Chapter 9
Since early that summer I had no longer been living in Veena’s flat. Her parents needed it back. Having lived in luxury for two years rent-free, I could hardly complain.
The Bar is the ultimate nonlinear networking web, with each set of chambers acting as its own mini-hub. Whatever the requirement, chambers is always the best place to start looking, and so it proved in this case. A former pupil, I was told, had just bought a house and was looking for someone to help pay the mortgage.
I already knew Maggie Rae in a professional capacity. Following her pupilage, she had gone off and become a barrister in one of the first chambers set up outside the Inns of Court. Once there she decided that the Bar wasn’t for her and retrained as a solicitor. Now qualified, she was a partner in the left-leaning firm of Hodge, Jones and Allan, who regularly sent family law work to our chambers.
The house Maggie had bought was in Wilton Way, Hackney — one street north of London Fields, the only patch of green in the area. I had never been that far east before, and West Hampstead and St. John’s Wood were like posh Mayfair in comparison. The area hadn’t always been so run-down, as could be seen from the houses themselves, many of which were Georgian. The streets were both wide and wide apart, making for generous gardens. Hackney’s proximity to the City (London’s financial center), however, had resulted in its being heavily bombed in the Second World War, and where the bomb sites had been filled in at all, it had been with poor-quality housing and tower blocks.
Maggie’s house was a complete wreck — in fact, the whole front wall was missing. It had previously been divided into bed-sits, and the only heating was a gas cooker on the top floor (my bedroom) in what had been a little kitchenette. So there we’d be, up in my bedroom, the front wall covered with a tarpaulin and the door of the oven wide-open, with us huddled round it for warmth.
She was heavily into do-it-yourself, and I spent every free moment there with the sandpaper — from floors to doors to skirting boards. Tony got involved as little as possible; he has many fine qualities, but DIY is not among them. Maggie had even constructed her own bed, admittedly from a kit, and persuaded me to do the same. This time I did enlist Tony’s help. He would, after all, benefit personally. The result was totally hopeless. Not only was the bed wonky, but it tended to collapse at just the wrong moment. Building that bed had one single advantage: we learned very early on that DIY wasn’t for us, and when it came time to look for a house of our own, wrecks were out.
During the long drive back from Siena, my head was full of plans for the future. Tony’s proposal might have been a little unusual — definitely the wrong one on her knees — but I hadn’t needed to think about my answer. We were best friends and lovers, surely the ultimate combination for a happy and successful marriage. There was a constantly changing dynamic between us, and I knew that life with Tony would never be boring. What more could a girl ask for?
Possibly a ring. But then I have always hated my fingers, and Tony felt we should put everything we had into a house. There was just one thing he wanted to be sure of, he said, as we drove the Beetle off the ferry at Dover.
“What’s that, my darling?” I asked, giving his knee a squeeze. Could he want me to tell him how much I loved him yet again?
“Promise me you won’t say anything to anyone.”
I remember sitting there and thinking, What? Instead I said, “I see.”
“Nothing to worry about. I just think we need to be sensible about how we handle it, that’s all.”
As in, just in case I change my mind? My little balloon of happiness instantly deflated.
He did agree that we could tell my mother, and the first weekend we were back, we drove up to Oxford to see her. Even then, my husband-to-be pulled his punches, talking at some length around us buying a house. My mum, being very liberal-minded, thought he was saying, “Cherie and I are going to move in together.” Only later, when Tony suggested buying a bottle of champagne, did the penny drop.
“You mean you’re getting married?” she said. Up till then the mword hadn’t crossed his lips.
What mainly worried Tony was Derry. If he disapproved, it could have really negative consequences, he said. As far as I was concerned, it was not a question of “if.” Of course Derry would disapprove. He may have tolerated Tony and me as sweethearts, but marriage was another thing altogether. He’d always had a droit du seigneur attitude toward me, though naturally he didn’t put it like that.
“You’re much too young to get married,” Derry said, to no one’s surprise, when Tony eventually told him. “Don’t do it.”
Paradoxically it was Derry who made it possible, at least from a financial perspective. He brought Tony into a case to do with the Bank of Oman. For the next few months, Tony was always popping back and forth to the Persian Gulf. It was a nice earner, and it brought him his first really big fee, so we were able to start looking for a house.
My personal worry was closer to home. How would my mother react to my father giving me away? Unlike being called to the Bar, there were no precedents for the bride’s mother walking her up the aisle.
One morning early in November, I was at home, vaguely listening to the radio, getting ready to leave for chambers, when I heard my father’s name.
“Tony Booth, the Till Death Us Do Part actor, is in hospital after being severely burnt in a fire at his home. The other occupants of the building were unharmed.”
My first thought was to call Susie, though I hadn’t seen her or my father in months. She was very angry. He’d been taken to Mount Vernon Hospital, she said. Beyond that all I got was “drunk . . . locked him out . . . tried to burn the place down . . . may he rot in hell.”
I then called Mount Vernon. I should try to come in as soon as possible was all they would say.
I went on my own. I had nothing on that morning, and Lyndsey had to go to work. In any event, her feelings toward the man who had betrayed her were still not good.
There are no subways in Hackney, so I took a bus to Liverpool Street, and from there it was direct but slow. Eventually I had to transfer to another bus. The journey took more than two hours.
My father tells a complicated story of what actually happened the previous night. It involves the Special Air Service (SAS), counterespionage, the Irish Republican Army (IRA), and a botched assassination attempt. Two SAS operatives, he claims (whom he met in a pub, naturally), helped him break into his own house by climbing on two paraffin drums to access a trapdoor to the loft. They then decided it would be easier to set fire to the front door, so they put a torch to the paraffin, which subsequently exploded, and flames engulfed him. I’ve never bought that version of events, and, strange to relate, the two key witnesses have never materialized. Some facts are indisputable, however. He was certainly locked out of the flat; he was certainly burnt; and he was certainly very, very drunk.
I knew the layout of the house from babysitting. His flat was on the top floor of a prewar mansion-house block. Opposite his front door was a storeroom where, among other things, he kept spare paraffin for the heater. He must have climbed up on the drum to access the trapdoor to the loft. Once there he could move about above the rafters and climb down through his own trapdoor. He had done it before. My dad was a heavy smoker and, on this occasion, insensible. Add paraffin into the mix, and what happened is not surprising. In all likelihood he had a cigarette in his hand. As he was hauling himself up into the trapdoor, it fell onto the paraffin drum — probably covered with spilled paraffin — and set it alight. It then exploded, and he fell feetfirst into a furnace of flames.
Apart from his feet and lower legs, the worst burns were on his hands. Even in extremis my dad knew what his most precious asset was, and his first instinct was to protect it. I know that’s what he did, because over the months I subsequently visited him, it became an obsession.
When I first saw him, he was in a terrible state. His hands were encased in what looked like plastic bags, and he was rambling. One of the nurses changed me a £1 note for some coins, and I called my grandma from the pay phone in reception. He wasn’t as bad as I’d expected, I told her. It was a lie. I couldn’t bear to tell her the truth. Just hearing her voice was enough to bring tears to my eyes, in a way that seeing my father hadn’t. Then, I had been in shock. Next I called Auntie Audrey. I told her the truth. He was in a desperate state, I said. Everything was desperate. The hospital building was a prefab, and there was a constant noise of people crying out in pain.
When there was nothing more to do, I kissed my dad’s head and left. (Later, interestingly, when he was undergoing skin grafts, such ordinary human contact wouldn’t be possible.) Meanwhile I had called and left a message for Tony. David, the chief clerk, said he was back from Oman but was with Derry reporting on the case. I said that my dad had had an accident, that I was going into chambers, and that I’d explain when I saw him. Could he please call me.
Back at Essex Court, I sat there waiting for Tony to ring. When he did, it wasn’t from chambers. I could hear the noise of a bar in the background.
“I’m having a drink with Derry in El Vino’s. Why don’t you join us?”
“Tony, my dad’s in a really bad way. I need to talk to you.”
“So come over.”
“But you don’t understand. He’s ill, really ill.”
“Just come over!”
I went over. This was in the days when Fleet Street was still Fleet Street, and El Vino’s was packed with its usual crowd of journalists and a sprinkling of lawyers. It was a very masculine world, and women were not very welcome. I remember standing in the doorway looking across this mass of suits, and then I saw Tony sitting at a table with Richard Field, who had been Derry’s pupil after me. All three men had their heads back in laughter. I went over, and Richard pulled out a chair.
“Tony, I really need to speak to you,” I said. Neither Derry nor he took a blind bit of notice. I tugged at his sleeve and repeated what I’d said. Nothing. Then I burst into tears.
“You know what, my dad is dying, and you won’t talk to me,” I said, then got up and walked out.
Tony had no reason to like my father, but once he realized that his life was in danger — and, more important, saw how much my father mattered to me — he felt terrible about how he’d behaved. He knew the moment I got up and left, and then, of course, he came running after me. It was just bad timing: there he was, back from his first big job, full of stories of Oman and the rest of it — and my being in a state wasn’t what he expected or wanted.
Whatever residual anger I might have felt toward my dad evaporated over the next few weeks. Whatever bad things he’d done in his life, I decided, I would not wish this on my worst enemy. He had nobody now except me, so every Monday I made my way out to the hospital. I felt I owed it to my grandma and to Auntie Audrey to be there. They had to know there was someone from the family looking after him.
My dad was now resident in the burn unit and making very slow progress. His lungs had been damaged by smoke inhalation, and he was having skin graft after skin graft. That was when he was in the most pain: the thicker the graft taken, the less the eventual deformity, but the greater the pain. He was not alone. Everyone in the unit was in pain. You could hear them screaming, and people were dying all the time. When shifts changed, I’d overhear the nurses saying, “So-and-so won’t survive the night.” One woman, a nurse, had 90 percent burns. She’d been lighting the gas in the oven when it exploded. By the following Monday she was dead. The body can’t survive that amount of damage.
My dad nearly died twice from liver failure. He was, of course, an alcoholic. Above all, they had to prevent infection. Before going in to see him, I had to dress completely in plastic. While the grafting was continuing, in order to avoid the skin stretching, he couldn’t exercise. His legs and arms were covered with what looked like stockings. We just sat and talked. His one great terror, to which he returned again and again, was whether he would ever have an erection again. I mean, did I want to have this conversation with my dad?
My experiences over those months deeply affected me. My kids know that when I die, I want to be buried. Whatever happens, I do not want to be cremated. Not only that, but my relationship with my dad changed. And he changed.
Dad’s accident also affected his relationship with Lyndsey. Her reaction was “Trust my dad always to go for the main chance.” Maybe. But he was very ill, and it’s only thanks to the wonderful nursing care he received at Mount Vernon that he’s alive today.
My father’s accident had one unforeseen advantage: no way could he come to the wedding. So it was arranged that my uncle Bill, Audrey’s husband, whom I’d known since I first arrived at Ferndale Road when he was just her boyfriend, would give me away.
As Tony and I were both members of Lincoln’s Inn, we could easily have had the wedding at Lincoln’s Inn chapel. But it was expensive to hire, and as my mum was now living in Oxford, it made sense to have the wedding there. We were incredibly lucky that St. John’s College gave us permission to marry in its chapel, where Tony had been confirmed (in itself highly unusual). This was achieved through the intervention of a friend who had done his postgraduate thesis on the history of the chapel and persuaded the chaplain to conduct the service.
The chaplain was named Anthony Phillips. We discussed the issue of my being a Catholic. The Church of England didn’t have a problem; the question was whether I did. In fact, since leaving home five years earlier, I had been to Mass only when I was in Liverpool. At the LSE no one even knew that I was a Catholic. I probably should have asked my father’s second cousin Father John Thompson to be there alongside the Reverend Phillips, but I didn’t want to push my luck. Anthony Phillips was doing us a big favor. I didn’t want to say, “Oh, and by the way, I’d rather you didn’t officiate at the wedding.”
There was no stag night or anything like that. The two families had arranged to have a meal together the night before the wedding and were meeting up at my mum’s house. By six o’clock the bridegroom had still not turned up. He eventually arrived around eight, and we had a jolly evening. But next morning, calamity: he’d forgotten to bring any underpants, so he had to scrounge a pair from the hotel. They were hideous, ill-fitting things, with the most peculiar line round his crotch area, clearly visible in the wedding pictures.
Grandma was there, of course, and her face lit up when she saw Tony. “I’m so glad she’s marrying you,” she said. “I like you.” That was a relief.
I had bought my dress on sale at Liberty, the famous store in London’s West End. It was very pale ivory silk chiffon with pale lilac binding. It had a medieval feel, the sleeves being split along the top and caught by little pearls. The bodice was satin, hand-painted and sewn with seed pearls. To go with it I had a skullcap with the same pale lilac binding as the dress and more pearls. As for the bridesmaids’ dresses, Maggie had volunteered her services as seamstress, as she had a sewing machine. We bought matching silk from Liberty, which she made to her own design. Unfortunately, like a lot of Maggie’s DIY activities, it took longer than she anticipated, and we had barely finished hemming the dresses when the car arrived to pick us up for the wedding.
The bridesmaids — Lyndsey; Tony’s sister, Sarah; and Auntie Audrey’s daughter, Catherine — went first with my mum. As the car was my mother’s contribution, I’d decided we needed only one — it could come back and collect me and Uncle Bill. That was a good idea in principle, but Oxford on a Saturday afternoon is a nightmare, and my mum had miscalculated how long the trip would take. We waited and waited. The wedding was supposed to start at two o’clock, but at two the car had only just arrived back to get us.
“Tony will be so cross,” I twittered as we crawled through traffic. “He’ll probably just go.” I was convinced there would be no one waiting at the altar and a lot of strained faces. Tony hates it when I’m late, and I often am. For once, though, it wasn’t my fault. We eventually arrived at the chapel at two-thirty, by which time the poor trainee organist had been through his entire repertoire and had gone back to the beginning.
The bridegroom hadn’t left. I learned later that he’d had his last cigarette at five to two. I had never smoked, but I’d watched my grandfather dying as a result of smoking, and I wasn’t interested in seeing Tony go the same way. It had been my one condition for us getting married.
At around three o’clock on March 29, 1980, Tony Blair and Cherie Booth were pronounced man and wife. Needless to say, I did not promise to obey. Otherwise it all passed in a blur. All I can remember is that Anthony Phillips preached a really good sermon, about how in marriage you have to keep moving, never stick, never be static; you have to move forward together. When he came to the bit about “those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder,” he bound our wrists together with his stole, which I wasn’t expecting and had never seen done before.
“Gosh,” Maggie said later, “he really meant that, didn’t he!”
The chapel was quite small. Apart from our families, most of the guests were from our chambers. The master of St. John’s had offered us the use of his house for the reception, so we could walk there from the chapel, which we did, as the mad March wind blew everyone’s hat off.
Tony’s brother, Bill, was best man. His ushers were Charlie Falconer, Chris Catto (a friend from Fettes), Geoff Gallop, and Bruce Roe. (Marc and Bina Palley were in Dubai.) In the absence of my father, I had asked Derry to make the speech on my behalf. This was a mistake: it was all about Tony. How marvelous he was and how lucky I was to have him. Naturally he cast himself in the role of Cupid. Afterward Freddie Reynold said he wished I’d asked him. I could have seconded that. Luckily my uncle Bill insisted on saying a few words about me, and very generous they were, too.
As for my dad, his is the one telegram I can now remember: “Congratulations from the proud father of the beautiful bride. Absent wounded.”
Late that night Tony sat down on the edge of the bed in our hotel bedroom in the Cotswolds. “Well,” he said, still dressed in his striped trousers and braces, “that was the worst day of my life.” Nothing to do with me, he explained. He was just overwhelmed with sadness that his mother hadn’t been there.