One of Lady Thatcher’s least publicised qualities, which raised her above any other politician I have known, was the complete absence of schadenfreude or triumphalism. In 1992, I was fortunate enough to be asked by Alistair McAlpine, Lady Thatcher’s former Treasurer and close friend, to spend election night with the recently deposed premier and her family at his London home. Denis and Mark Thatcher were understandably bitter. When Tory wet Chris Patten, whose vitriol towards her had known no bounds, lost his seat, they leapt to their feet and whooped like Watusi chieftains. I shall never forget the majesty on her features as she reprimanded them: ‘Sit down at once! The misfortune of others is never a cause for celebration.’ She was also the only politician who succeeded in reducing my voluble Hungarian mother to silence. During a dinner party at my father’s house in north London, the discussion turned to Keynesian economics. My mother began to venture an opinion. At once, the Prime Minister turned and said, ‘Be quiet, dear, your turn will come.’ ‘Margaret,’ my father enquired. ‘Could you come to dinner more often?’
I am writing a book about Richard III, a figure even more controversial than Margaret Thatcher. I first became interested in Richard when I was 14, shortly after my father made the startling announcement that my half-brother Pericles was the rightful heir to the throne. My father’s third wife had been Lady Moorea Hastings, daughter of the 16th Earl of Huntingdon, John Clarence Westenra Plantagenet Hastings. ‘When Moorea dies,’ he explained, ‘your brother will be the senior surviving Plantagenet.’ I asked from which king he was descended. ‘He is Richard III’s nephew in the 19th generation.’ ‘Wasn’t he the one who killed the Princes in the Tower?’ ‘Certainly not! That’s Tudor propaganda.’
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