Speaking for Myself (27 page)

A few weeks earlier the security people had been to look over Richmond Crescent, and they had produced horrendous plans, which included putting a police box on our front porch and one at the back, because, they said, there were potential sniper positions from a block of flats looking over the park. There would also need to be a provision for a “siege containment” room, they said, and they would have to roof over our small back garden.

“But that’s preposterous,” I said. “What’s the point of having a garden with a roof over it?” I almost wasn’t taking it seriously, because I couldn’t believe they really meant it, and I didn’t think that people could possibly live like that. At the start of the campaign, our battered old cars had both been equipped with improvised explosive device (IED) detectors, as IRA car bombs were still a real threat. For the previous two weeks, two policemen had been permanently on guard outside our house, and apparently there were also a couple in the park. Even so, when we arrived at Myrobella on that Wednesday, I was shocked. There had been no discussion that I was aware of; they had just done what they felt they needed to do. They were even arranging with John Burton to buy the house nearest us at the end of the terrace, as a police house. The owners were more than happy to sell, John said. And who could blame them? It might be the safest house in the north of England, but who would want to live next door to something ringed in steel, looking like a young offenders’ institution rather than a quirky Victorian family home with seven fireplaces and a hand pump?

We had already sorted out the following days’ clothes. For the family walk to the polling station the next morning, I had a Betty Jackson outfit, and for the count that evening, a brown trouser suit with a long jacket by Ally Capellino. Ronit Zilkha was responsible for several things I had worn during the campaign, and she made the red suit that I planned to wear in London on Tony’s first day as Prime Minister (God willing). All were in keeping with the British designers theme.

The next day, as the hours ticked by, our families began to turn up. Myrobella was crammed. Alastair and Jonathan kept popping in, and Fiona drifted in and out. That afternoon they all went away to have a rest. Tony was supposed to have a sleep, too, but I don’t think he managed to do more than lie down and close his eyes. A guesthouse up the road had a small indoor swimming pool, which the owners said we could use, and the kids and I left him in peace. Meanwhile first indications of the turnout were beginning to come in. Philip Gould called to say that BBC exit polls were giving us a ten-point lead over the Tories.

Looking back, I don’t know how I stood it. It felt almost as though I were in a bubble, instinctively trying to keep some sort of distance so that the whole thing wouldn’t overwhelm us. The atmosphere was almost unnaturally calm.

We had to decide what to do with the kids. There was never any question that they shouldn’t be involved. It wouldn’t be like it had been with my father: once he became famous, we were completely cut off from anything to do with his life. I was determined that history would not repeat itself, that our kids would not be incidental extras to what was happening to their father. This was something that we were doing together as a family. Later I would be accused of double standards, of wanting to maintain their privacy while parading them before the cameras. But to have kept them out of those iconic pictures would have been to deny them their place in what would affect them all their lives. This was a journey we were going on together, and they had to know they were as important to us now as they were before. Leaving them out was not an option.

That said, they were too young to stay up all night, so we put them to bed and promised them that we’d get them up for the results, which wouldn’t be until nearly midnight. Euan barely slept, but Nicky certainly did, because I remember the trouble we had waking him and how Tony had to carry him downstairs. He was only eleven then and still half asleep. Euan was already thirteen and so had taken a lot more interest in the campaign, while Kathryn was still a little girl at nine, and just very excited, largely because she loved the new outfit I’d got her from Marks & Spencer. I felt very shaky. While everyone around was focused on Tony, the party, and the country, I thought increasingly of what lay before me, of those three little people who hadn’t asked for any of this, who hadn’t been canvassed for their opinion, and who had no concept of what the future held. It was now my job, as never before, to make family life work. However much he wanted to, realistically Tony would not be there in the way he had been before.

I thought it might be a bit difficult for my mum and dad to be there together, but in the end it was fine. One thing my mum had always known was that the old rogue was completely devoted to the party, so for him this was a Big Thing.

At 10:00 p.m. the polls closed, and we all gathered round the television. Tony was upstairs in our bedroom, just lying on the bed staring at the ceiling. He didn’t want to come down. When
News at Ten
came on, somebody went up to get him. He shambled in and stood at the door, and the newscaster began to speak.

“The predictions are that it’s going to be a Labour landslide.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tony said. “I accept that we’re going to win, but a landslide, no. It’s ridiculous.”

At about eleven-thirty John Burton arrived with Tony’s security. During the last two weeks of the campaign, he had been provided with five protection officers (known as “’tecs”) who would be on duty two at a time. They had been on the bus, but as we were constantly surrounded by people, we hadn’t taken much notice. What were five more among so many? It wasn’t as if this was going to be our life. (It was, of course, but we didn’t realize it then.)

We went down to Newton Aycliffe Leisure Centre, where the vote counting for Sedgefield and the neighboring constituency was being held. Outside there was a feeling of Mardi Gras. Inside it was even more the case — everyone was ecstatic. Meanwhile Tony was pacing about, talking to people about what they had to do tomorrow and what the first things on the agenda would be. By now he had accepted that we had won, but he barely managed a smile. I was sitting with the family in a room at the back watching television, when there was a news flash: “Labour Gains Crosby.”

My sister and I sat there open-mouthed, then clasped each other in near hysterics and jumped up and down. We just couldn’t believe it; the whole Booth family was amazed, delighted, and astonished in equal measure.

And then it dawned on me: if we’ve won Crosby, anything is possible!

Sedgefield was a foregone conclusion, but Tony won it with an increased margin of twenty-five thousand votes. His only regret, he said when the crowd had quieted enough to let him speak, was that his mother was not there to see it. But his father was.

As soon as we could, I got the children into the waiting car and, with my mum and Ros in charge, waved them off to the airport. They were going home, I told them, but I would see them in the morning. From there it was back to Trimdon, to the Labour club, just to say thank you to our supporters, and then to Myrobella.

The phone rang at about two in the morning.

“This is Downing Street,” the voice said. “We have the Prime Minister for you.” It was John Major conceding defeat and wishing Tony well. I was in the room, but I didn’t hear what he said, just Tony’s muted response.

He and I were there alone, and I clasped both his hands in mine. “I know this is a huge responsibility,” I said, “but you’ll be fantastic.” He was very calm, very much in awe of what was happening, because the vote of confidence was so big. I believe he’d always secretly thought he would win, but he’d never imagined he’d do so by such a huge margin.

A private plane was waiting at Teesside airport to fly us to London. The party at the Royal Festival Hall was already in full swing, but there was no risk that it would be over by the time we got there. As we flew down, results were still coming in, and Alastair was keeping everyone up-to-date. Gradually the scale of the victory became impossible to ignore, and at one point Tony put his head in his hands and said, “What have we done?”

There’s a picture of the two of us on the plane, taken by the photographer Tom Stoddart, who’d been with us throughout the campaign, with Tony scribbling a few notes for what he was going to say. All I could do was put my arms round him and say, “It’ll be all right. We’re all coming, too.”

That was how it was going to be. Whatever else happened, his family would be there with him, and indeed we were. We went in together, and we came out together. And we’re still together, and that’s really important.

As we crossed Westminster Bridge, dawn was glinting along the river. The streets round the South Bank were packed with people, and I thought that it must have been like this in 1945 when the war ended. Terry was driving, and either because of the excitement or because of barriers blocking off streets, we went the wrong way and had to turn round and back up.

We were both very subdued. Tony says that he never really got to enjoy that night. He made his speech about the new dawn rising over London and a new dawn for Britain. It was six o’clock in the morning by the time we left, and we emerged from the smoky, raucous atmosphere inside the Festival Hall into the clean light of the early morning. Someone gave us a glass of champagne, the first either of us had had. None of what was happening seemed real.

We went home and tried to grab a couple of hours of sleep. We slept fitfully, even though we were exhausted. Jonathan was the first to arrive later that morning, then came Alastair. In the meantime Ros had got the kids up and dressed. Then it was time to go.

“See you next at Number Ten!” I said, and kissed the kids good-bye. Ros was going to take them there later. First Tony had an appointment with the Queen, the ceremony known as “kissing hands,” the formal invitation to the new Prime Minister to form a government.

As we walked out our front door, shouts rang out, and I realized what all the banging had been about while we’d been trying to get some sleep. Across the road a scaffolding had been erected for scores of photographers. All our neighbors were out in the street to cheer us off, and when we walked up to shake their hands, I suddenly had the feeling that we were saying good-bye — and we were, really. That’s what it was. I heard Kathryn shouting, “Hey, Mum! Up here!” and saw her waving down to us from the second floor, her red hair glinting in the sun. Then Tony and I got into the Rover, with a police car behind us and Jonathan and Alastair bringing up the rear. And as we drove down through King’s Cross, a motorbike escort with us all the way, cars stopped to let us through, drivers beeped their horns, and people on the streets waved. And all the time, above our heads, was the sound of a helicopter. I thought it must be the police, but now I realize it was one of the television channels filming us, the rotors pounding the air.

I’ll never forget that journey, through all those bits of London that are normally in gridlock. We didn’t stop, just drove straight down past Euston heading toward Buckingham Palace. I had been there before, to a diplomatic reception, but not to this part, the Queen’s audience rooms overlooking the garden at the back. As the car swung in past the Victoria Memorial, I couldn’t get over the crowds. Tony and I didn’t dare speak; we just held hands.

Once inside the palace, we were taken up to the first floor, where I was introduced to the Queen’s lady-in-waiting Lady Susan Hussey. The Queen’s private secretary and press secretary then explained to Tony what would happen, while the lady-in-waiting told me what I had to do, which was basically to wait outside until the Queen rang the bell — the sign that I should go in. The Queen would receive me briefly, and that would be it.

Tony was in there on his own for about twenty minutes. Then the bell rang, and I went in, the door being opened by a footman. I can’t remember not curtsying — something one would well recall — so I probably did. It was a big room, and the sun was shining through the large windows, and this iconic figure was standing there next to Tony, looking tiny beside him.

“Well, Mrs. Blair,” she said, “I have just been congratulating your husband. With all this excitement, you must be tired.”

“Tired but happy, Ma’am.”

“And tell me, have you decided yet where you are going to live?”

“Well, I think we’ll probably move into Number Ten, but we won’t make up our minds until we’ve actually seen what it’s like.”

“You mean you haven’t seen inside Downing Street? That does surprise me.” She smiled, then picked up the bell: the audience was over. We were escorted back downstairs, and I fully expected to see Terry and the Rover waiting for us. But there was no sign of the Rover, just a Jaguar — the Prime Minister’s Jaguar. Then I saw it was Terry in the driver’s seat looking as pleased as Punch. It turned out that they had tried to persuade Tony to change and take John Major’s driver, but he’d said no. He wanted to keep Terry and Sylvie.

As we pulled out of the palace, a great roar went up — around the Victoria Memorial the crowds were going mad. Up the Mall, then turning into Whitehall, the noise was deafening. The car stopped at the bottom of Downing Street. For once people had been allowed in past the big gates, and the pavements on either side were packed with people shouting “Ton-ee, Ton-ee” and “Labour’s coming home.” As we made our slow way up that street, clasping the hands that were thrust out to us, I realized that these were staff and members of the Labour Party, as I recognized many of the faces. Above their heads, the windows of the Foreign Office were filled with more hands waving. I looked up the street to see if the kids had got here safely, and there they were, waiting for us to come up, little flags in their hands, their bright faces grinning, shining with excitement.

I stood with the children, and Tony walked a pace in front of us while he waited for the hubbub to calm down. Then he spoke.

“For eighteen years — for eighteen long years — my Party has been in opposition. It could only say, it could not ‘do.’ Today we are charged with the deep responsibility of government. Today, enough of talking — it is time now to do.”