the road. As her third baby had just been born, she was at home during the day and agreed to give me lunch. This arrangement continued until I was fourteen, when Auntie’s husband, my uncle Bill, was promoted to bank manager, at which point they sold their house and moved.
Over those three formative years, Auntie Audrey and I became very close. I even started my periods at her house. Back then this was still considered something shameful and not to be discussed, but thanks to her, I was spared all of that. Though never an academic, she had always been politically aware. I was used to my grandad and the other men in the family talking politics, but women largely kept out of these conversations. In retrospect I think it likely that I owe my early interest in politics to her. Whatever the trigger, by the time I was fourteen, when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would answer, “Prime Minister!” Whether it was simply the smart-aleck reply of a teenager who wanted to impress, I don’t remember. What is in absolutely no doubt, however, is that in 1970, at the age of sixteen, I was committed enough to join the Labour Party.
Chapter 4
Convent Girl
A s far as academic progress was concerned, although I was always among the top students, I was never first in the class until I reached the sixth form. I was useless at languages, so until I could drop them, they pulled me down. Looking back, I realize that dropping them was a mistake, as, unusually for the time, I had every opportunity to get practical experience.
Right from when we were small, Lyndsey and I had always gone away on holiday, usually day trips and drives to resorts in Wales. In hindsight I know that it was the one chance our mum had of having us to herself.
Once my mother was transferred to Lewis’s travel department, however, our horizons broadened. As a matter of routine, counter staff were encouraged to take advantage of the subsidized travel offered by companies whose holidays they were selling, this being particularly important for new destinations. Mum could go free, and Lyndsey and I could tag along for a nominal cost.
My first taste of “abroad” was a bus tour to Spain when I was around twelve. It was right at the beginning of the package-holiday era, when the Costa Brava was still relatively undeveloped. I was horrified by the toilets we had to use when we stopped, which were hole-in-the-floor affairs. To someone brought up with Grandma’s near-holy attitude toward toilet cleanliness, it was a salutary lesson. When we eventually reached Calella, then no more than a fishing village, I remember being astonished at seeing oranges and lemons growing on trees and having fresh juice to drink instead of sweetened concentrate.
The following year we went to Italy, to a village on the Italian Riviera. This time we flew, and the whole thing seemed incredibly glamorous and exciting. I loved flying and still do. Our next trip was even more exotic — to Romania. As this was shortly after Grandad died, Mum felt obliged to take Grandma with us. I had never seen her so unnerved. First time out of England, first time on a plane, first time hearing foreign voices. Romania was still a communist country, and we had been advised to take tights as presents for the chambermaids. We flew into Bucharest, but we were mainly based in a down-at-heel resort on the Black Sea. As part of my mother’s research, we visited a health spa, where the treatment consisted of being covered entirely in mud. It was all very un-English, and although it might not have helped my language ability, it certainly gave me a fascination for the wider world.
By this time my social life revolved around the Young Christian Students (YCS) — the best chance a good Catholic girl had of meeting a good Catholic boy, which for Seafield girls meant boys from St. Mary’s. Although the two schools faced each other across Liverpool Road, opportunities for getting to know one another were
Over those three formative years, Auntie Audrey and I became very close. I even started my periods at her house. Back then this was still considered something shameful and not to be discussed, but thanks to her, I was spared all of that. Though never an academic, she had always been politically aware. I was used to my grandad and the other men in the family talking politics, but women largely kept out of these conversations. In retrospect I think it likely that I owe my early interest in politics to her. Whatever the trigger, by the time I was fourteen, when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would answer, “Prime Minister!” Whether it was simply the smart-aleck reply of a teenager who wanted to impress, I don’t remember. What is in absolutely no doubt, however, is that in 1970, at the age of sixteen, I was committed enough to join the Labour Party.
Chapter 4
Convent Girl
A s far as academic progress was concerned, although I was always among the top students, I was never first in the class until I reached the sixth form. I was useless at languages, so until I could drop them, they pulled me down. Looking back, I realize that dropping them was a mistake, as, unusually for the time, I had every opportunity to get practical experience.
Right from when we were small, Lyndsey and I had always gone away on holiday, usually day trips and drives to resorts in Wales. In hindsight I know that it was the one chance our mum had of having us to herself.
Once my mother was transferred to Lewis’s travel department, however, our horizons broadened. As a matter of routine, counter staff were encouraged to take advantage of the subsidized travel offered by companies whose holidays they were selling, this being particularly important for new destinations. Mum could go free, and Lyndsey and I could tag along for a nominal cost.
My first taste of “abroad” was a bus tour to Spain when I was around twelve. It was right at the beginning of the package-holiday era, when the Costa Brava was still relatively undeveloped. I was horrified by the toilets we had to use when we stopped, which were hole-in-the-floor affairs. To someone brought up with Grandma’s near-holy attitude toward toilet cleanliness, it was a salutary lesson. When we eventually reached Calella, then no more than a fishing village, I remember being astonished at seeing oranges and lemons growing on trees and having fresh juice to drink instead of sweetened concentrate.
The following year we went to Italy, to a village on the Italian Riviera. This time we flew, and the whole thing seemed incredibly glamorous and exciting. I loved flying and still do. Our next trip was even more exotic — to Romania. As this was shortly after Grandad died, Mum felt obliged to take Grandma with us. I had never seen her so unnerved. First time out of England, first time on a plane, first time hearing foreign voices. Romania was still a communist country, and we had been advised to take tights as presents for the chambermaids. We flew into Bucharest, but we were mainly based in a down-at-heel resort on the Black Sea. As part of my mother’s research, we visited a health spa, where the treatment consisted of being covered entirely in mud. It was all very un-English, and although it might not have helped my language ability, it certainly gave me a fascination for the wider world.
By this time my social life revolved around the Young Christian Students (YCS) — the best chance a good Catholic girl had of meeting a good Catholic boy, which for Seafield girls meant boys from St. Mary’s. Although the two schools faced each other across Liverpool Road, opportunities for getting to know one another were
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