Frankly, p.41
Frankly, page 41
At that point, a depth of resilience I didn’t know I had kicked in. The day before attending at the police station, I sat and passed the theory section of my driving test. My first instinct had been to cancel, but, in deciding not to, I did what has helped pull me through ever since. I willed myself to keep going. Indeed, getting my driving licence a few months later is the most concrete illustration of my dogged determination to carry on living my life. Of all the many extraordinary things I’ve done over the years, passing my driving test has to be one of my proudest achievements, and not just because I did it at age fifty-three. The circumstances I did it in bordered on surreal. My early lessons took place with the media still outside my house. My brilliant instructor, Andy MacFarlane, was unflappable. He would arrive to pick me up in the full glare of media scrutiny. There were days I didn’t think I had the strength to do it, but, each time, I would physically and mentally steel myself to open my front door, get into the car and drive away, with the cameras recording my every move.
Sunday, 11 June was the worst day of my life. Being arrested and questioned by the police is an experience I’m not sure I will ever really get over. When I eventually left the police station, late that afternoon, I was in a bad state mentally. I went to a friend’s house in the north-east of Scotland and stayed for a week. It was during a heatwave, some of the nicest weather we’d had for years, and yet I was stuck inside, terrified that the media would find me. I badly needed peace and quiet, time to piece myself back together. I read a lot and started to write this book. I also spent hours sitting by a window, looking out across the North Sea. At first, I wanted to somehow disappear into its vastness. Slowly but surely, though, the sea calmed me. As I watched the tide go in and out, regular and steady, I thought about the people who might have sat there a century ago, watching the same tides, feeling that they too had the weight of the world on their shoulders, and of those who would do so again, decades from now. It gave me some perspective.
When I eventually returned home, a new normality kicked in. It was obviously impossible to put it all out of my mind. It was always there, but I carried on with life as best I could. However, I always carried a sense of dread and anxiety about what might lie ahead. For almost a year, aside from stories about the ongoing investigation appearing regularly in the media (sourced from where, I don’t know), nothing happened. And then, in April 2024, almost exactly one year on from the search of our home, Peter was rearrested and, this time, charged. It was another dark moment in what had started to feel like a nightmare with no end.
Even so, it did bring me a brief glimmer of hope. Would I now be formally cleared? It took only a few hours for that possibility to be extinguished. A statement issued by the Crown Office confirmed that the investigation into me was ongoing. I was distraught. I couldn’t understand why it was taking so long for the justice system to accept what I knew beyond doubt to be true. I had not committed any crime. I also didn’t know how much longer I could cope. As it turned out, I had no choice. The worry and uncertainty had to be endured for another eleven months.
The only new information came in September 2024. It was gleaned from media statements rather than any formal communication, but the substance was that the report of the investigation into me (and Colin Beattie) had been passed from the police to the Crown Office. It is hard to describe how difficult these months were. The investigation was the first thing I thought about when I woke up in the morning and the last thing in my mind before I fell asleep (if I fell asleep) at night. On some days, I could lock it away in a corner of my consciousness and carry on, almost as if everything was normal. On others, it paralysed me.
I was frightened. The rational part of my brain told me that as I had done nothing wrong, there could, by definition, be no evidence to the contrary. But the longer it dragged on, the more scared and paranoid I became. I worried that the ‘system’ might reach the conclusion that I was guilty of something. Or, at the very least, that I would be forced to prove my innocence in court. At times, it was very hard to hold on to reason. I felt embarrassed, ashamed even. Not because of anything I had actually done, but because of what many people would suspect I had done. ‘No smoke without fire’ is a strong human instinct.
I felt robbed of all the things I had looked forward to doing once I stood down as First Minister. It felt as if this new phase of life I had been so excited about had already been snatched away. I oscillated between anger and self-pity. ‘Why me? What have I done to deserve this?’ were questions I would scream silently to myself in the dead of night when I couldn’t sleep for the worry and frustration of it all.
I am not saying any of this pejoratively. I know how these things work. I understand that investigations take time. I accept that the police and Crown Office were doing their jobs. I retain both faith in and respect for our country’s criminal justice system. However, none of that changes this fact: being the subject of a high-profile criminal investigation for almost two years, especially having committed no crime, was like a form of mental torture.
The moment of exoneration arrived, finally, on 20 March 2025. It was a day of deeply mixed emotions. Peter appeared in court, and, of course, nothing I say here is meant as commentary on the situation he is in. That process will take its course. However, around the middle of the day, I received the news that I had waited almost two years for. My lawyer called with formal confirmation that the investigation was over and I would face no further action. I came off the phone and burst into tears. The feeling of relief, and release, was overwhelming.
I am writing this just a few days on from that moment. It hasn’t properly sunk in yet that the black cloud I have been living under for so long has gone away. I can finally make plans without wondering if they will be torpedoed by a development in the investigation. I can look to the future again with optimism and excitement. I have been given my life back.
Given all that I have just written, to say that the period since I stood down as First Minister hasn’t been easy feels like a massive understatement. Indeed, it is only since emerging from the darkness of the investigation that I have begun to appreciate just how heavy the toll has been. I have had to dig deep every day, sometimes even just to get myself out of bed. I have done a lot of soul-searching. Given the nature of events and the state of mind I’ve been in, it is probably not surprising that most of my thinking has been about the mistakes I’ve made, real or perceived. Some of that has been reflected in what you have been reading. For some of my loudest critics, I know that no amount of self-flagellation will ever be enough. However, I have tried to be frank about the things I got wrong. On decisions I still stand by, even though they may be deeply controversial, I have done my best to explain my reasoning. Even if you are someone who still disagrees with me on one or more of these issues, I hope I have at least given you a better understanding of what motivated me. Even if I haven’t changed anyone else’s view of me, though, the process of writing this book has helped me arrive at a more balanced sense of myself, and that has been important.
Just to have got through the period since April 2023 would have been an achievement, but I have done better than that. The woman I am today is stronger, with a much keener appreciation of what, and who, makes her happy, than the one whose life was upended the morning the police turned up on her doorstep.
I am a resilient person in my own right, but I wouldn’t still be standing without the support of those closest to me. My family, obviously. And my friends. Given the media glare I still live under, being my friend is not always easy, and yet my real ones have never flinched. Val McDermid and Jo Sharp, in particular, have been rocks, but they have all given me shoulders to cry on and reasons to laugh. They have poured me (too many) glasses of red wine. They have given me keys to their homes for any time I needed an escape. They have stopped me hiding away. Most of all, they have never doubted me.
Of course, there is one relationship, at least in its old form, that hasn’t survived: my marriage. It is possible, and maybe even likely, that as we left frontline politics behind, Peter and I would have grown apart. However, the strain of the past couple of years took away any chance that we would stay together. The weight of it has been impossible to bear. He will always be part of my family. I love him. But by the time we publicly announced that our marriage was over – on 13 January 2025 – we had been living separate lives for months. It was a relief, for both of us, to finally say it out loud.
What, then, of the future? While I don’t know exactly what it holds, I know I am looking forward to it. Even more so, I am trying to enjoy the here and now. I am living in the moment in a way I have never managed to do before. I see life differently now. In the past, while it might have been a constant feature of my job, I always struggled to deal with uncertainty in my personal life. I always had to resolve whatever was worrying me before I could relax and enjoy myself. Moreover, my single-minded focus on work and politics meant that my attitude to fun and joy was often sternly Presbyterian. My mindset was a ‘glass half empty’ one. No longer. I’ve learned now, no matter how tough things are, to make the most of every day, to see the upside in every situation, to find moments of joy even when things feel heavy and dark. I’ve learned to dance in the rain.
As a result, and in spite of everything, I am probably happier now than I have ever been. I am looking forward to new opportunities. I want to write more, maybe even fiction. I am determined to see more of the world. I might live outside of Scotland for a period. I think the perspective shift would be good for me, even though I can’t imagine staying away for very long. Scotland is where I belong.
And what about politics? I love the SNP and my loyalty to it will never waver. But I am enjoying not having to view every issue through the prism of party politics. I can’t deny that this was a straitjacket I was starting to feel too constricted by. I want to think and speak, as well as live, more freely. This means that the life of an elected politician will soon be behind me – for now, and probably for ever. The caveat isn’t designed to tease, but if recent years have taught me anything, it is that we don’t know what the future holds.
Politics more generally, though? It is in my blood. The sixteen-year-old girl who rang Kay Ullrich’s doorbell is still inside me, still desperately wanting to make the world a better place.
Like many, I am deeply troubled by the state of humanity today. The threats posed by the rise of the far right and the ascendancy of demagogue populists like Donald Trump are grave. Democracy and peace; the freedoms of women and the rights of minorities; the very existence of a habitable planet: all are in peril. I also can’t help despairing at the timidity of some of those on the left of politics. In the face of the charlatans hellbent on stoking fear and division, on destroying democracy and upending the world order, progressive liberals seem paralysed or, worse, craven. The Donald Trumps of this world won’t be defeated by flattery and imitation. People must be offered a clear and compelling alternative to the snake-oil they peddle. On all of this, and more, I am unlikely to stay quiet for long.
I still desperately want Scotland to be independent. I am also confident that it will happen. I predict that in twenty years, perhaps sooner, the UK in its current form will no longer exist. What will emerge in its place will be stronger, healthier and more democratic. An independent Scotland, a more autonomous Wales and a reunified Ireland will join England, enjoying the benefits of the home rule it will gain as a result, in a new British Isles confederation of nations.
Nothing will stop me playing my part in trying to bring that about. For as long as I have breath in my body, I will fight for a fair, equal, inclusive, outward-looking Scotland; an independent country, relatively small in size perhaps, but with the potential to make a big, positive impact on the world.
That, after all, is what my life has been about.
Acknowledgements
Writing this book has been an often solitary experience, but building the life it recounts was a team effort. One of my anxieties about penning a memoir was knowing that it would be impossible – unless the book was to become an unreadable roll-call of names – to mention or give due credit to all of the many people who have contributed to my story so far.
Even in the paragraphs to follow, as I say thank you to the cast of family, friends and colleagues who have done so much for me along the way, I know that I will inevitably omit some individuals whose presence in, and contribution to, my life have meant a great deal to me. At the outset, therefore, I want to extend my gratitude to everyone who has supported me on my journey up to, and through, my years as First Minister and in the period since, in whatever manner or capacity that has been. This includes the many thousands of people amongst the general public who have sent me messages of support and encouragement over the years. These messages have always lifted my spirits and given me strength to keep going. If you are one of these people – thank you.
As in any life, though, there are some people who stand out – people without whom my achievements, such as they are, would simply not have been possible. It is to them that I now turn.
First and foremost, my immediate family. My mum and dad and my sister, Gillian, are the foundation stones of my life. Being the parent or sibling of a high-profile politician – particularly in today’s world – is not easy and, unlike me, they never had any choice in the matter. They have had to deal with loss of privacy, disruptions to family life and the stress of seeing my every up and down played out across the media. And yet they have never complained or made me feel guilty about the sacrifices they had to make. They have only ever loved and supported me and done so with a forbearance I’m not sure I would have managed had roles been reversed. I will never be able to repay them or find words to adequately convey how much I love them.
My sister, especially, has always had my back. I may be the older sister, but I have always looked up to Gillian. I am also fiercely proud of her. Her children, Ethan and Harriet, my nephew and niece, are a credit to her. They are also the loves of my life. They have brought me unquantifiable joy and happiness, and watching them grow into the wonderful young adults they are today has been a privilege. So thank you, Gill, for bringing them into my life and for putting up with all the drama that comes with being my sister.
My immediate family was extended through my marriage to Peter. Over the past twenty years, I have been so lucky in the love and support I have had from him, his mother and late father, Margaret and Harry, and his sister, Lynn. Like Ethan and Harriet, Lynn’s children, my nephews, Cameron, Ross and Finlay, have given me endless joy. I love them very much and am so proud of the fine young men they have become.
Even though I don’t see much of them these days, my wider family has shaped and supported me too. I have talked a lot already about my grandparents and how important they were in my younger years. My aunts, uncles and cousins deserve mention too.
On my dad’s side, that is his younger sister, my Aunt Dorothy, and her husband, Matthew, and his older brother, my Uncle Leslie, and his wife, Kathleen.
My Aunt Dorothy in particular has been a constant support to me over the years. This is my chance to tell her how much it has meant to me.
On my mum’s side is her late brother, my Uncle Iain, and his wife, Elaine, and her younger brother, my Uncle Scott. Scott is just nine years older than me and was more like an older brother than an uncle when I was growing up. I thought he was the epitome of cool. Iain was in many ways my idol. He worked in local media in my childhood, and I think my news addiction came partly from him. We also shared a love of books. Iain died in the summer of 2023 and his funeral took place on the day it was announced I had signed with Pan Macmillan to write this book. I know he would have been excited to read Frankly – indeed, his journalistic skills would have been a great help in the writing of it – and the dedication to him at the start of the book reflects the massive impact he had on my life.
It is hard to think of my childhood and teenage years without memories of times spent with my cast of cousins – so to Richard, Jason, Jennifer, Lesley, Alison, Amy, Emma, Lorna, Linzi, Caryn and Laura, thank you for the fun and games.
As well as my family, I am also lucky to have the love of some wonderful friends. The last couple of years have really taught me the value of friendship. I would not still be standing without the support I have had from some of them. I only hope I can be half as good a friend to them in future as they have been to me in recent times. Special mention must go to Val McDermid, Jo Sharp, Susan Stewart, Jeane Freeman, Anne McLaughlin, Liz Lloyd, Sarah Masson, Claire Mitchell, Jenny Gilruth, Kezia Dugdale and Mairi Gougeon. And just to prove that men can be great friends too, Ian Blackford has also been a tower of strength.
Every senior politician is supported by thousands of party and constituency workers, advisers and civil servants. I am deeply grateful to all of them, even if it is possible to name only a few. My heartfelt thanks go to:
Those who have worked over the years in SNP headquarters and for our parliamentary groups – in particular Sue Ruddick, Ian McCann, Lorraine Reid, Trudi Logan, Beverley Murray, Claire Bennett, Ria Robertson, Richy Edwards, Kevin Pringle and Jim Henderson. Thanks too to all of my parliamentary and ministerial colleagues down the years.
