Have you ever asked a child what they want to be when they grow up? What career do they dream of? How many children do they think they will have?
I’ve asked my children those very questions. Luke, 13, wants to have a son and a daughter, and to be a lawyer. As for the future Mrs Luke, well, she’s a shadowy figure, as yet.
But nobody ever says that when they grow up they want to be a step-parent, do they? The fact of the matter is, though, that many of us end up looking after other people’s children.
My stepmother fell in love with my dad when she was in her 20s, and – looking back – it was clear she had no idea of what an impact his two naughty little daughters would have on their life together. From where I’m standing today, in my late 40s, Sue wasn’t much more than a kid herself. Albeit one with an already-dazzling career as a TV journalist and an extraordinarily glamorous shoe collection.
At first, she was friendly, if a little perplexed, when my sister Kathy and I made our regular visits to see my father in London. This then gave way to irritation – why won’t they brush their hair? Has nobody told them they ought to curtsey when they meet an adult? Must they call a “loo” a “toilet”? For our part, we pinched her makeup, turned our noses up at her cooking, and – always – refused to brush our hair.
But, but, but. Time went on. She had two beautiful children of her own. She and my dad took us on holiday so many times, and to parties, the ballet, ice-skating. Shopping in TopShop, skiing in France.
Dinners at Michelin-starred restaurants. She taught me how to eat an artichoke, cook an aubergine, dance the Charleston.
Later on, she and my father divorced but – magnificently – Sue stayed friends with me and Kathy, and our mum too. When I started out in journalism in London, she rented me her basement flat in Muswell Hill.
It could have been a difficult, lonely time for me, trying to make my way in a hostile city. Thanks to Sue, it was an era of fun drinks after work in her kitchen, family spag bol suppers and Sunday lunches with 20 people or more around her dining table. She met her wonderful husband, Nick, and he too welcomed me and Kathy into the new family they made together.
Later still, when I had married, she invited me and John to stay in their new home in the mountains of Mallorca. She was Grandma Sue to our children, and to my sister’s four. Wherever she was, you could be sure that fun, fascinating conversation and excitement, probably ending in dancing, would follow. I have never, ever met anyone with half her energy.
So despite our somewhat tenuous connection, we were family. She came to my wedding; we held hands at funerals, and sat beside hospital beds worrying together. We were united in our love for her children, Sarah and George, whom I have always thought of as my brother and sister – no “half” about it.
As you may have heard or read, the TV journalist Sue Lloyd-Roberts died last Tuesday evening, aged 64. I’m proud to say she was my stepmother. She had, sadly, fallen prey to complications arising from the bone marrow transplant that was her only hope of surviving leukaemia. All this week, many eminent people have spoken about her amazing career, her CBE, her MBE, her Emmy, her fearless reporting of human rights issues from North Korea, China, Syria and more. Harriet Harman, Huw Edwards and Tony Hall have all paid tribute. The Burmese politician Aung San Suu Kyi said of her: “Sue Lloyd-Roberts showed great courage and commitment in reporting from Burma during some of our darkest days, and exemplified my belief that the best journalists are also the nicest.”
But of all the jobs in the world, being a stepmother is one we never choose. She did it with grace, love and generosity. I only hope I am half as good a stepmum to my four stepchildren as Sue was to me. For all of us who loved Sue, our struggle now is to remember the good times with gratitude. But I just find myself wishing I could sit down with her over a glass of champagne and put the world to rights once more.
