Corridors of power What it’s like for a woman in politics
As sex abuse claims mount against MPS, Edwina Currie, Cathy Newman and Suzy Gale give their take on Parliament’s scandal
Was it a different world back then? When I entered the Commons in 1983 I was one of only 23 female MPS (though that did include the prime minister), writes Edwina Currie. It was a maddeningly masculine place, where our view of debates was frequently obscured by large men in tweeds and our voices buried by male braying in deep bass notes. Much business was transacted in Parliament’s smoke-filled bars and restaurants, and woe betide the woman who, like me, hated that atmosphere. Margaret Thatcher didn’t help by failing to promote any women from the Commons to the Cabinet, or even into the Whips’ office, perpetuating the idea that we were present on sufferance, not by right. Yet thousands of women worked in the Palace of Westminster, not just for MPS but mostly in subordinate roles: researchers, librarians, catering, cleaners. For most purposes, they were invisible.
Did they get approaches?
I’ve no doubt the answer is yes. But I can say, hand on heart, that neither I nor any of my staff were pestered, or forced into anything they didn’t want to do.
Male MPS were far from home, and it can be a lonely life. Hours were much later than today – Margaret kept us there until midnight far too often. Add to that the passion and belief that gets people involved in politics in the first place, and which can distance them
– both emotionally and geographically
– from the mundane preoccupations of their families. After a great speech, or a tough day, you want to share emotions with somebody sympathetic. And that may not be the wife. It’s no wonder so many relationships – both marriages and affairs, like my own with John Major – begin there.
Of course I received approaches; on my first day one gent inquired who I worked for. When I replied, “The people of South Derbyshire. And who do you work for?” he got the message.
On another occasion, a backbencher asked if I might be free for dinner, and it was clear we would not be discussing his statutory instrument. But perhaps it was my breezy selfconfidence, or the steely glint in my eye that came from growing up in Liverpool, which kept pests at a distance – most male colleagues of all parties treated me as an equal. If we had an argument, it was about politics, not about petting. Sometimes I felt rather too innocent. On a trip to the Konrad Adenauer conference in Königsberg, Germany, I was propositioned by several whiskered gents including a retired admiral and a former ambassador. When I demurred, they sheepishly explained that playing away from home was accepted practice there. If that was the reason for my invitation, I was amused, not offended.
I don’t buy into the notion of weak,
‘It’s no wonder so many relationships – marriages and affairs – begin there’
fluttery females incapable of telling a man to push off. I fret instead about misunderstandings which can destroy a decent man’s reputation years, even decades later.
Turning every unwanted gesture into “unacceptable” behaviour marginalises those who are victims and have suffered real crimes of rape or assault, which should, without hesitation or excuse, be referred to the police – events that, unlike a misplaced come-on, are worth our attention.