God and Mrs Thatcher (4 page)

As a grocer, Roberts was especially sensitive (but not necessarily sympathetic) to the dangers of credit. His business was vulnerable if account holders did not settle up and thus eyeing up people's ability to pay was crucial. But, above all, it was his Methodist gut that told him that debt was wrong. Methodists tended to view credit as being just as corrupting and damaging as drink or gambling. ‘Before I ever read a page of Milton Friedman or Alan Walters,' Thatcher claimed in her memoirs, ‘I just knew … thrift was a virtue and profligacy a vice.'
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It is therefore not without irony that her government oversaw an unprecedented expansion in personal credit. In the inter-war years, as Margaret Thatcher admitted, to say that an individual ‘lived up to the hilt' was the worst possible insult.
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This was in part down to the rise in hire-purchase consumerism, which increased twenty-fold between 1918 and 1938 with 80 per cent of cars, 90 per cent of sewing machines and 95 per cent of pianos all bought on credit. An existence financed on the ‘never-never', rather than through hard work, which could literally be taken away as quickly as it was delivered, contravened what it meant it be part of the stable middle class. The key indication of middle-class status – home ownership – which even in 1939 included nearly 60 per cent of the middle classes, was of course the biggest gamble on the ‘never-never' of them all.

ALFRED ROBERTS MAY
have spent the majority of his time behind the counter but he defined himself in terms of his religion rather than his trade. Methodism was not a compartmentalised aspect of his life but a seven-day-a-week preoccupation, which underlined every thought, word and deed. The chapel was where he met his first (and indeed his second) wife, it was where he both received and bestowed spiritual instruction, and it would also act as the springboard for his entry into public life. For the Roberts family, their class, religion and politics were an indistinguishable set of allegiances headed by a man who was a leader in each sphere, as a shop owner, lay-preacher and town councillor.

‘Our lives revolved around Methodism,' so said Margaret Thatcher.
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Even by inter-war standards, her religious upbringing would have been considered austere; viewed through the lens of today's post-Christian Britain it seems positively archaic. The family would say grace before and after every meal and her parents were strict teetotallers – only keeping an old bottle of sherry in the house for guests. ‘For us, it was rather a sin to enjoy yourself by entertainment … Life was not to enjoy ourselves. Life was to work and do things,' Margaret Thatcher later pondered, evoking a childhood frustration for what must have been a stifling upbringing.
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To the contemporary reader, the classifications of Baptist, Presbyterian, Congregationalist and Methodist may seem a little blurred or inconsequential, but in inter-war Britain, distinct denominational identities still mattered. Since its advent in the eighteenth century, Methodism had made the impressive leap from breakaway sect to a prominent place in the mainstream of British life. Founder John Wesley was Lincolnshire-born – in Epworth about fifty miles from Grantham – but it was while at Oxford that he had established his Holy Club. Wesley's group soon became known as ‘Methodists', a derogatory name given because of their orderly and pious approach to life. But
like most labels that begin as an insult, it stuck. Wesley's aim was to create a Bible-based ‘new model army of saints' as an antidote to what he considered to be the self-serving and unholy preoccupations of the Established Church. Wesley, however, never saw himself as a Nonconformist but always considered himself a member of the Church of England.

Methodism had started life as an evangelical revival society, but officially broke away from Anglicanism following the Plan of Pacification in 1795 and soon emerged as a substantive force in its own right. Missionaries were sent out to spread the Word, first to colonial America (where Wesley himself preached), then to other parts of the British Empire, and Methodism soon became one of the leading forms of Christianity in the colonies. Like all Reformist sects, it was defined by its missionary zeal and prioritisation of Scripture over tradition and reason. ‘Methodism was born in a revival' and the ‘evangelistic spirit is the breath by which it lives' affirmed the Wesleyan Conference in 1912. It differed, however, from Calvinism and Presbyterianism, in its rejection of predestination (the idea of a division between elect and non-elect) and upheld the concept of free will bestowed by God's universal grace. It thus centred on man's individual relationship with the Almighty, which was made explicit through Covenant services in which worshippers would publicly reaffirm their faith. Other identifiable features were its communal expression through congregational singing (most notably through the hymns of John's brother, Charles Wesley) and the precedence of the sermon over the sacraments. Even so, Methodism was always closely aligned with the Church of England, modelling its worship on the Book of Common Prayer. For this reason, its distance from Anglicanism was always more cultural than theological.
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Like other Nonconformist sects, Methodism was devoid of land and patronage, thus its growth was largely dependent on its laity and communities. As the ecclesiastical historian Adrian Hastings has made clear, initiative and liberty were woven into its culture: ‘[Nonconformity]
stood for a freedom seen theologically and evangelically, but they expressed it at every turn as a sociological and political freedom too.'
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Methodism may have had a nominally centralised structure with its yearly gathering of ministers, but it was not hierarchical (in that there were no bishops) and therefore its growth relied on the local chapels and circuits led by ministers and aided by lay-preachers. A lack of hierarchy meant that the laity played their part, but it also made orthodoxy hard to enforce.

From its earliest beginnings, Methodism had always been an uncomfortable agglomeration of disparate groups, but by the 1850s it had split into two identifiable strands (in addition to other splinter groups). Primitive Methodism was strong in Cornwall, Wales, the Potteries, Yorkshire and the coalfields of Durham and Northumberland, while Wesleyan Methodism was the dominant strand amongst the lower-middle-class communities of Lincolnshire, Bristol and the central halls of the northern towns of Manchester, Sheffield and Leeds. Whereas Primitive Methodists were ‘low church', Wesleyan Methodists tended to be ‘higher' in both their practices and composition. Socially conservative and the most conformist of all Nonconformists, Wesleyan Methodists tended to take a somewhat disparaging and snobbish view of their more radical Primitive counterparts. Needless to say, it is significant that the Robertses were Methodists and not Anglicans or Quakers, but it is equally important that they were from the Wesleyan rather than the Primitive branch of Methodism.

The changing of labels, from ‘Dissenters' to ‘Nonconformists', and, at the turn of the century, ‘Free Churches', was an indication of growing acceptance and legitimacy. The building of Westminster Central Hall in 1912, directly facing both Westminster Abbey and Parliament, was a symbol of Methodism's specific achievement and the fact that it was no longer seen as the rebellious cousin of the Established Church. Paradoxically, just at the point of acceptance, Methodism began to decline, although in the 1930s there were still approximately 860,000
Methodists, of which just over half, 500,000, were Wesleyans. This evangelical flame would eventually be snuffed out in the 1960s; the inter-war years would prove to be its last flicker.

Scripture and individual salvation may have been at the heart of Methodism, but there was no denying its communitarian impulse. ‘Christianity is a social religion,' so said John Wesley, ‘to turn it into a solitary religion is to destroy it.' But the definition of what was meant by ‘a social religion' differed within the strands of Methodism and changed over time. Wesley himself had been a champion of the anti-slavery movement and prison reform. As these battles dissolved, so the next generation of Methodists channelled their energies into education, temperance, sabbatarianism and disestablishmentarianism, reflecting the distinct priorities of Methodism as well as the unifying Nonconformist battle against the privileges of the Established Church. By the 1920s, these issues had more or less dissipated (or become irrelevant) and Methodists, like all Christian denominations, embraced the new causes of the age, principally social reform and pacifism. The development of what became known as the ‘social gospel' within the Christian churches closely paralleled and contributed to the social democratic shift then taking place within British politics.

In 1932 the various branches came together under the Methodist Union. That this merger came at a time of declining membership was no accident; the hope was that it would revive the fortunes of Methodism. But the cause of religious unity, much like that of a political coalition, is often an indication of weakness rather than strength. The amalgamation of Primitive and Wesleyan chapels, with their differing practices, communities and associational cultures, was an awkward process for all involved. In Grantham, however, unification would not take place for another twelve years, in 1944, after Margaret Roberts had left for university. In this period, Grantham boasted three Methodist chapels as well as Baptist and Congregational congregations, a Roman Catholic church (directly opposite Roberts's shop) as well as the Anglican parish of St Wulfram's. Rivalry between the churches
was still evident, but at a time when the cinemas were beginning to attract a greater number of devotees than the church, ecumenicalism slowly became the order of the day. Civic and political culture was no longer arranged so tightly around denominational lines, especially as new clubs such as Rotary established themselves as non-denominational and open to all.

During the inter-war period, what was deemed respectable secular culture such as classical music concerts, sporting events and dances began to infiltrate chapel life. Handel, Haydn, Mendelssohn and Elgar had never been so popular and bridged the gap between sacred worship and secular entertainment in the same way that Christian rock would attempt to do thirty years later. Musical concerts at Finkin Street Church were the highlight of the Robertses' social calendar and were probably the only occasions when the chapel would be filled to capacity. These events proved a hit with a young Margaret Roberts who later confessed that ‘it was the musical side of Methodism which I liked best'.
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Such developments, however, represented piecemeal changes. Much like a suited man loosening his tie, inter-war Methodism may have been more relaxed but it was still restricted.

The temperance movement had been the great battle of the nineteenth century but by the inter-war years many had abandoned the cause. Teetotalism was no longer a condition of Methodist membership although it was still widely encouraged, especially at Finkin Street Church, which had its own temperance secretary well into the 1950s. Despite tight legal restrictions, betting achieved greater respectability in this period largely down to the popularity of American-imported greyhound racing, which the British embraced as something of their own. For Methodists, however, a flutter on the dogs, horses or football pools was tantamount to a false belief in luck over the will of God. In 1925 the Wesleyan Methodist conference banned the use of raffles or lotteries, judging that they debased the spirit of charity and appealed to man's selfish motive. Tellingly, speculation in the realm of finance
was also considered a morally reprehensible activity that capitalised on other people's loss without rendering commensurate Christian service: a judgement that seemed vindicated following the Wall Street Crash of 1929. By Margaret Thatcher's own admission, her father too viewed the financial dealings of the City of London as institutionalised gambling.
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That the Robertses' piety was out of step with changing times is best illustrated in Alfred Roberts's uncompromising stance on the preservation of the Sabbath, which as councillor he fought hard to maintain in Grantham. Dubbed by the local paper as the ‘most controversial and revolutionary subject' ever to be debated, in 1938 he passionately argued against a Labour proposal for the playing of games and amusements in the local parks on Sundays.
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In a debate that hinted at both the religious and class tensions in Grantham, Councillor Goodliff pointed out that as golf clubs were permitted to open on a Sunday and the public parks were not, the restrictions whiffed of one rule for the middle class and another for the working man. In a spiritual plea, Roberts responded that although ‘there was no such thing as compulsory Christianity' (pointed words from a Nonconformist), ‘there was such a thing as drifting into a life which was absolutely and totally devoid of any spiritual inspiration'. The proposal was rejected, it was said, largely due to Roberts's performance. The idea was raised once again by Labour councillors, in altogether different circumstances, during wartime in 1942 for the benefit of the munitions workers. Showing little sympathy for leisurely pursuits, Roberts remarked somewhat bitterly that he worked harder than any munitions worker and had enjoyed fewer days off since 1939. On this occasion, he reluctantly accepted defeat, although he coupled it with a warning that Sabbatarianism (and by implication Christianity) was losing its hold: ‘We are eating into our English Sunday as fast as we can.' He was later to be proved right.
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Roberts may have struggled to enforce the Sabbath in Grantham but he had more success within his own household. ‘Bach not bowls'
should define the day according to the guidelines of the Methodist
Christian Observance
of Sundays,
published in 1939, which in the Robertses' home meant that board games, sewing and even newspapers were forbidden.
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The family would attend chapel both morning and evening services, while the daughters would also twice attend Sunday school. Margaret had the additional role as pianist for the younger children until she was relieved of her duties when she went to university. For the Robertses, the chapel was a social centre as much as it was a place of worship. On Fridays the two sisters would attend the Methodist Youth Guild, Tuesdays evenings were set aside for the ladies' sewing club, while Alfred and Beatrice also had their separate weekly prayer meetings. Speaking in 1993, Margaret Thatcher admitted that she frequently tried to get out of going to chapel: ‘I think it was a little bit too much. I was the only person at school who went to church quite as often. It would have been a little bit better to have a little bit less.'
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