Poor old Widders. I liked her tremendously. In many ways, like all of us, a mass of contradictions. She was kind, principled and sometimes a bit shrieky towards the end. She had that natural gift that so many politicians try to fake and fail miserably; humanity. When Harvey Proctor, not always the most attractive of politicians, was falsely accused of obscene crimes and was reviled, depressed and lonely, she gave him support and stuck with him until he was vindicated. So much for her being a homophobe.
She was both courageous and Christian. And Christianity was the rock upon which she built her life. She was brought into the Catholic church by my old friend Father Michael Seed. He also shepherded Tony Blair to the Church of Rome and used to say mass at Number 10. He once told me that he only had one demand, that the water and the wine before consecration must not be placed on personalised George W Bush coasters. A chastened Prime Minister obliged.
She was even offered the Ambassadorship at the Vatican, but turned it down because it was so badly paid and that she would lose her Daily Express column and appear on Strictly.
Widders was elected four years after me in 1987. In those days women MPs were formidable, not the milk sop variety that infests so many of the green benches today. They had to be formidable because the Commons was a stale, pale, male club. These women were forces of nature. Edwina Currie, Jill Knight, Elaine Kellett Bowman, Harriet Harman & Gwyneth Dunwoody to name but a few, rightly terrorised those men who made the mistake of underestimating or patronising them. Nicky Fairburn, characteristically pissed at 8:30 am on budget day, spotted Elaine snoring in her sleeping bag outside the locked door to the chamber so she could get a prime seat, shuddered, “comotose. The safest way to see her”. And one day I made the grave error of taking the piss out of Gwyneth Dunwoody who smiled sweetly as she kneed me in the groin. I never made that mistake again.
But still these women, including Margaret Thatcher, had battled their way into Parliament against the odds only to face personal attacks by the old order. Widders was unfairly dubbed Doris Karloff and after her description of Michael Howard as something of the night about him, some wit observed that there was something of the “Fright”about her. She didn’t give a damn.
And she had an acute sense of humour. Once I was walking with a chum towards the MPs’ taxi rank. I was particularly cross with Michael Portillo who was plotting against my friend John Major, whilst pretending to be loyal. Our conversation ended with me raging, “that fucking cunt Portillo”. I then noticed that standing within earshot was Widders, all five foot one of her. “Ann, I’m so sorry”, I squirmed. “Jerry, the only word I objected to was Portillo”.
The police have made it absolutely clear that there appears to be no political motivation behind this wicked crime. It is obscene that she is being used as a political football by both left and right, particularly as the she would have hated it.
What she should be remembered for is not her horrific murder, but for being principled, feisty and fun. She will be missed by all of us.