Tony Benn the posh boy turned firebrand was my cup of tea

Tony Benn was a true hero of mine.

He made the strongest tea I have ever tasted.

Builder’s tea with the bag still in, in a thick pottery mug which he sat in a tiny space he had cleared on a table overflowing with books, ashtrays, pens and his pipes.

“Is that all right?” Tony Benn asked, peering over owlish spectacles.

Of course it was. Interviewing this man in his home was a delight.

It’s not very often as a journalist you have to pinch yourself and say: “Am I actually here with this person whose career I’ve followed over the years and watched on TV giving impassioned speeches about everything from the Poll Tax to nuclear weapons?

“Is this really happening?”

Tony Benn was an early hero of mine. He was intelligent and could deliver a rousing speech.

He fought for what he believed. He made waves in the stodgy Westminster world.

I met him at his London house which was hidden behind a garden overgrown with greenery.

We went to his study, an Aladdin’s cave of fascinating objects.

Photos of his American wife, Caroline, who had died of cancer, his four children and his grandchildren were everywhere.

Books lined the walls and were piled high on the floor. There was a globe, pairs of specs, paintings, newspapers and magazines.

He wore a shabby cardigan with leather buttons and darned patches. The room was infused with the woody smell of tobacco.

I brought a list of prepared questions and he answered each with thoughtfulness and wit.

The highs and lows of his career, the successes and the failures, were dealt with carefully and honestly, but when the interview was over the atmosphere became more personal.

We talked about family. His showed me photographs of his beloved Caroline slender and pretty, his arms wrapped protectively around her.

“I was so lucky to find her and even luckier to get her to marry me,” he said with a chuckle in his voice which still held traces of the “posh boy” he’d once been.

The firebrand conviction politician who’d given up his aristocratic title to enter the House of Commons.

He talked about their life together, their travels and the great joy of raising their children.

His pride in his kids and grandchildren, and his excitement about a granddaughter who was entering politics.

“Caroline was the greatest support,” he said.

“She understood what I was trying to do as a politician and she backed me all the way.”

Then he chuckled: “She didn’t always agree with the way I did things, of course but ours was a marriage of equals. Always.”

The dusty room was quiet and as we sat in silence, I saw his eyes fill with tears.

“My dear, you must forgive me for being an emotional old man,” he said with a charming smile.

It was a moment I’ll never forget. Like all heroes, he had failings, made some wrong decisions and had his regrets.

But his humanity and determination to fight for justice were stamped indelibly on everything he said and did.

I’m not sure what a conviction politician looks like any more. The leaders of our three political parties today seem much of a muchness to me.

Tony was his own man. And I will remember him as that.