Ever and again I found myself in competition with his work

IN PONDERING an appreciation of Robin Cook, my former husband, I experience a bizarre Princess Diana moment. I was effectively dispossessed eight years ago, but the sons we had together keep me in the loop. The ties created through offspring cannot be severed altogether, and evidence of this is in the amazing numbers of messages of sympathy I have received following his death.

I met Robin when we were both political representatives (Labour and Nationalist) on Edinburgh University's debates committee. Although he was younger than me, he carried a reputation for being an intellectual, and I was awed by his seriousness and his moral focus. One of his friends of the time told him I was "trivial", and in comparison with him, I was. This was my first brush with the unrelenting force that drove him, like an addiction from which he could not disengage. This force appeared in many guises; a Presbyterian work ethic, a strong social conscience, a visceral commitment to CND, a staunchly tribal identification with the Labour Party. He spoke in reverential tones of the party that could open such avenues for him, and wrote "I will go to my grave clutching my party card". But maybe he did not recognise, as I came to understand, that the unifying factor was personal ambition.

This is of course the way the human male is, in its supreme incarnation. And no doubt there were Darwinian sexual selection powers at work in me, to recognise very early, that this was a man destined for great things. I once, when we were still young and unknown, introduced him to a friend as the future prime minister. Robin's rage knew no bounds, and I was forbidden ever to say such a thing again. Naked ambition was not pretty, as he well knew. Yet as a vehicle it could be acceptable, so that in opposition to the establishment he has been scintillating, devastating; but he has not been able to handle power with grace. Maybe no-one can. The prompts power gives to self-interest did in some measure undercut the ethics of even this fundamentally principled man. This says more about the psyche of men in general than Robin specifically, and renders his ultimate resignation from Tony Blair's government, on an anti-war principle, all the more admirable and praiseworthy. As I watched the statement he made from the back-benches, I knew as well as anyone the inner conflict and the magnitude of the cost to him.

When Robin and I began our love relationship in 1966, I quickly discovered a warm and boyishly affectionate person underneath the stern-faced ascetic. His lack of personal beauty, of which so much has been made, bothered me not a jot, for it was abundantly counterbalanced by his wit and humour, his breadth of knowledge and his ever-absorbing conversational powers. He was tremendous fun to be with. Yet ever and again I found myself in competition with his work.

Even going on our honeymoon, during a two-hour train journey, he produced a brief-case and demanded silence while he prepared for a Labour Party conference on our return. This virtual rival was to haunt our marriage to its end. It was a given assumption that his work took precedence over mine and even over our family life. I would say to him, that if he had been the consultant and I the MP, his would still be the high-profile, high-ethic job and mine the side-show.

He was a very bookish person, and as a student in English, guided my reading into quality literary pastures, which I came to relish. I grew into the habit and will always be grateful for that legacy. Sadly, as he passed on this source of enjoyment to me, he lost the habit himself. With germinating interests in many cultural areas, he never found the time to explore them to the full. His frustration at this conflict, between leisure pursuits and work demands, was huge and never resolved. Indeed it was exacerbated by my capacity to combine more interests with my career, while his demon seldom let him free. He gained therapeutic respite with horse-racing and riding, two pursuits that sat uneasily with his common-man image.

He was, to his eternal credit, a wonderful father to our two sons, and remained close to them after we broke up. He revisited his childhood through them, and enjoyed rough-and-tumble games he had never played in his own scholarly youth. Even my mother, my champion through our marriage-split, gives him great credit for that. Robin enjoyed our extended family life, and did not seem to need many friends outwith that nucleus. We did not hold open house like John Smith did, with visitors, debate and discussion more or less continuously on tap. Robin was essentially a loner, and would be happy browsing in the Commons library while others were in the bar. The result of this was his formidable knowledge base on his brief, but his lack of political networking acted as an obstacle to his ultimate ambition.

Party politics is confrontational and adversarial, and part of the process, like warfare, is making enemies. When Robin made enemies, he did it as thoroughly as he did everything else. His brain-power, concentration and sheer hard work infused into his superb oratory ensured the mortifying demolition of many a reputation, and people did not forgive that. His networks were flimsy and did not counterbalance his opponents. Yet he recognised that an essential element was missing. Rather poignantly, when I offered to throw a 50th birthday party for him, he declined, and I think the reason was that he did not have enough friends to invite. He once said to me that all a man wants ultimately is to be loved, and I believe him. In this, too, he perhaps aimed for more than a fair share.

Yet he has succeeded in going out an a high, for his reputation is almost at a record level for him, and quite rightly the eulogies flow in. He will be missed at many levels, domestic, local, national, global. The world, possessed by hawks at present, is indeed a poorer place now he has left it.

Distraught wife Gaynor poured her heart out to strangers

GAYNOR Cook spent the hours after her husband's sudden death pouring her broken heart out to two strangers she had met only the day before.

Still traumatised after seeing her husband die in front of her, she returned to the Highland lodge where they stayed the previous night, and where she now sought solace in Gerald and Penny Clyne, the owners of Scourie Lodge.

Mr Clyne said Mrs Cook was "absolutely distraught and very much alone" when she returned to the lodge.

Mrs Clyne recalled how they tried to console her.

She said: "One can only just imagine what she was feeling and thinking. She was brought back by a policeman. When he left, she was all alone but for us.

"We were the only ones here, so we looked after her. It is the only thing you can do. I tried to comfort her. It is difficult. What do you say to a woman who has just lost her husband? But I did my best.

"We just talked about Robin and their times together. She hopefully took comfort in that."

Mrs Clyne said the Cooks were in "great spirits" when they arrived on Friday and during dinner that evening.

They also spoke on Saturday morning before the Cooks decided to go hillwalking.

"You say goodbye to someone in the morning, telling them to have a super day, expecting to see them later, but then you never see them again. It is a shock.

"She was lucky another walker was in the area to be with her at such a time.

"You could be on Ben Stack 90 times and not see a soul, so for someone to be within shouting distance and with a mobile phone was very fortunate."

JOHN ROSS