Mary Wilson once asked if it might not be better to get a dummy, put a hat on its head and some flowers in its hands, and use it instead of her. That was a generation or more ago, when the wives of political leaders were little more than visual adornments, expected to stand in mute adoration at their man’s side while he talked about jobs and GDP.
Denis Thatcher provided more comedy copy than Harold Wilson’s poetry-writing wife, but did not change the unwritten rules of the game. Norma Major hated it so much she wanted to scream, but attended dutifully on the campaign trail, despite the digs about frozen grated cheese. Her quiet resilience earned her a following, and Tories in 1997 took to wearing “Re-Elect Norma’s Husband” badges.
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