Locking out Mrs. Thatcher – from ‘Lost in the Reptile House’
To hell, cracking the Thatcher image had by now become a personal mission; though she might appear bionic she had to be subject to the same quirks of nature as normal humans, and I set my heart on recording the occasion as a matter of professional pride.
It finally came on a Sunday off with a frantic call from the Desk saying the Editor was demanding a shot of Mrs. Thatcher writing her speech at her Flood Street home on the eve of the Conservative Party Conference.
The policeman at the gate rolled his eyes and said half a dozen photographers had already left with a flea in their ear and, sure enough, she gave a look of exasperation as she opened the door and began to complain in those roller-coaster italics…
“This really is too much, Clive. I’m desperately trying to finish my speech for tomorrow and I’ve had nothing but photographers ringing the bell. Each time I have to go to the door to turn them away and each time I have to gather my thoughts again for the speech. I’ve already turned away someone from the Mail and now you …..”
“It would only take a couple of minutes and – ”
“But it wouldn’t, it wouldn’t. It would take ten minutes to do my hair and then heaven knows how long to get back to my speech.”
I stared at my feet till I heard a little sigh and saw the door open wider. Three frames later she led me out and was instructing the policeman that no one else was to even reach the door when an ominous bang stopped her in mid-sentence and froze the little trio.
“You know what that was, Clive? That was my front door slamming shut, with my speech inside, my keys inside, and me outside.”
She gave a demanding, stony glare at the copper who was staring at her like a lion-tamer who’d dropped his whip in the sawdust – this was not in the Met. Manual.
If ever there was a moment for her to kick us in the shin or pull out a lacquered lock, this was it, and I lowered the motorised Nikon behind my back, ready to reveal the real woman behind the politician.
In my dreams. She turned to me and gently spread her hands.
“Now, let’s deal with Clive first. Have you got everything you want?”
“I think I’d better get back to the office,” I said.
“I think….you….better….had,” she intoned, with the gentle firmness of a Montessori teacher calming a berserk finger painter; it was an awesome example of self-control yet really no more than expected from one who had mastered the art of yawning with a closed mouth during Edward Heath speeches.