OPINION: There can be worthy reasons for the withholding of truths in political memoirs, writes CHARLES LYSAGHT
TONY BLAIR is a slick, smiling person with loads of self-confidence, a way of getting around people, some vision and, I believe, a substructure of idealism and spirituality. He is a totally modern man, a slave to exigencies of PR and political correctness. He has no time for tradition or old-fashioned virtues. Loyalty is one of these.
My only friend in his government was his lord chancellor, Derry Irvine, a barrister who had chosen Blair over his wife Cherie to join his prestigious chambers. He thought Blair was totally ruthless. Irvine was one of the intellectual giants of New Labour and in office was responsible for the Freedom of Information Act and the Human Rights Act. “You will be lord chancellor as long as I am prime minister,” Blair told him months before sacking him without warning.
So it does not surprise me that Blair should write memoirs rubbishing Gordon Brown, his finance minister who, whatever his failings, delivered the economic performance that underpinned his governments long survival. It obviously does not trouble Blair that Brown may be feeling raw, having lost the general election and the party leadership. All rather disloyal.
I find few, if any, human qualities more moving than loyalty. It is the cement of all institutions from the family outwards. But it is moot who deserves a person’s loyalty. In public affairs and indeed elsewhere, loyalty may have a malign effect, spawning favouritism and cover-ups productive of injustice.
The historian in me is hungry for all the facts and assessments that can be provided. The democrat in me excites a sense of entitlement to be fully informed on the doings of those who govern us.
In Britain, Winston Churchill gave the lead in prime ministerial memoirs with his six-volume history of the second World War. An earlier memoir of his dealing with the first World War period was entitled The World Crisis. Arthur Balfour described it as "Winston's brilliant autobiography disguised as a history of the universe".
For the unbelieving Churchill, his historical reputation was his hope of immortality. He assembled a team of assistants for this task, fashioned their research and mined his own memories to produce the version most favourable to himself. He embellished the result with his own magical prose.
Churchill did not descend to denigrating those who had served him. If they had a complaint, it was that they were little mentioned. In his self-centred way, he kept himself centre stage and claimed the lion’s share of the credit for himself. His memoirs spawned a thriving industry of associates and historians attempting to set the record straight.
All subsequent British prime ministers have followed Churchill’s example in writing memoirs with the assistance of teams of research assistants. The financial pickings have been good but the results generally turgid and full of self-justification. But with the exception of Edward Heath on Margaret Thatcher and the aforesaid lady on Michael Heseltine, there has been little denigration of those who have served them.
Of our own heads of government, the Cosgraves, John Costello and Jack Lynch, all famously loyal and unvain men, kept their counsel and left no memoirs. Lemass was too focused on the future to spend time on the past. De Valera’s memoirs were dressed up as an objective biography written by a pair of devoted admirers.
In his memoirs, Garret FitzGerald emulated Churchill in keeping himself centre-stage. If some who served him may have felt their contribution was not fully recognised, there was no nastiness – even Charlie Haughey was treated quite kindly.
We can be grateful for what memoirs tell us while recognising that there are worthy as well as unworthy reasons why they may not tell the full truth.
Charles Lysaght's books include Brendan Brackenand Great Irish Lives