Free Speaking for Myself by Cherie Blair Page A

earned more money than a successful senior counsel. The chief clerk was named David. His formidable wife, Cassie, did the books — one of the few women you saw regularly around the building. There were about sixteen tenants in the chambers, of whom two were women, but their practice wasn’t deemed as good as the men’s because commercial solicitors (who made the big money) would never take them seriously.
    About three weeks into July, the Bar Finals results came out, and by nine o’clock in the morning, I was already at the Council of Legal Education in Gray’s Inn. People were several deep trying to find their names on the board, where they were listed alphabetically. I found “Blair, A.,” but no “Booth, C.”
    I was standing there feeling bewildered — could I really have failed completely? — when up came Charles Harpum, the chap who had told me that Tony Blair fancied me. Charles was a highflier who’d got the top First from Cambridge. He was not exactly a friend, but I used to dine with him quite regularly, and we would talk for hours on the law.
    “Well, Cherie, I must congratulate you,” he said, with an odd expression on his face.
    “It would be nice if I could just find my name,” I replied.
    “You don’t know?”
    “Know what?”
    “You’ve come top.”
    He grabbed my shoulder and propelled me toward the end board, where the top names had been put. And there it was, “Booth, C.,” the first name on the list. The blood, which had previously descended into the pit of my stomach, came surging up to my face. I could feel myself going bright red. Everyone had assumed it would be Harpum who’d finish on top: public school, Cambridge, and so on. And now, here I was, the grammar-school girl from Liverpool and the LSE.
    I ran all the way to Crown Office Row to tell Derry. Next thing he was crowing to everyone about how clever he was to have discovered this pupil who was so brilliant. Somehow or other it was his achievement. It wouldn’t be the last time that somebody else’s success would miraculously turn out to be Derry’s.
    Kudos are one thing, but for me there was a distinct practical advantage in coming top: I was the first recipient of the Ede & Ravenscroft Prize. Ede & Ravenscroft is where you get your wig and gown, and as these were essential items, I’d already had my head measured for my wig and been fitted for the gown, though I still had no idea how I was going to pay for them. Now I wouldn’t have to, because they would be free. In addition, I got a black and gold wig box, with my name printed in gold letters, which I certainly wouldn’t have bothered buying. Also included in the prize was a blue bag with a drawstring, with my initials embroidered in white, which was traditionally used for carrying robes (although in truth I have only ever used it for laundry).
    Our ceremony took place a few weeks later, and David came down with my mum and grandma. Because he was being called to the Bar at the same time, John was there as well. Knowing what the situation was, he kept well out of the way. I had invited my dad, but there was some crisis, not entirely unexpected, and he couldn’t come. In a way I was pleased; I didn’t want any unhappiness for my mum. It was all thanks to her that I had got this far.
    A week or so before the swearing in, I’d been asked to provide details as to how I’d be introduced. The form asked for my father’s name and occupation, but I crossed it out and wrote my mother’s name and occupation instead. I wasn’t going to have her stand there and hear me being called to the Bar as the daughter of Tony Booth, when she was the one who had made all the sacrifices. My father had done bugger all to get me to this point. The powers that be raised a few eyebrows, but I was insistent. So at the moment I was admitted, the voice intoned, “Cherie Booth, daughter of Gale Booth, travel agent.”
    Derry’s pupils soon learned the meaning of the term “devil”: it