Hanging near Margaret Beckett’s desk in parliament is a cartoon, drawn by her cousin, of things she has loved. It depicts her and her late husband, Leo, surrounded by the trappings of ministerial office, alongside their trusty caravan. Even as foreign secretary, she refused to give up holidaying in it, battling to establish secure phone lines on campsites and trundling through France with her close protection officers following in a camper van. If some found it incongruous, she didn’t care.
“I remember when I was at college, at some do or another, people were passing round the bottle and I was – like everyone else – swigging out of it. And somebody was saying: ‘Oh no no no, you’re not somebody who should ever be seen swigging out of a bottle.’ It was the same sort of reaction,” she says, with a hint of satisfaction. There is a stubborn streak in Beckett, a dogged refusal to be pigeonholed or cowed, that has underpinned an extraordinary half-century in politics.
