My grandfather was a classic pater familias – tough, strong, very loving. He came to the UK aged 16 from Poland. He presided over Sabbath dinners and would say to me, aged six, "Now, Edveena, vot do you think?" He worked until he was 84, and died soon after. My work ethic comes from him. My father was a tailor, making uniforms for sea captains. He was a very cultured man: he sang opera in the bath, saw every play at the rep theatre and quoted Shakespeare at me. This is a cultural pattern that has vanished. He left school at 14 and had an unfeigned, unselfconscious love of culture. He gave me that.
Can you see a theme? It is the men that are my powerful influences, not my mother. I have always worshipped men: first my grandfather, then my father. In a curious way, I am not a feminist. I have never believed that the "failings" of women are due to men.
I have one brother. Boys are favoured in orthodox Jewish families, and I resented it. After Mum died in 2004, my brother and I, out of duty, had lunch together. For the first time, I said to him, "You were always favoured because you were a boy" and he said, "No, you were favoured because you were the oldest." We realised we didn't know each other at all. So we decided to start again, and now we regularly meet for lunch – just the two of us.
I wasn't able to build any relationship with my mother until I was in my 50s and she in her 80s. Early on she was a negative influence – I didn't want to be a homemaker. Not until she had been long a widow and independent did she become an interesting, funny, clever person. Then we found ourselves saying, "Actually, I like you."
The lesson is that if you live long enough, your children will adore you – one hopes! Unfortunately, my father died too soon. After I married out of the faith [to Ray Currie in 1972] we never spoke again. My father believed in being religiously orthodox in public, but I know he used to go round to a friend's for bacon butties. And he was an atheist.
My parents didn't come to my wedding, nor did my brother (he was bullied). My mother showed a flash of independence by determining to keep in touch – and she loved her grandchildren. My dad would drive my mum to visit but stay in the car. I was equally stubborn and wouldn't go out to him. My mother would say, "You're your father's daughter." The sadness is that he died in 1975, before we could be reconciled. I think he'd have been proud of what I did later though.
I believe your children are always your children and I am totally in love with my two daughters. Debbie, 37, and Susie, 33 – both now married, much to my amazement. You can have it all, but it involves monumental organisation – and all my money went into childcare and school fees till they went to university. I don't regret not being around more. If I'd had to raise them myself full time, they wouldn't have made it to adulthood – they'd agree with that!
Now that I am semi-retired, I "do" family far more, and I love it. I'm a matriarch at the top of a growing pyramid. John and I between us have nine grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. I want them to do certain things, read books, go to choir practice. And not just to do – but to strive for excellence. We have both achieved something in much-maligned public service, and we hope the next generations will do even better.