Have you ever seen such a happy family? All mucking in together to wash the car on a weekend, deeply engaged in conversation while we work. No, neither have I, but this is all part of the job of being the child of an MP. I’m the child second from right with a sponge, doing my bit of election propaganda when my father, George Gardiner, was standing as Conservative candidate in the February 1974 general election. It’s a role thrust upon you, with no say in the decision and, from experience, I can affirm it is no picnic being the child of an MP.
This particular photograph never made it, but he won the election and became Conservative MP for Reigate, a job he held until 1997. A rightwing trouble maker, or “a viper slithering around in the parliamentary pit” as John Major described him, he was never low-profile, something not helped by a trenchant column in the Sunday Express.
Family is important to the profile of an MP, particularly a Conservative one, so as young children we were expected to play our part, turning up to functions and being on our best behaviour (a frequent fail), though I do remember winning a bottle of wine in the raffle, which I promptly sold to my parents. Or traipsing around old people’s homes wishing the residents happy Christmas and facing the indignity of being told I was a “very pretty girl” (Conservative boys clearly were not expected to have long hair). It was a bit tiresome, but probably good for us.
But, as you get older, the role becomes harder. Especially if you go to a liberal north London comprehensive where everyone seemed to come from Labour-supporting families. The fact that leftwing firebrand MP Michael Meacher’s son was in my year only helped make me even more of an alien species. Every Monday morning, I would come in to be told by the son of a prominent solicitor, no doubt prompted by the latest Sunday Express article: “My dad says your dad is a wanker.” A viewpoint probably taken as read by most classmates.
I didn’t suffer the torment of the children of the Beckenham Tory MP Bob Stewart who, in a recent parliamentary debate, claimed a teacher had told classmates to shun his son. No teacher victimised me, but there is no doubt some treated me slightly differently. You have a public persona that is not of your choosing, probably much like the children of celebrities, but without the wealth to cushion yourself from it. You would be amazed how many felt the need to challenge, test and probe it.
How did I respond? Partly by fitting in, becoming vociferous in my hatred of Margaret Thatcher, but also sometimes by sticking by my father, arguing the case for monetarism with a politics teacher, even though I didn’t believe it. It was often a complicated tightrope.
To escape this, when I went to university I kept his job a secret, leading to the hilarious moment when, on a visit to the House of Commons, one of the Leeds University politics society saw me give him a peck on the cheek. When challenged, I just winked and said “the London gay scene” and moved on. No follow-up question came.
Overall, it would be honest to say he was often an embarrassment to me, but then to be fair, I probably was to him, with my rejection of much of what he believed in – the invitations to his party functions certainly dried up.
But I think I learned a lot from the experience, not least the power of ignorant stereotyping and the petty tribalism of politics, which can be pretty tough on a young child. The idea that you should see your opponents as the enemy, not people; made worse when that enemy is your dad.
Or the view that, because he was a Conservative, I must be leading some sort of secret life, as we couldn’t really be as I appeared, that we must be posh and loaded. Er, no. My father grew up living in shabby rented accommodation, the only child of a single mother who worked in a butcher’s shop. What money he had, he earned himself through journalism and his parliamentary salary.
So when I see photographs of people such as the mayor of Greater Manchester Andy Burnham showing off in a “Never kissed a Tory” T-shirt, I don’t think “what a class act”. Instead, I see a closed narrow-mindedness. I kissed a Tory throughout my whole life until his death in 2002, and it never did me any harm.
Which isn’t to gloss over the difficulties. When your dad is arguing against sanctions for South Africa, for capital punishment, smashing the trade unions and being a Eurosceptic “bastard” in his own party, it could be difficult. But I hang on to the fact that while I profoundly disagreed with him, he was genuinely motivated by making the world a better place. The intentions were good, the actions often awful.
Which brings me back to my first election when I was five, “supporting” my father as a candidate in 1970. My memories are largely of cutting up election literature to make collages and having a temper tantrum during the photoshoot, which meant his election address featured a snarling five-year-old. Little did I understand the turmoil going on around me.
It was taken in the parliamentary constituency of Coventry South, a seat near Birmingham, where, two years earlier, Enoch Powell made his infamous “rivers of blood” speech and, in 1964, Peter Griffiths had won a shock victory in Smethwick off the back of a pamphlet that stated: “If you want a nigger for a neighbour, vote Labour.”
It was a toxic environment and the popular pressure to go along with Powell was immense, including from local party activists. Instead, my father made efforts to build bridges with the immigrant community, especially the Sikhs, whom he saw as natural Tories. It may not have won him the seat, but it was the right thing to do, and he formed a connection with many in Britain’s Sikh community that lasted until his death. I can be proud of that.
Now I’m 52, with children of my own, and I still keep quiet about who he was. I’m no longer embarrassed by him, but would rather people judge me on who I am, not where I come from.
I suspect things are so much worse for the children of MPs today. With the abuse of trust highlighted by the expenses scandal and the wave of simplistic populism sweeping the world, our politicians have never been held in such low esteem. Rather than settling for a playground jibe, social media allows critics a megaphone with which to berate MPs and their kin. I know I can look my kids in the eye and say: “Don’t worry, I’ll never be an MP,” in the knowledge that it’s in their best interests. But that says something rather sad about our world, doesn’t it?
