The Prime Minister who was also a drama queen

I remember the shock of seeing Mrs Thatcher close up and being struck by how very beautiful she was

Thirteen years after her departure from office, Margaret Thatcher seems, at last, to be receding into some kind of historical perspective. It seemed as if it would never happen, but recently the simple division of the whole country under her government into those who passionately admired her and those who equally passionately detested her has been noticeably receding into small pockets of fanaticism here and there.

Even her most virulent critics have come to concede that she had her good points; perhaps not openly, but you would look long and hard before you found any rational person who still thought it was the business of the state to manufacture cars, run an airline or operate a monopoly over the telephone network. Even the worshippers may be persuaded to admit that she was sometimes pig-headed and wrong, and that the whole period after 1987 was one long mad scene, Mrs Thatcher herself in the Lucia di Lammermoor role.

And now she is being turned into history with the sort of lavish four-part television spectacular usually reserved for substantial European wars – which I suppose is rather appropriate. Nevertheless, many people with an adult recollection of her administration will find it difficult to come to terms with this. I can clearly remember six prime ministers; apart from the present one, four are dim and their appointments mildly incredible. (Was Norman Lamont really Chancellor of the Exchequer, less than 10 years ago? Had we all gone completely mad?) The only one that is vivid in its drama and conviction is Mrs Thatcher's.

Her allure retains a good deal of its power, even now. In part, it was a personal allure, as everyone says. Kingsley Amis said that she reminded him of a fantasy girl in an illustration to 1950s science fiction. I don't know about that, but I remember, when I started work in the House of Commons in 1990, the shock of seeing her close up for the first time, and being struck by something no photograph conveyed, how very beautiful she was as well as grand.

That's part of it, but the more significant thing is the allure of the project, the sheer scale of it. Everyone admits, or ought to, that by 1979 the Attlee settlement had long since run its course, and fundamental changes were needed. The extraordinary boldness of the reconstruction still takes the breath away. The effects on British society were gigantic, but beyond that, her government played an important role in breaking down Communism in Eastern Europe. It is a painful thing to admit, but at some level her shocking and frankly terrifying armaments policy actually worked. Like very few politicians, she changed the terms of the entire argument.

That allure was powerful, but just as rich and irresistible was a revulsion so unbridled and atavistic it seemed more like obsessive love. Kevin Spacey, taking up the reins at the Old Vic, said he would like to put on some of those ancient anti-Thatcher plays. I wonder. They make sinister and curious reading now. There was something in her that gave her enemies licence not just to argue with her, but to insult her in the most childish terms; her vulgarity, her voice, her clothes, her regal manner were ripped apart, as if by dismissing her taste for gold buttons and shoulder pads you could dismiss the idea of monetarism.

Of course, it was because she was a woman, and lower middle class in origins, awakening the misogyny and snobbery that are never far away in English public discourse. The brutal gibes she seemed to licence as soon as she opened her mouth were not very admirable, and usually not much to the point, but they bear witness to the fact that she was really not much like other politicians. Perhaps a reason she survived so long was that it was impossible to imagine who, or what, could take her place.

I have two very vivid memories of her last days in power; one, which I only saw on TV, was of her darting around picking up litter in St James's Park for a photo-opportunity. And one thought: my God, is there nothing she doesn't have her beady eye on, right down to discarded crisp packets? She was, frankly, omniscient as God, or as the all-seeing narrator of the realist novel and, a few years later, I made her one and let her tell the story of my second novel, Kitchen Venom.

The other one I did see, and it was something I'll never forget; her speech in the House of Commons when it was all over, and she was defending her whole record. She was never said to be much of an orator, but it was a performance of extraordinary power. The moment I clearly remember was a Tory backbencher uncontrollably yelping: "You can wipe the floor with these people." She did not really acknowledge it, but you could see that, just then, she was perfectly assured of the fact. And for a moment, despite yourself, you stopped thinking and helplessly found yourself believing it too.

p.hensher@independent.co.uk