The Assassination of Margaret Thatcher

The houses on the right-hand side of Trinity Place—I mean, on the right-hand side as you face out of town—have large gardens, each now shared between three or four tenants. In the early 1980s, England had not succumbed to the smell of burning. The carbonized reek of the weekend barbecue was unknown, except in the riverside gin palaces of Maidenhead and Bray. Our gardens, though immaculately kept, saw little footfall; there were no children in the street, just young couples who had yet to breed and older couples who might, at most, open a door to let an evening party spill out onto a terrace. Through warm afternoons the lawns baked unattended, and cats curled snoozing in the crumbling topsoil of stone urns. In autumn, leaf-heaps composted themselves on sunken patios, and were shoveled up by irritated owners of basement flats. The winter rains soaked the shrubberies, with no one there to see.

But in the summer of 1983 this genteel corner, bypassed by shoppers and tourists, found itself a focus of national interest. Behind the gardens of No. 20 and No. 21 stood the grounds of a private hospital, a graceful pale building occupying a corner site. Three days before her assassination, the prime minister entered this hospital for minor eye surgery. Since then, the area had been dislocated. Strangers jostled residents. Newspapermen and TV crews blocked the street and parked without permission in driveways. You would see them trundle up and down Spinner’s Walk trailing wires and lights, their gaze rolling toward the hospital gates on Clarence Road, their necks noosed by camera straps. Every few minutes they would coagulate in a mass of heaving combat jackets, as if to reassure each other that nothing was happening: but that it would happen, by and by. They waited, and while they waited they slurped orange juice from cartons and lager from cans; they ate, crumbs spilling down their fronts, soiled paper bags chucked into flowerbeds. The baker at the top of St. Leonard’s Road ran out of cheese rolls by 10 a.m. and everything else by noon. Windsorians clustered on Trinity Place, shopping bags wedged onto low walls. We speculated on why we had this honor, and when she might go away.

Windsor’s not what you think. It has an intelligentsia. Once you wind down from the castle to the bottom of Peascod Street, they are not all royalist lickspittles; and as you cross over the junction to St. Leonard’s Road, you might sniff out closet republicans. Still, it was cold comfort at the polls for the local socialists, and people murmured that it was a vote wasted; they had to show the strength of their feelings by tactical voting, and their spirit by attending outré events at the arts center. Recently remodeled from the fire station, it was a place where self-published poets found a platform, and sour white wine was dispensed from boxes; on Saturday mornings there were classes in self-assertion, yoga and picture framing.

But when Mrs. Thatcher came to visit, the dissidents took to the streets. They gathered in knots, inspecting the press corps and turning their shoulders to the hospital gates, where a row of precious parking bays were marked out and designated DOCTORS ONLY.

A woman said, “I have a PhD, and I’m often tempted to park there.” It was early, and her loaf was still warm from the baker; she snuggled it against her, like a pet. She said, “There are some strong opinions flying about.”

“Mine is a dagger,” I said, “and it’s flying straight to her heart.”

“Your sentiment,” she said admiringly, “is the strongest I’ve heard.”

“Well, I have to go in,” I said. “I’m expecting Mr. Duggan to mend my boiler.”

“On a Saturday? Duggan? You’re highly honored. Better scoot. If you miss him he’ll charge you. He’s a shark, that man. But what can you do?” She fished for a pen in the bottom of her bag. “I’ll give you my number.” She wrote it on my bare arm, as neither of us had paper. “Give me a ring. Do you ever go to the arts center? We can get together over a glass of wine.”

* * *

I WAS PUTTING my Perrier water in the fridge when the doorbell rang. I’d been thinking, we don’t know it now, but we’ll look back with fondness on the time Mrs. Thatcher was here: new friendships formed in the street, chitchat about plumbers whom we hold in common. On the entryphone there was the usual crackle, as if someone had set fire to the line. “Come up, Mr. Duggan,” I said. It was as well to be respectful to him.

I lived on the third floor, the stairs were steep and Duggan was ponderous. So I was surprised at how soon I heard the tap at the door. “Hello,” I said. “Did you manage to park your van?”

On the landing—or rather on the top step, as I was alone up there—stood a man in a cheap quilted jacket. My innocent thought was, here is Duggan’s son. “Boiler?” I said.

“Right,” he said.

He heaved himself in, with his boiler man’s bag. We were nose to nose in the box-sized hall. His jacket, more than adequate to the English summer, took up the space between us. I edged backward. “What’s up with it?” he said.

“It groans and bangs. I know it’s August, but—”

“No, you’re right, you’re right, you can never trust the weather. Rads hot?”

“In patches.”

“Air in your system,” he said. “While I’m waiting I’ll bleed it. Might as well. If you’ve got a key.”

It was then that a suspicion struck me. Waiting, he said. Waiting for what? “Are you a photographer?”

He didn’t answer. He was patting himself down, searching his pockets, frowning.

“I was expecting a plumber. You shouldn’t just walk in.”

“You opened the door.”