Changing My Mind Read online

  Even today, I have a strong sense of personal space. I remember one time not long ago at a small northern Ontario airport where I had been picked out at random by security for a pat-down. I stayed perfectly still for this procedure, my hands outstretched, but I found it so invasive that the tears were streaming down my face.

  The woman in uniform was a nice person, and she asked me, “Are you all right?”

  I told her to continue, but then I said, “I find this surprisingly invasive. Usually the only people who get to touch me are those who love me.” I just reacted with a Big Brother shudder to this laying on of hands in the name of security.

  The other person who showed me great kindness when we sat beside each other at state dinners was Bora Laskin, who served on the Supreme Court for fourteen years, ten of them as chief justice. Because of protocol, at every dinner across the street at Government House—or Rideau Hall, as some call it—I knew exactly where I’d be sitting. On my right would be the wife of the governor general, and on my left would be the chief justice or the dean of the diplomatic corps, representing all the diplomats. The latter was a little man from Haiti; he had been there so long I think he’d been forgotten. He also spoke no English, and I spoke little French.

  That left Bora, who was such a beautiful man. I loved him and his wife, Peggy, and their darling daughter, Barb. We all became very good friends. Bora was so educated, such a mentor to me and such an amazing conversationalist, and he really taught me how the parliamentary system works. I had read about all this in books, but he taught me the nuts and bolts at the very moment that Pierre was pushing the Just Society. Pierre respected Bora’s deep intelligence—and his humanity. He was another father figure in my life, and I was very sad when he died in 1984.

  Given my discomfort with formality, how ironic that some of my best times with Pierre were on formal, official visits. We had more time together, and were able to laugh and also to work as a team, something I was longing to do. Right after we got married, we were invited by Premier Alexei Kosygin to the Soviet Union. At university, I had been immersed in Marx, Lenin and Engels, and I was now fascinated by the thought of observing communism in action. And though the fascination quickly turned to dismay at the sight of Russians I observed on the streets, who looked for the most part pinched and unhappy, the visit provided many delightful moments.

  Soon after midnight on a cold May evening, we flew out of Ottawa on a Canadian Armed Forces Boeing 707 for Moscow. This first state visit to the USSR by a Canadian prime minister in office had been widely billed as “a sparkling foray into international diplomacy.” In the plane with us were eighteen aides and civil servants, three members of parliament and forty members of the press. We landed to a Soviet honour guard band playing “O Canada.” For the next twelve days we made a kind of royal progress—Samarkand one day, Norilsk the next—on a roller coaster of eighteen-hour days. Trudeaumania seemed to have followed us to the Soviet Union: in Norilsk, half the population appeared to be on the streets, standing ten deep along the roads as we swept by in our motorcade.

  On one of our first nights, we were taken to see the Bolshoi perform Swan Lake. The theatre itself was an extraordinary edifice of gilt and grandeur, though nothing to the feast that followed. Between acts we were shepherded into a dining room with more exquisite and priceless plate, crystal and silver than I had ever seen in my life, with gold dishes, goblets and chandeliers, all sparkling and taken from the collection of the czars. More extraordinary, the ending of the ballet had been altered. The swan did not die.

  I asked the unsmiling minister of culture why Tchaikovsky’s ballet had been changed. “In Russia,” she replied, “our people suffer enough. They do not need to see more suffering when they come to the ballet.”

  Next day, we went to see some of the Soviet Union’s collection of Impressionists, but not for very long. We were rushed past the Matisses and the Renoirs to get to the point of the visit: the “real” art—renderings of sturdy Soviet peasant women working in the fields.

  I had never, in all my dreams, imagined such a trip. Whenever we left our palace, the roads were cleared for our cortège. I was both overwhelmed and appalled by the pressure, and Pierre was wonderful, letting me sound off, but only in the bathroom, with the water running, since we had discovered that our every word was monitored. We had checked this out soon after we arrived.

  Shutting the bedroom door behind us, I had said loudly and emphatically, “Oh Pierre, what wouldn’t I give for an ORANGE! My kingdom for an orange, a fresh orange.” Five minutes later there was a knock at the door. Outside stood a waiter, holding a tray; on it sat a banana, an apple, and in the middle, occupying pride of place, an orange. Not a word was said.

  What I found most trying were the banquets—and this for a happy reason. Not long before leaving Ottawa we had been at a ball given by the Micheners. Halfway through the evening, the head of the household, Colonel McKinnon, had asked me to dance. He was a wonderful ballroom dancer and we whirled around the room until suddenly I found myself overwhelmed by nausea. A few weeks later, on holiday in the Caribbean, the same queasiness returned. The day my pregnancy was confirmed there was no happier woman in Canada. I’ve done it! I thought. I have really done it. The doctor, working out my dates on his calendar, looked up and said, laughing, “Your baby is due on Christmas Day.” Overnight, none of the things that had been upsetting me seemed to matter anymore. Hormones—mother love—to the rescue.

  My pregnancy, however, made the state visit to Russia difficult. When faced with mountains of stodgy food, I felt ill, and I couldn’t face a drop of alcohol. The only person who knew that I was pregnant was Mr. Kosygin’s daughter, Lyudmila Gvishiani, a gentle, tactful woman of whom I grew very fond. I begged her to keep my pregnancy a secret, for we had decided that if the baby was announced too early the Canadian people would have a long wait. Lyudmila was kind and considerate, and she found a marvellous way of stopping my morning sickness—by carrying a lemon in her bag and giving me slices to suck in the car between our official visits. The day that I was presented with a great Russian speciality to eat—horse—was nearly the end of me.

  Because of my pregnancy, Pierre was touchingly protective of me, and the press had been asked to respect my privacy and not crowd round me, though they were not given the reason for this. This led to some resentment, with reporters noting that I was permanently surrounded by “at least half a dozen Russian and Canadian women,” most of them “twice my age and thrice my girth.” A pity, some reporters remarked, that I didn’t mingle more, because they had all been prepared to “embrace” me with something like “fervour.” They believed me to be “as unharried by internal turmoil as the bride on a baby-oil ad.” Little did they know.

  I did try hard to be appreciative and pleasant. I made friends with Premier Kosygin, whom I found to be gentle, considerate and graceful. Obviously a family man, he talked to me for hours on end, in English, about his children and grandchildren, and I was struck by the twinkle in his eyes and by his well-tailored clothes. Leonid Brezhnev, on the other hand, reminded me of faceless civil servants and politicians you see the world over, intent on giving nothing away. The Soviet leader gave the impression of being a hard, rigid, brusque man, like a great sleek and somewhat menacing bear. Neither of us could think of anything beyond banalities to say to each other. (Some years later, Mstislav Rostropovich—the eminent Russian cellist and staunch humans rights advocate, who was a good friend of Pierre’s—whispered to me during the interval at a concert, “I luff your husband. I luff Willy Brandt. Brezhnev is a shit.”)

  When we got married, Pierre had promised me a visit to Newfoundland—part work, part pleasure—and I was delighted when, not long after the trip to Russia, we embarked on a naval icebreaker at Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. I took with me a sack of licorice, having developed an insatiable craving for it. Though not exactly luxurious, the captain’s cabin was set aside for us and we were very happy. Unfortunately, much of the coast was shroud
ed in fog and many Newfoundlanders were disappointed that our boat was often unable to get into the small outports where celebrations were waiting for us.

  What we had not reckoned on was the extremely protocol-conscious nature of the French governor of Saint Pierre and Miquelon in the North Atlantic Ocean south of Newfoundland. I had imagined a very informal visit, so I was wearing a cotton shirt and a loose peasant skirt that I had made myself. When we docked, I saw to my horror that the governor’s wife was in a Chanel suit with hat and white gloves. We were ushered into a vast, gleaming open limousine to head a motorcade on a tour of the main island. There was just one other problem: once more the shore was hidden by fog. Our host kept describing, without the shadow of a smile, the splendid coastline, beautiful bays and famous rocks. Pierre and I, trying to keep a straight face, peered through the whiteness and admired all that we couldn’t see. On occasions like this, with Pierre by my side holding my hand, I felt I could handle anything.

  The summer of 1971 was a happy one for me. I forgot my sense of isolation and loneliness. I felt wonderful when I was pregnant; I wasn’t alone and suddenly I had a sense of purpose in my life. Being so happy was almost unreal.

  I helped renovate 24 Sussex, which was badly run down and furnished in many shades of grey. Though the decorator hired paid very little attention to my suggestions, I did get to create a beautiful sewing room on the top floor, where I would spend hours making clothes. The room had sloping ceilings, four large windows and stunning views over the garden to the river.

  Though the decorator preferred beige and brown, I was able to insist on yellow silk for the walls of the master bedroom. It was hard work battling this woman, who was actually not a designer at all but an architect and was very condescending to me. Still, I had the greatest fun. Within months, I could see the house turning into a place I actually wanted to occupy. The living room we painted in soft neutral colours, with thick beige pile carpets, modern sofas and Georgian furniture. We papered the dining room in a Fortuny print, an orange-red Italian cloth, in order to highlight the splendid moulded ceiling, and we borrowed paintings, which we changed every so often, from the National Gallery. I loved the days when I would be taken into the bowels of the art gallery to select great Canadian paintings with the curators. I learned a lot about our art history.

  I also turned my attention to the gardens at 24 Sussex, which were attended to by a small army of employees of the National Capital Commission, whose responsibility the gardens were. In their heavy aprons and garden gloves, they would lay out row upon row of tulips—the same size and shape and colour. When the tulips grew tired, the beds would all be stripped and replanted with something else, maybe impatiens—and they, too, were uniform in the same way. You would think the military had taken up gardening.

  I convinced the wary staff to inject some randomness and spontaneity into the mix. To one side, a place that got full sun, I created an English garden—the kind I had been used to growing up on the west coast of Canada. I had staff plant lupins, dahlias, delphiniums, daisies, roses, foxgloves and snapdragons.

  Meanwhile, Pierre had given me a puppy, and I spent the months of my pregnancy walking for miles as exercise.

  After the first months of morning sickness, I felt wonderful. I didn’t smoke, I didn’t drink and I refused even an aspirin. I converted one of the guest rooms on the second floor at 24 Sussex into a nursery, painting it a robin’s-egg blue—homage to my grandmother’s house, I now see—and installing an antique rocking chair and table and a patchwork quilt. I also had a plain crib carved and upholstered.

  Husbands were not allowed to be present at the birth in those days at the Ottawa Civic Hospital. When I learned of this fact, five months into the pregnancy, I was outraged. There was no way Pierre was not going to be there for the birth of his firstborn child. I protested and threatened to have the baby at home. Finally, my doctor sought special permission from the hospital’s board of directors, who promptly changed the rules for all fathers-to-be.

  Pierre seemed as happy as I was and we spent many idle, contented hours dreaming about our future as parents. Though everyone laughed at me, I knew for certain that the baby would arrive, as forecast, on Christmas Day. Pierre and I worked it all out: we would go to midnight mass on December 24, sleep in on Christmas morning, open our presents, have lunch, then go and have the baby. And so it turned out. We had breakfast and called the doctor. He told us to go for a walk with the puppy, and when the contractions began to come fast we went to the hospital. Justin’s arrival was as uncomplicated as the nine months he had spent inside me.

  We gave the baby Pierre as a second name and then James, after my father. Justin was an enchanting child, loving and very bright. He could not have been given a warmer welcome. The people of Canada seemed to rejoice as much as we did over the birth, the first to a serving Canadian prime minister in 102 years. There were announcements on television, telegrams and phone calls, and thousands of letters of congratulation. My collection of hand-knitted sweaters, bonnets, bibs and booties was soon crowding me out of my room. And as soon as it was known that I was breastfeeding Justin, thousands more letters poured in congratulating me for my decision.

  We settled into a happy routine. When I felt that the moment had come to wean Justin, I asked one of our staff, Diane Lavergne, a young, good-tempered country girl who had come to us as a maid, to help me with the baby. She adored Justin and would later help me with all the children.

  And there were soon more foreign visits and more formal encounters. In June 1973, Indira Gandhi came to Canada on a state visit, and I began to feel that I was growing more efficient at hosting these elaborate, lengthy meals. Mrs. Gandhi and her entourage were staying with the governor general, just across the road from 24 Sussex. I worked really hard to make the official dinner delicious and enjoyable.

  Then, not long afterwards, in August, just as our redecoration of 24 Sussex was completed, the queen and Prince Philip arrived, though their visit provided me with a spectacle of celebrity that I did not much care for. I was excited about the visit, as my grandmother had been a passionate monarchist who owned countless books about the royal family.

  As part of the royal visit, a stroll through the city had been planned, with the queen and Pierre conversing with crowds on one side while Philip and I walked along the other, the four of us swapping sides from time to time. I have great compassion and admiration for Prince Philip. My hat has always been off to him. Ever the bridesmaid, never the bride, he has his job to do and he does it well. I could never have done it.

  Pierre, who as a fervent French Canadian might have been expected not to feel very welcoming towards a British queen, quite admired her. They spoke French together, and he appreciated her intelligence and the way that she, like him, did her homework well.

  Because Harrington Lake—the one place where we really got away as a family—was becoming so important for my peace of mind, I felt even more strongly than I did at 24 Sussex about preserving its privacy and intimacy. No one, but no one, was going to be allowed to ruin it for me.

  One day, I got a call from the man in charge of keeping up the property. Pierre and I were about to go away for a few weeks, and I was informed that the decision had been taken to modernize the house. As the man put it, the plan was to replace “all this hideous old clapboarding and put on a nice modern smooth facade.” I was outraged.

  “Over my dead body,” I yelled. He was soon back. How about replacing the old wooden window frames with aluminum ones? Again, I refused. Then came a really comic battle, which became something of a cause célèbre in Ottawa.

  We were up at the lake one day, and I was baking bread in the kitchen when I heard what sounded like the noise of an invading army. I hurried to the window. Down by the lake was a group of men with an enormous machine pumping out insecticide. I dropped the dough and, without pausing to wash my hands, rushed from the house and down the hill, brandishing the rolling pin.

  “Stop it!” I sho
uted as I ran. “Go away.” The men looked at me and their mouths dropped open. The foreman ordered the machine to be switched off. I begged, cajoled, threatened. They scowled and muttered. Finally, seeing that I had no intention of backing off, that I would rather lie in the mud and have the insecticide truck run over me, they went away. I was convinced that the insecticides they were using might hurt my baby and damage the ecological balance of the beautiful forest. They were more interested in keeping mosquitoes from eating us alive.

  And the day came when I rebelled against the excessive security, the time-consuming requirement of calling down for someone to accompany me each time I wanted to leave the house and then having to wait while something was arranged. Childishly, I decided to fool the guards and slip out on my own—with Justin. One afternoon, I put Justin in his pram and left the house, passing the policemen as they were looking the other way, and set off down the road to visit my friend Nancy Pitfield a few blocks away. But I had been spotted, and when I got home Pierre was furious. He told me that I had to get two things immediately and absolutely straight: that if Justin or I were ever kidnapped, there would be no deal made to get us back; and that, as the prime minister’s wife and child, we were extremely vulnerable to terrorists. I was forbidden ever to do such a thing again.

  I was then informed that I had to take a course in self-protection. Pierre asked me to get a stuffed animal from the nursery, pretend it was Justin and walk along the road. At a given signal, I was to throw myself down by the curb, lying at a particular angle and cradling the baby in such a way that kidnappers would find it extremely hard to pick us up, while at the same time screaming for help at the top of my voice.