Protestors against the bedroom tax outside the High Court in February 2014. Photo: Oli Scarff/Getty
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What has happened to the disabled people affected by the Coalition’s welfare reforms?

Frances Ryan revisits previous interviewees to find out how they are coping with the bedroom tax and the changes to benefits like the Disability Living Allowance.

Sitting in their two-bed flat in Southport, Merseyside, a wheelchair cramped up next to a hospital-type bed, Jayson and Charlotte Carmichael have found themselves unlikely figures of the coalition government.

I first spoke to the couple back in February 2013, two months before the bedroom tax – which saw working age social tenants have their housing benefit cut for “under-occupying” their home – would come into force nationwide. The Carmichaels are in many ways reflective of why the policy went on to become the most controversial social security cut of the past five years. Charlotte, 42, has a severe spinal condition and is partially confined to a specialist bed. Sharing an ordinary bed with her husband, Jayson, would cause damage to her permanent pressure sores and their flat, partly adapted for Charlotte’s needs, is too small to put both beds in one room. Despite the fact that Charlotte sleeps there every night, due to her carer also being her live-in partner, from April 2013, the couple began losing £12 a week for having a “spare” room.

Since then, the Carmichaels have been challenging the bedroom tax on two fronts: taking their own case to a local tribunal in a bid to be judged exempt from the policy and going to the Supreme Court, as part of a group case of five families, to overturn the legislation itself. It has been two years of court dates, battles, and exhaustion.

“I have been depressed and sometimes thought enough is enough, we can’t go on anymore. Then we have a small success and I pull myself around and say ‘we have to go on to help others in the same boat, other disabled people’,” Jayson, 52, tells me when we speak again. “I try and use adrenaline to keep going.”

The “small successes” Jayson describes have allowed the couple to so far keep paying the rent. In April 2013, they successfully applied for Discretionary Housing Payments (DHP), the emergency short-term fund designed to assist some disabled people affected by the policy, and by April 2014 – one year on – were deemed fully exempt from the bedroom tax at their local tribunal. But the success proved short-lived. Three months later, the Department for Work and Pensions (DWP) had applied to overturn their win.

“We were over the moon and then when the judge said the DWP had decided to challenge it…we just felt deflated. I didn’t know what to do,” Jayson says. “They won’t let it rest.”

“If the DWP overturn the tribunal ruling, we might be liable for the two year backdated bill,” Jayson adds. “It could be £1, 500.”

This sort of looming threat marks the uncertainty the couple have had to live with over the past two years. Charlotte tells me she thinks about what will happen to her if they’re forced to move to a one-bed flat.

“I’m frightened one day I won’t be able to stay in my home simply through not being able to afford to pay the bedroom tax,” she says. “I’m frightened I’ll be forced to go into a nursing home.”

“Charlotte’s been hit so hard,” Jayson adds, “Much worse with being disabled. Worse than me.”

With the DWP challenging their exemption from the policy, they are pinning their hopes on a Supreme Court win. It will be a long wait. Jayson emails a week later to tell me they have been given their court date: “March NEXT YEAR,” he writes.

“The silver lining on the late date I suppose is that we can hold the next government – if there is a different one – to its promises if they’re a more left wing one,” Jayson adds. “We’re happy to have weathered the fight this long… Two years.”

 

***

 

The long fight is familiar to Pamela and Jim Hardy*. Pamela, 43, has Multiple Sclerosis and is full-time carer to her husband, who has both mental and physical health problems, as well as their ten-year-old daughter, Katie. I first spoke to the family back at the start of last year when – with arrears of £400 – they had watched themselves become a stat in the mounting bedroom tax headlines: the one in seven families affected by the policy being handed an eviction notice.

In their struggle to keep their home, Pamela and Jim Hardy exemplified the complex – often senseless – elements disabled social housing tenants hit by the bedroom tax have had to maneuver: a flawed central government decision to bring in the policy and a local council and/or housing association refusing to offer support.

Settled within their three-bed house, the family had been put in the property seven years ago by their housing association as a “medical move”. Despite this and the fact that both Pamela and Jim’s doctors report their individual conditions mean they need to sleep in separate bedrooms, because they’re married – just as the Carmichaels found – the bedroom tax means the extra room is classified as “spare”.

At less than 50 foot square, it is barely a box room, and legal advisers say it’s illegal to call it a bedroom. Medical test units sit squashed against the bed and a small cupboard is full of boxes of stored medication and controlled drugs that need to be kept locked away. With ten-year-old Katie in the house, there’s nowhere else to safely store it all.

The family had applied for a discretionary housing payment to help cover the rent but, after one short-term approval, the council repeatedly turned them down.

“They said we should work, get a lodger, or look for a smaller house,” Jim, 50, tells me when we speak again in the New Year.

It’s this sort of dire understanding of disability that saw their council also repeatedly count both Jim and Pamela’s Disability Living Allowance (DLA) as “income” when assessing the family’s need for a DHP. This contravenes the principle behind DLA: that it is there to meet the additional costs of disability a person may have in terms of care and mobility and as such, by nature, cannot be viewed as “spare money”. Disabled people struggling to pay the rent while needing money for anything from specialist transport to care assistants end up being seen by local councils as comfortable tenants with spare cash.   

Just last week, a disabled couple successfully challenged their council for using this DLA calculation. In what was said to be a landmark High Court judgment, it was ruled that Sandwell Borough Council's decision to count the disability benefit as income when assessing applications from people affected by the bedroom tax for a DHP was unlawful and amounted to a breach of the Equality Act 2010.  

This ruling may be the first step in tackling what has emerged over the past two years as yet another perverse aspect of the bedroom tax: that disabled people – repeatedly pointed to by the coalition as the intended recipients for DHPs – have actually ended up less likely to receive help than non-disabled tenants. It’s resulted in a two-tier bedroom tax on disability. Already penalised for needing an extra room, they are then penalised for receiving disability benefits.  

It was similar senseless action that, at the same time, saw Pamela and Jim issued with a court date for May 2014 – despite receiving no warning an eviction notice was coming (something their legal advisor says breeched the pre-action for eviction of tenants by social housing providers) and their third DHP application still being processed.

Jim tells me that it was only through turning to legal representation that their eviction was eventually stayed.

“Today we luckily still have our home,” he says. “It was disgraceful how they failed to communicate fairly.”

They’ve since made a formal complaint to their housing association. 

“They tried to close it twice,” Jim says. “They just didn’t accept they had done anything wrong. Really frustrating and not right.” 

But avoiding eviction was little more than temporary relief for the family. The reality of shrinking social security – be it housing, unemployment, or disability care or mobility – is that keeping your ahead above water for a few weeks does nothing to stop the risk of drowning. With the bedroom tax continuing to hit each month and the DHP still being refused, Jim tells me the family resorted to using their DLA to pay the rent extra. It meant siphoning the benefit away from what it was awarded for: extra heating, washing loads, and medical supplements.

“[Our disability benefit] is normally used…to make life and our conditions more easy to manage,” Jim says. “Due to the seriousness of the pain with both of our conditions, many days we’re pretty much house bound [so we use extra heating and washing]. Water bottles are a good extra source of direct pain relief… Kettles are on stand by daily. They’re often used day and night.”

“Due to other personal day and evening problems regarding my condition extra washing loads take place per week,” he adds. “Our bills can be costly.”  

Again, with the help of a solicitor – and the threat to the council of a judicial review on the issue – in May 2014 the family was awarded a DHP for the next year, as well as a back-payment.

This month, with the DHP about to run out, the family find themselves back to where they began: once again applying to the local council for help and waiting to see if they will be able to pay the rent.

“It’s all starting again,” Jim says. “At present, it’s feeling a bit daunting. We’ve heard the amounts for DHPs have been reduced. It’s like a dark cloud’s looming nearby.”

 

***

 

The wait is part of the battle. Jay Henderson, 50, had a stroke in 2013 and her ex-partner, Ken, became her full time carer. The deterioration in Jay’s health was brutal. The stroke left her unable to communicate and with severely restricted movement. She now relies on Ken’s help for basic needs, be it washing or dressing, and preparing food. But it was delays in Jay’s disability benefits being awarded – both Personal Independence Payments (PIP) and Employment and Support Allowance (ESA) – that left them at their “wit’s end”.

When I last spoke to Ken back in February 2014, they had been stuck in the benefit backlog for eight months. Despite the fact the assessment period of ESA should last no more than thirteen weeks, Jay had been left for seven months – having to live on the lower “assessment” rate in the meantime. With no other support coming in, the electricity bill was in arrears and the phone – a lifeline if Jay needed to go to the hospital – was due to be cut off. They were existing on charity food parcels from a local food bank.

“We’re working tirelessly to try to improve Jay’s health and getting to the point when she was getting her benefits was [another] enormous struggle,” Ken, 50, says when we talk again a year later. “The struggle wasn’t only financial but also trying to get any response from the DWP and Atos. We kept getting fobbed off, even with different agencies contacting them on Jay’s behalf and us contacting the head of Atos.” 

“The whole process has taken its toll,” he says.

Jay and Ken are one of the many victims of what has developed into a widespread crisis in the disability benefit system. It’s two years this week since PIP began its rollout to replace DLA, the outgoing benefit to cover care and mobility needs, and the process has been characterized by false rejections, backlogs, and year-long delays – with parliament's public spending watchdog dubbing the government's handling of it “nothing short of a fiasco”. Almost 200,000 disabled and chronically ill people are currently stuck in a backlog waiting to be assessed. This is before a national-roll out has even begun (the DWP have been forced to delay that, as well increase predictions for how long people would have to wait for support or even get an assessment). At the same time, ESA backlogs could take as long as 18 months to clear, according to its new private provider. Maximus, who took over the “fitness to work” contract from Atos last month, say it will have to conduct one million assessments this year – a test MPs call crude, simplistic and a “stressful and anxiety-provoking experience”.

This mass “reform” of the system means, like Jay and Ken, many disabled and chronically ill people are having to simultaneously go through both benefit processes – so, with delays in both, all sources of income are taken at once.  

Ken tells me that despite “many phone calls and emails”, it was in contacting their local MP, Christopher Chope, in March 2014 that they finally got somewhere. Within two weeks, PIP paid out and another two weeks, ESA arrived too.

“We have to thank Christopher Chope but what a shame that’s the route we had to take,” Ken says.

This sort of “last ditch” effort is one I hear from many people going through the coalition’s disability “reforms”, whether it’s writing to local MPs – and hoping for a response – or attempting to gain the attention of someone higher up. Jayson Carmichael tells me a television reporter recently challenged David Cameron on his and Charlotte’s case.

“He said he'd look into it and we did get a letter from him. He said that DHPs were available to vulnerable people,” Jayson says. “We know now Cameron won’t change anything.”

Against a backdrop of media reports – and ministerial rhetoric – of the apparent ease of gaining disability benefits, the reality is often a long, desperate attempt for someone in authority to listen.

Jay Henderson has been battling the process without being able to say more than one or two-word sentences. Her lack of movement in her right side means she’s also unable to write. Ken describes it as her knowing “what she wants to say” but struggling “to express it”. When I speak to them, it is Ken that talks – often attempting to get across what Jay wants to express. Without his help, it’s hard to imagine Jay wouldn’t still be left without state support.

“The system still hasn't changed,” Ken says. “The system is seriously broken and if any company was to operate like this they would surely go out of business. No one is accountable. It's immoral.”

“I feel sorry for the people still going through what we went through. The benefit system’s affecting so many vulnerable people, how can it continue? Iain Duncan Smith should be ashamed but instead tries to justify his actions.”

“Is there a real answer to this problem?” he says. “Things seem to be getting worse.”

*Some names have been changed

Frances Ryan is a journalist and political researcher. She writes regularly for the Guardian, New Statesman, and others on disability, feminism, and most areas of equality you throw at her. She has a doctorate in inequality in education. Her website is here.

Laura Hynd for New Statesman
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Having the last laugh

How Diane Abbott – overlooked, mocked and marginalised by her own party for three decades – ended up as the closest ally of a Labour leader

“I don’t think you’re up to it.” It is 1970, and Diane Julie Abbott, aged 17, is keen to apply to Cambridge University, but her history teacher has other ideas.

“I was an omnivorous reader,” she says now, sitting in her parliamentary office, in a prime spot overlooking the Thames, “and in all these books, particularly these novels between the wars, if you went to university, you went to Oxford or Cambridge.”

The teachers at Harrow County School for Girls, where Abbott was the only black girl in her class, were not supportive. Her memories are less happy than those of her contemporary Michael Portillo, who attended the affiliated boys’ grammar school, and who played Macduff to her Lady Macduff in a school play.

Even when Abbott succeeded, she was regarded with suspicion. She remembers getting an A-minus in an English class – a mark that disappointed her – and being asked to stay behind by the teacher. “She picked up my essay between her thumb and her forefinger and said: ‘Where did you copy this from?’ I was genuinely shocked.”

The story suggests that she acquired her ability to shrug off criticism early. It is also a reminder of how often she is underestimated. The Times journalist Matt Chorley once described a successful day for Labour as one in which “Diane Abbott was on TV a bit less”. Julie Burchill described her in the Spectator as a “preposterous creature” who “blotted the landscape of English politics, speaking power to truth in order to advance her career”. In the Guardian, Michael White dubbed her a “useful idiot”.

She has been endlessly dismissed as stupid, untalented and bad at politics – an obvious “diversity hire”. These criticisms are immune to evidence: her time at Cambridge, the only black British student from a state school in the entire university; her 12 years on the sofa with Portillo on BBC1’s This Week; her time in the shadow cabinet under Ed Miliband; her reliable ability to hold the line in television interviews; and now her status as Jeremy Corbyn’s closest political ally. She is largely ignored by lobby journalists, even as they lament their failure to secure a line into the Labour leader’s thinking. In 2017, Diane Abbott celebrates her 30th year in parliament. Should we take her seriously?

 

****

Abbott’s mother, a nurse, and her father, a welder, were born in the same village in Jamaica, but met and married in London and lived in Notting Hill “before it was a fashionable place to live”. Abbott was born there in 1953, 12 years before the phrase “race relations” first made its way on to the statute books. “My father was very aspirational,” she recalls, “and so every weekend, he and my mother would drive round houses in Pinner, and every Monday they’d ring the estate agent, and the estate agent would say the house had gone. But, of course, the house wasn’t gone.”

Eventually, they did buy a house, not in Pinner but in Edgware, north London. “My brother – his best friend was Jewish,” she tells me, “and he’d attend the Jewish youth club with his friend, and one day his friend said in a really embarrassed way: ‘I’m really sorry, I’m afraid you can’t continue to attend the club, because they’re afraid it will encourage the girls to marry out.’

“The thing was,” she continues, “my brother was upset about this. We were all upset on his behalf but it was just part of life.” And in 1970, a black straight-A student being told that she wasn’t good enough to go to Cambridge was, again, part of life. It was her response that was out of the ordinary: “Well, I do think I’m up to it. And that’s what matters, isn’t it?”

At university, Abbott didn’t get involved in politics, and she found the Cambridge Union off-putting. Her hall tutor advised her to go into the civil service, and so she arrived at the Home Office in 1976, the lone black graduate trainee on what she now describes as “a quixotic quest to do good”.

In turn, that took her to the National Council for Civil Liberties, now Liberty. Believing it to be a hotbed of communist sympathisers, MI5 tapped the office phones, an action that was ruled unlawful in 1990. “One of the things that Diane still talks about,” a friend tells me, “is her experience not only of the Home Office, but of being the subject of official surveillance. She has a cynicism about the state that hasn’t gone away.”

Abbott also joined local campaigns on some of the issues that have defined her career, such as the abolition of the “sus laws”, the informal provision that allowed the police to stop and search anyone under the ­Vagrancy Act, which activists claim was used to target ethnic minorities in Britain. After joining the Labour Party, she became a councillor in Westminster in 1982.

In the 1970s and 1980s, as today, Labour took the lion’s share of the ethnic minority vote. But no one from an ethnic minority had ever sat as a Labour MP. In the 1983 election, just one person from a minority was selected as a parliamentary candidate, and in an ultra-safe Conservative seat. In response, Labour’s minority activists formed the Black Sections, a campaign to secure ethnic minority representation.

It was through these that Abbott met Linda Bellos, who was the leader of Lambeth Council, where Abbott worked as a press officer – her last job before entering parliament. “I was born here in 1950, one of 50,000 black people [living in the UK],” Bellos tells me. “We might have talked about going home but home for me was bleeding London, wasn’t it? Hence the need to make sure we were involved in all of the parts of the state. Someone like Diane had been to Cambridge, she’d been a councillor, she knew the democratic process, she was friends with a number of MPs, she knew the score. If someone like her couldn’t be selected, what was the point of any of us being here?”

The Black Sections wanted affiliated status, similar to that of the Fabians. But there were concerns that black candidates would not appeal to Labour’s presumed core white working-class vote. Some on the left saw “identity politics” as a distraction from the class struggle; and some on the right thought the Black Sections were too radical. At the 1984 conference, their plan was thrown out by a margin of ten to one.

Despite this setback, the fight had an important legacy. In the 1987 elections, four ethnic minority MPs entered the Commons for Labour: Paul Boateng in Brent South, Keith Vaz in Leicester East, Bernie Grant in Tottenham – and, in Hackney North and Stoke Newington, there was the 33-year-old Diane Abbott.

 

****

She was the first black woman to be selected for a safe parliamentary seat. The Times marked the occasion with a leader denouncing her “rhetoric of class struggle and skin-colour consciousness”.

A few months later, the Sun profiled the “ten looniest Labour candidates” in Britain. “We were all there,” Abbott recalls. “Jeremy [Corbyn], the rest of us, and I was number eight.”

The local party in Stoke Newington was delighted with this firebrand reputation. “They said: ‘Stick with us, and we’ll take you right to the top!’”

The voters of north London were less welcoming. A brick was thrown through the office window of her local party. With Abbott as the candidate, some traditional Labour voters switched to the SDP-Liberal Alliance, taking the Labour vote below 50 per cent for the first time in the seat’s history (the second occasion was in 2005, just after the invasion of Iraq).

In parliament, the intake of ethnic minority MPs was regarded with caution. Abbott recalls that the then speaker of the House of Commons, Bernard Weatherill, was “very anxious”. She adds: “He thought we’d be like the Fenians and disrupt and collapse parliamentary process. So he invited Bernie [Grant], who was regarded as our leader, for port. And Bernie came for port and the speaker was very nice to him. And I imagine the speaker thought this was what stopped us being like the Fenians.”

Those Labour MPs who were disruptive – such as Corbyn the serial rebel – were in low spirits for other reasons. The marginalisation of Abbott and her allies during the late 1980s and 1990s explains why they have so little sympathy for the party’s beleaguered centrists in the current power struggle.

At the Labour conference in Liverpool this year – where she spoke as shadow health secretary – Abbott told me: “I came to party conference every year for 20 years, and we would lose and lose and lose. These people have lost twice and they’re complaining!”

Her thick skin was toughened during the New Labour years – and it reaffirmed her close friendship with Corbyn. (The two had a short sexual relationship in the early 1980s, which ended amicably. Abbott was married for two years to a Ghanaian architect from 1991 to 1993; her son, James, was born in 1992.) “She’s always had an odd hold on Jeremy,” one Labour MP tells me. “You would see them having lunch together and her bossing him about. I think people underestimate how influential she
is on his thinking.”

When David Lammy, her neighbouring MP in Tottenham, entered parliament in 2000 following the death of Bernie Grant, he found her “vilified, ostracised and exiled by the Blairites”. There were several attempts to remove her as an MP – another reason why the Corbyn camp is unconcerned by complaints from MPs such as Stella Creasy and Peter Kyle about their local parties threatening to deselect them.

Abbott retains a network of friends from her time before politics, including from her stint as a television producer. They urged her to quit in the Blair years – or to end her association with the left-wing Socialist Campaign Group. “I never thought I was willing to trade what I thought was right for some position in the party,” she says.

Some allies see it differently. “I don’t think Diane is someone who can quit [politics],” a friend told me. “I see her tweeting at all hours. She has interests, books and so forth, but she couldn’t walk away.”

Abbott says that Keith Vaz convinced her to stay, telling her, “You have forgotten what it took for us to get here.” (Some of Corbyn’s allies believe that this is what made the leader so supportive of Vaz during his latest scandal.) This sense of solidarity with other ethnic minority MPs has led to the long-standing rumour that Abbott would have nominated Chuka Umunna had Corbyn not stood for the Labour leadership.

“Diane is absolutely loyal to Jeremy,” one MP who knows them both well tells me. “She’s loyal to the project, yes, but she’s also loyal to him, in a way I don’t think you could honestly say about John McDonnell or Clive Lewis.” During the coup attempt against Corbyn last summer, Abbott spoke forcefully in favour of Corbyn remaining in place, rather than striking a deal to put Lewis or McDonnell on the ballot. “Her position,” one insider recalls, “was that we’d got a candidate we knew could win, and that candidate was Jeremy.”

Not that they always agree. Abbott advocated a less conciliatory approach after Corbyn’s first victory in 2015. “The thing that can be infuriating about Jeremy is that he likes to think the best of everyone,” she says. “I’m always perfectly straight with him as to what I think, and even if he doesn’t believe me at the time, he always does come round to my point of view.”

Abbott is one of the few people in the Parliamentary Labour Party whom Corbyn trusts completely. In their relationship, it’s hard to see who is the senior partner.

In the late 1990s and early 2000s, Corbyn and Abbott settled into a pattern of dissent, followed by defeat. Corbyn spent the time attending to foreign and human rights campaigns and signing thousands of early day motions. Abbott carved out a niche as a reliable critic of the Labour government under Tony Blair, with a month-long slot at the launch of the BBC’s This Week in 2003 blossoming into a regular gig alongside Michael Portillo. But away from Westminster, Abbott was making a decision that she knew could destroy her political career.

 

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The London borough of Hackney is today a national leader in schooling, but in 2002, just a third of students received five or more A*-C grades. That prompted Abbott to send her ten-year-old son, James, to City of London, a leading private school.

“I knew I could lose the seat over it,” she told me. “I was a single parent, and time after time, I had not been there for things at school, or I was too tired to take him out somewhere . . . I just thought, just this once, I should be prepared to make a sacrifice for him. If I lost the seat, then I lost the seat.”

She kept the seat. “Other things do annoy Diane – reporters saying things about her that aren’t true, people talking down to her,” one friend tells me. “But with [the schooling] I think she was very happy with that deal and to take that blow.”

Then, in 2010, Abbott’s career began a surprising second act: a bid for the party leadership. Activists and commentators felt uninspired by the choice in front of them – Ed Miliband, David Miliband, Andy Burnham and Ed Balls, four former special advisers from the New Labour era. Abbott called them “geeky men in suits”. Harriet Harman, in particular, was keen that the contest should not be an all-male field. Her support swayed Abbott. “If you had to pick one person, it was her,” she says, “because she was more mainstream.”

David Lammy set up a meeting between Abbott and David Miliband. The front-runner told her that, if she were a vote short in the nominations from MPs, he would vote for her. “But because it was David Miliband, I didn’t believe him.”

The elder Miliband had his own reasons for backing her. He believed that having her on the ballot would deprive his brother, Ed, of valuable support from the left. This was also the calculation that allies of Yvette Cooper made about Corbyn in 2015. “David’s legacy,” the Wakefield MP, Mary Creagh, wrote five years later, “made it normal – Blairite, even – to put a left-winger on the ballot to ‘have a broad debate’.’’

Of Corbyn’s campaign, Abbott says now: “I knew he’d do well, because what people missed is that had it been one person, one vote [in 2010], I’d have come third.”

Had the unions and the MPs not had a disproportionate influence on the result, she says, “I’d have beaten Andy Burnham, I’d have beaten Ed Balls. I’d been to 53 hustings – most Labour people are where Jeremy and I were. I knew there was much more left-wing sentiment in the Labour Party than the lobby thought.”

As a result of Corbyn’s victory in 2015, she is shadowing one of the great offices of state in what once looked like her final term in parliament. Her policy priorities as shadow home secretary are broad but include her favoured subjects of police reform and anti-racism. “I want to help shape the debate on migration,” she tells me. “I think we’ve had a very vacuous debate.”

That has put her at odds with the shadow chancellor, John McDonnell. Though both are long-time friends of Corbyn, their relationship is not warm. Allies believe that the division stretches back to the late 1980s, when McDonnell – then outside parliament – gloried in not going “soft” in the manner of Neil Kinnock. Abbott attracted suspicion, in part because of her early conversion to a pro-European position. Many believe that McDonnell never embraced the European project. He has ruled out opposition to Brexit and is behind the toughening of the party’s line on immigration. Abbott, privately and publicly, is determined to hold Labour to a more open and pro-immigration position. She has said that Labour cannot win as “Ukip-lite”, a coded rebuke to McDonnell.

The shadow chancellor is the only MP with a comparable influence to Abbott’s on Jeremy Corbyn and, thus far, the Labour leader has struck a middle path on migration, supporting Abbott’s line that the single market cannot be traded away for restrictions on the free movement of people but stopping short of a full-throated defence of free movement in principle.

As well as winning that internal battle, Abbott faces the task of landing more blows on Amber Rudd than her predecessors – Andy Burnham, Yvette Cooper and Ed Balls – managed against Theresa May when she was the longest-serving home secretary in a century, transforming the reputation of a department once regarded as a political graveyard. Not many give Abbott much chance of success but, as always, she believes in herself and thinks that she’s up to it.

Stephen Bush is special correspondent of the New Statesman

Stephen Bush is special correspondent at the New Statesman. His daily briefing, Morning Call, provides a quick and essential guide to British politics.

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge