For the Record. David Cameron
Читать онлайн книгу.
Emm’s Nursery School, housed on a nearby country estate, Lockinge, outside Wantage. Greenwood private preparatory school near Newbury. Then Heatherdown – a classic boys’ boarding school, where I went at the age of seven. Then, of course, Eton College. I was following my father, his father and his grandfather … as well as my mother’s father, and his father … you get the picture.
My dad was an extraordinary man, and a huge influence on me. He was born with a pretty odd deformity. Legs that were far shorter than they should have been, no heels and three toes on one foot and four on the other. Sitting down, you would have thought he was well over six foot. Standing up, he was just over five.
Obviously, we children never knew any different, so it didn’t seem odd at all. It was only as we got older that we started to understand what a stigma had been attached to disability when Dad was growing up. I remember the shock when he told me as a teenager that his father Donald was so ashamed about the disability that he had forbidden his wife, Dad’s mother Enid, from having any more children. Much later, my father’s aunt, a wonderfully eccentric woman we called ‘Gav’ – short for Great-Aunt Violet – told us that after Dad was born she had sat outside the hospital room night after night, worried that one of the other relatives would sneak in and ‘snuff him out with a pillow over the head’.
As a result, Dad grew up an only child, with a father who struggled to love him and who would leave his mother for a beautiful Austrian aristocrat, who, just to make things complicated, was married to Great-Aunt Violet’s brother-in-law. None of us children ever met our grandfather. Severely diabetic, possibly depressive and quite probably an alcoholic, he died in 1958.
Dad’s stories of playing sport at school, determined not to be held back by his disability, were both inspiring and amusing. As hooker in a rugby scrum – or in the similar position, ‘post’, in the Eton Field Game – he would grab the ball between his short legs, heave himself up with his incredibly strong arms and shout at the rest of the pack to carry him over the line.
Looking back, you wouldn’t have had to be a psychoanalyst to predict that his condition, his start in life and his subsequent success would make him the most wonderful ‘can-do’ optimist. And so they did. He was a glass-half-full man, normally with something pretty alcoholic in it. We all inherited his optimism – and his love of a good drink. But he taught us all more than optimism and a sunny outlook. He believed in hard work and responsibility. I recall him telling me that one of his proudest moments was looking after his mum and buying her a car after she was deserted by his father.
He worked for the same firm, the stockbrokers Panmure Gordon, for over forty years. While ‘PG’, as he called it, was a partnership, it was also something of a family firm: his father and grandfather had been senior partners before him. Dad himself became senior partner, built the business up and oversaw the company’s successful takeover by the US giant NationsBank during the 1980s ‘big bang’. He never retired, and was still buying stocks and shares for a few remaining private clients just days before he died in 2010.
So, family first, hard work, do the right thing, take responsibility. These were all part of his make-up – and things he wanted us to take on too.
Us? When my parents were married they were told that they might not be able to have any children at all. The doctors didn’t know if my father’s condition was genetic, and Mum had been given warnings that she might not be able to conceive. But in the end there were four of us children. And that was a big part of the happiness: the large, argumentative but loving family. My brother Alex, three years older than me; then an eighteen-month gap to my sister Tania; then another eighteen-month gap to me; and a five-year break before my sister Clare. We were always a tight-knit set of siblings, sharing in each other’s triumphs and disasters, and we remain so today.
Dad kept us entertained with his great sense of humour and his eccentricities. He really did believe in fairies at the end of the garden. In later life he commissioned small statues of Oberon and Titania. I have a clear picture in my mind’s eye of him tottering off down the garden, even after he had lost both his legs, armed with a whisky and soda so he could spend quality time chatting to them and to any others that might turn up.
He also loved to impose obscure but apparently immovable rules, some based on his own experience, others seeming to come from nowhere. He forbade us, for instance, from becoming accountants, because he had found his own training so boring. Others were more obscure. ‘Never sleep with a virgin.’ ‘Don’t get married till you’re twenty-six.’ ‘Never eat baked beans for breakfast.’ ‘Always travel in a suit.’ And the perennial – and probably essential, in a large family – ‘Nothing in life is fair.’ They tripped off his tongue and made us all laugh, and most of us obeyed most of them, most of the time.
Politics? He followed it, and was an avid consumer of the news, but he was far from being politically active. I still remember being told to get down from the dinner table to go and ‘warm up the television’ for the 9 or 10 o’clock news. He was one of those who thought in the 1970s that Britain was so close to going to the dogs and collapsing that he started to stockpile emergency supplies in the cellar. It sounds mad now, but there were real fears of a military coup.
In the early 1980s, fears of military takeover were superseded by potential nuclear apocalypse, brought into sharper focus for us by the fact that home was pretty close to both Aldermaston, with its atomic weapons research establishment, and Greenham Common and its soon-to-arrive Cruise missiles. Dad had a theory that when the bomb went off, if you were drunk you would survive the blast and the radiation that followed, but would remain drunk in perpetuity. He loved this theory, and there were endless debates about how many people we could fit in the cellar, and what we would drink first.
I well remember watching films like Threads, a Barry Hines docudrama about the effects of a nuclear bomb being dropped on Sheffield, or When the Wind Blows, the animation of Raymond Briggs’s book about the aftermath of nuclear war. But no one in our family – me included – was ever in much doubt: the Soviet Union were the bad guys; they had a bomb, so we needed one too.
My mother inherited her love of the countryside, and her belief in looking after others and putting back in, from her parents. She combined them with a great brain and a huge sense of fun. Very few women of her generation got the education they deserved, and had the chance to go to university and make the most of their intellectual talents. Mum wasn’t one of them. Typically, she has never complained about this. After leaving school she worked at the Courtauld Institute under Anthony Blunt, whom she adored. When he was revealed as a communist spy in 1979, she was so shocked she couldn’t sleep at night, and had to resort to sleeping pills. We teased Dad about ‘reds’ in his bed, not just underneath.
She served as a magistrate in Newbury for over thirty years, coping first with the Greenham Common women and then the Newbury Bypass protesters, including the briefly notorious ‘Swampy’. On one occasion her younger sister Clare turned up in court for taking part in the anti-Cruise missile protests and Mum had to step down temporarily. The ethos of public service was something that mattered greatly to her, and I think it rubbed off on all of us. My older brother became a criminal barrister, and my younger sister has worked as a drug counsellor.
There was another key adult in our upbringing, the woman I spoke to on my way to Buckingham Palace that day in May 2010: Gwen Hoare. Yes, just to complete the picture of the old-fashioned, privileged set-up, I had a nanny. She was with our family for over seven decades. Indeed, she was still living in a small cottage in the grounds of the Old Rectory, Peasemore, when sadly she passed away in June 2019, aged ninety-eight.
To say we loved Gwen as if she was part of the family would miss the point: she was part of the family. As well as the love and devotion she had always shown us – as children we would often bump into each other as we crawled into her bed at night – Gwen was a woman of strong values. In later years I used to wind her up by saying she could write Daily Mail editorials in her sleep, and that she made Queen Victoria look like a hippy.
Looking back over what I’ve written, it all sounds slightly old-fashioned and formal, even stiff. It wasn’t like that.