glanced at each other in a pronounced way which could not be mistaken. "Who's your little friend?", she asked and, moving right into the appropriate mode, stretched out her hand and shook his paw. "Lady Thatcher," I said, "This is Max", and right off I knew that, as far as Max and I were concerned, the Iron Lady I expected was not present. And it got even better when I said, "I believe you know my cousin." "Who's that" she replied in her unmistakable sonority which she had once taken speech lessons to perfect. "Harold Macmillan." At that she drew herself up to her full 5 foot 5 and a half inch height, as if an electric current had run up her backbone, saying "He gave me my first ministry." At that she decided to stay awhile and get better acquainted, never forgetting Max for he is very sensitive on such matters, as she of course at once discerned. And so the meeting I expected, Iron Lady and Dr. Lant, was superceded by something far better, warm, amiable. My admiration had brought me these thousands of miles; her charm and friendliness to both of us ensured this encounter would be one of life's significant moments. However, there were many others to greet and already there was a whiff of resentment that the only Yank at the event should be singled out, so well treated and incredibly that "Maggie" had unaccountably shaken Max's paw, her references to him not merely polite, but kind. Before she left, I gave her a packet of the photos I had taken in Simmons' studio as his work progressed and a note requesting she autograph one for me. She then pulled me into a hug, so that her head was on my shoulder, kissing my cheek twice, with one more for Max. The scene was clearly seen by all... resented by some; wondered at by the rest. I came to extol a legend and found instead a woman who having given so much to so many now needed something back for herself, a hug from one friend to another, giving reassurance, asking for nothing. Envoi. One of the regrets of my life is that I don't have a picture of Lady Thatcher with Max and me. I took lots of pictures of her ladyship alone but that is not the picture I want now. And the sad thing is, I had another chance to get one because having finished greeting her guests, unveiling the statue and making a few apt remarks, she returned to us for some more congenial conversation and, yes, another kiss and hug. As for the statue itself, its unveiling the reason for the event, on July 3, 2002 a man named Paull Kelleher decapitated it by using a metal rope support stanchion. He then waited to be arrested by the police. Whilst the damage was fixed, the ill-starred statue was placed elsewhere. A new design was then commissioned in 2003 from Anthony Dufort. It was unveiled on 21 February 2007 by the Speaker of the House of Commons, the Rt Hon. Michael Martin MP. Thus abides the Iron Lady cast in bronze for the ages, looking all brisk and business in a characteristic pose from her first ministry. But that is not how Max and I saw her. |
