Could it be we took Mrs. Thatcher for granted? That’s the fate of many a good woman, particularly at the hands of men, as I’m reminded again, writing on Mother’s Day. But there’s no denying it. Search as we did on her death for a cover story the Spectator might have run of her, we came up with nothing. Disgracefully sad but true. During her prime we did run cover portraits of such distinguished of her compatriots as Orwell, Churchill, the Queen, even Michael Foot, not to mention President Reagan and Pope John Paul II. But never Margaret Thatcher.
Not until now, now that she belongs to God (p. 44) and to History (p. 20), newly appreciated and revered everywhere except perhaps in diehard Argentina (p. 24). No doubt she would enjoy and wave off what an erudite, poetic friend just told me, calling her “the greatest of the queens of Britain, an Elizabeth the First, a Victoria, or going back in time…she was Boudica, resisting the Roman invasion, she was the Faerie Queene, she was the soul and heart of England”—and he was just warming up.