The photographs in Carol Thatcher’s biography of her father nicely
illustrate the affectionate, dryly humorous tone of the book.
"Public Denis" is the familiar figure, fag in mouth,
drink in hand, whilst in "Private Denis" he snoozes
contentedly in his "favourite armchair". Other snaps
show him flanked by Beefeater Gin girlies, or stoically suspended
mid-air in a rescue harness for a Boat Show photocall. There is
something about Denis’s cheery normality and piggy nostrils, his
penchant for fine wines and tobacco, which make him instantly
likeable.
Nothing in Below the Parapet – which refers to Denis’s
head-down approach to being the prime minister’s husband – alters
this favourable impression. He comes across as a thoroughly decent
chap with an excellent head for business. Honest, straightforward,
and rather modest, this is a man untouched by childhood trauma
or dysfunctional families, although some psychoanalysts might
disagree, citing his self-confessed insensitivity, "The war
didn’t have a traumatic effect on me…" or his reaction
to his new son and daughter, born six weeks premature, "My
god, they look like rabbits. Put them back." But these are
merely the norms of a previous generation, rather than symptoms
of neurosis. His abhorrence of capital punishment, "an absolutely
barbaric way of takling people’s lives… absolutely awful",
one of the few things he disagreed with his wife about, shows
empathy and humanity.
Denis’s spooky prediliction for blondes called Margaret resulted
in two wddings and two Margaret Thatchers. Below the Parapet
provides a fascinating, behind-the-scenes glimpse of Margaret
II, in mother, wife and minsterial mode – the twins’ nanny recalls,
"She was so ultra-efficient that it was very difficult to
fault her" – and a portrait of an extraordinarily successful
marriage. Carol has written a very good, often very funny account
of a rather splendid dad.
Reviewed by Tara Howard
