'Antonia is too old to go to Chequers,' said my mother. I was bitterly disappointed. ‘You mean she can't rule the country at the age of 13?' said my father, making it clear this was a good joke.
It was Christmas 1945 and the Labour Party had been elected in the summer. Although Frank Pakenham - as he then was, before he became Lord Longford -had failed to be elected for Oxford, most of his friends now filled the government benches.
The question was over the children's party at Chequers. I was keenly looking forward to it- or rather, I had been until the annoying news came that children in their teens were not admitted.
'Laborare est orare,' I muttered to myself-my personal motto, although I was never quite sure what it meant. ‘To work is to pray.’
At this point, I had the brilliant idea of offering to act as nanny to my younger brothers and sisters.
My mother, expecting her seventh child, was only too delighted. All that remained was to tidy up my uniform, from Godolphin School, Salisbury, and set forth for Chequers, with my charges in a large bus, muttering the while, 'Laborare...'
The first disappointment was the nature of the people actually at the Chequers party. It took place in a large hall centred round a large fireplace. There was no one there at all whom I recognised from my eager public reading of the Daily Herald, and my secret reading of the Daily Mirror. Oh, except Mr Gaitskell, of course, my parents' best friend.
But the party itself was happily rowdy - until the dramatic moment when the word was passed round: ‘Father Christmas is coming!'
There was a sudden hush. All attention seemed focused on the chimneypiece. There was a bustle and á rush. Down the wide chimney came... to my horror, a Japanese man in a red Father Christmas coat and the rest of his kit! He was backed up by some kind of pram to support him within the limits of the hearth.
‘A Jap,' I squawked to my neighbour, who seemed a genuinely motherly woman. We weren't allowed to use the word 'Jap', now the war was over-but of course everyone did, especially in a dramatic situation like this.
‘What do you mean?’ she hissed. And then the shock came. ‘That's Mr Attlee.’
After that, the drama went on-for me, that is. I was rushed away from the hall, either for using the wicked wartime word 'Jap', or for failing to recognise our new Prime Minister-or for both.
I was then fed like a little horse and ushered into another room, where a lively gramophone was self-conducting the dancing. Every now and then, I peeked over my shoulder to see how Mr Attlee was getting on. Frequent glances showed me of course that he was in no way a 'Jap'.
It was really the effect of wartime that had persuaded me that a small, dignified man with almond-shaped eyes was in reality Japanese.
My second impression of Mr Attlee in his pram and his red robe was of some kind emperor-even if the inhabitants of his empire were not very tall.
The next time I saw him was at a 10 Downing Street party. Because I was at school with the Prime Minister's daughter, Alison Attlee, a teenager like me, I was invited. This proved to be a real party, with a little band and dancing. Better still, a real partner was provided for me-a tall, fair-haired young man who lectured me at some length about the spiritual beauty of the Labour Party.
I shall never know how his story ended, because after about ten minutes we were interrupted quite sharply by a very pretty American girl. ‘Tony Benn!’ It was a command.
My partner gazed at her with glowing eyes. ‘Yes, Caroline.’ And together they wandered off in the direction of Father Christmas.
'Good party members!’ said the man standing next to me, before grabbing my hand and whirling me away in a dance. Over his shoulder, I could see the man called Tony Benn gazing lovingly into his partner's eyes.
‘That's Anthony Wedgwood Benn,’ explained my new friend. ‘One of the hopes of the postwar Labour Party. He's going to do something about the House of Lords.’ I remember thinking that a Labour lord would be a nice combination, particularly one who was rather rich. A darkly handsome lord called Victor tickled my fancy-but my best friend Lucy scoffed at the idea.
‘That's Lord Rothschild,' she said. ‘Quite out of your class.’
Rebuffed, I decided to turn my mind to the policies of Mr Attlee, the Socialist Father Christmas. And you could certainly say I was right to admire them, beginning with the National Health Service.
The memory of that dance at 10 Downing Street stayed with me. As the Labour years passed, I began to wonder sort of Father Christmas Tony Benn would make.
