Brave, funny and down-to-earth - that was the marvel of Mo

'MO, Mo, over here," a group of middle-aged women shouted and beckoned to the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland.

Mo Mowlam tore herself away from the side of Prince Charles - the guest of honour at the annual Royal Garden Party in Hillsborough Castle - and tottered in a rather ungainly fashion in her high heels across the immaculate but sinky castle lawn.

"We've seen you on TV and think you're brilliant," the women chorused as she reached them. "Congratulations."

They clasped her hands and kissed her cheeks. "Cheers," she said, self-consciously, trying to loosen herself from their grasp. "Thanks."

She looked over her shoulder, worried that her royal guest might have become entangled in one of the many huge rhododendron bushes in her absence.

"I'm sorry, but I'd better get back to my official duties," she said and departed, leaving the women - all health workers from Armagh - to worship the cheek that she had kissed.

It was early summer 1998, the Good Friday Agreement was still fresh, the province felt as if it was moving forward, and Mo, the MP for Redcar, had an 86 per cent approval rating. She was the most popular politician on the planet.

"Without her, we wouldn't be where we are today," said Carmel, ecstatic from Mo's kiss.

"There's no nonsense about her," chipped in her friend Rosalan. "She's one of them people who gets the job done."

"And it took a woman to do it," finishes Carmel.

The most amazing part of the encounter was that the women were Nationalist. They were Catholic. Yet here they were worshipping a cheek kissed by a member of a Government that their community traditionally saw as an unwanted occupying foreign force.

That was the marvel of Mo.

Later that year, at the Labour Party conference, Tony Blair in his leader's speech made mention of "our Mo" and it provoked an extraordinary, heartfelt standing ovation - the warmth of which visibly surprised the Prime Minister.

Part of it was undoubtedly an emotional reaction to her bravery at overcoming an operation on a benign brain tumour. She had had the operation shortly before the 1997 landslide General Election victory, but joined the Cabinet wearing a wig.

"I hate the bloody things," she said, "and have to carry two around with me because I keep losing one."

For a while, she was the embodiment of the hope that swept Mr Blair to power. She wasn't stuffy and fuddy-duddy like the old Tories. She swore, she was frighteningly straightforward - she once disarmed a TV interviewer by answering his question "You might well be right, but..." - and she got things moving.

The strength of her personality drove the peace process forward, compelling the intransigent protagonists into doing things they didn't really want to.

She told Sinn Fein president Gerry Adams: "Bloody well get on and do it, otherwise I'll headbutt you."

She joked that her mission was to "civilise the Ulster male" - a remark the Unionist leader David Trimble did not find funny and one that would only have worked Ian Paisley into an even more furious lather.

This, though, hints at the other side of Mo. While many marvelled at her energy, others wondered if her jokes were too risque and her behaviour too cavalier - particularly towards the sensitive Unionists.

Once when Mr Trimble called on her to resign, her office dryly pointed out that it was only the 12th such demand in the past 24 months, suggesting that he was not really worth bothering with.

This side to her emerged most noticeably as she departed from Mr Blair's inner circle in 1999, her political career crumbling into a maelstrom of back-biting, recrimination and personal invective.

She was replaced in Northern Ireland by her neighbouring Teesside MP, Peter Mandelson, whose forensic attention to detail was in great contrast to her gung-ho approach and was probably what the peace process needed at that stage.

She appeared to cherry-pick her new job, eventually agreeing to be Cabinet Office Minister. However, she soon formed the opinion that this was a "non-job" and, almost petutantly, decided at the 2001 election that she would leave the Government and the Commons.

By the time she went, she was blaming her "downfall" on an alleged whispering campaign mounted against her by some of her Cabinet colleagues.

She accused Downing Street of freezing her out and ignoring her, and at times interfering in her ministerial duties.

In 2002, she published her memoirs, titled Momentum, which told how she had been betrayed by her colleagues, who suspected her fellow ministers wanted her dumped out of office.

She even claimed that because of her illness some people were saying she was mad.

Some of her closest friends, however, were saddened by some of her accusations that they believed were exaggerated. Indeed, they believed that Mr Blair, had been, if anything, too patient with her, rather than the reverse.

They thought it a tragedy that a political career, which held such promise, should end in acrimony and mud-slinging. But they also believed that her misfortunes were, at least to some extent, self-induced.

The manner of her departure must have saddened those closest to her, like North-West Durham MP Hilary Armstrong, who had done much to help her get the Redcar seat in the first place.

Born on September 18, 1949, Mo - "Mo" was a far more appropriate name for her than Dr Marjorie Mowlam - nearly died of pneumonia at the age of three months. Her family, short of cash, moved from Watford to Coventry where she was brought up.

Her father, for whom she lost respect and who died in 1981, was an alcoholic, but she remained close to her mother.

She gained a BA in social anthropology at Durham University and a doctorate from Iowa University, and then lectured at Florida State University and Newcastle University.

Her ambition, though, was to become a Labour MP, but when Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher called the 1987 election, she did not have a seat. It appeared that her role in that campaign would just be as Ms Armstrong's driver in north Durham - a situation which, according to her biography, cast her into depression.

At the last moment, James Tinn decided not to stand for Redcar. Mr Tinn had represented various Cleveland seats since 1964, but the local party had become bitterly divided.

Neil Kinnock was expelling left-wing militants from the national party and there was a similar battle for the soul of the local party, a battle complicated by the strength of local Labour characters, including the former Langbaurgh council leader Arthur Seed.

Legend has it that Mr Tinn, who died in 1999, turned up for his adoption meeting three weeks before polling day and said: "I don't think I'll bother."

Ernie Armstrong, the east Durham MP, alerted his daughter, Hilary, who alerted Mo and, characteristically, she barnstormed the selection procedure.

Aged 38, she was in the Commons and, typically, she began her first interview with a national newspaper with the words: "I've got a new bra on and it's killing me."

Still, Mr Kinnock and John Smith liked her, and she became a spokeswoman on city and corporate affairs, taking part in Labour's "gin and tonic" charm offensive on the City, which did so much to pave the way for Mr Blair's success.

In 1995, she married merchant banker and Labour supporter Jon Norton, who had two children. "In politics," she said, "being married means one less thing to worry about."

She took on several "shadow" posts including Northern Ireland which, after her operation, prepared her for the unprecedented things the new Government was doing in the quest for peace. Mr Adams was invited into 10 Downing Street, and Mo herself visited the infamous Maze Prison and spoke to Loyalist and Republican prisoners.

And it was on her watch that the controversial process began of the early release of many people who had effectively become political prisoners, even though they had mostly been convicted of horrendous terrorist offences.

But then came the easing out and the acrimony, which begs the question: how should she be remembered?

In Redcar, even though she effectively cut all ties with the town after 2001, she is warmly regarded as a hard-working constituency MP and popular personality. One secondary school even adopted her as an official role model for its pupils.

On a national level, perhaps we should return to the 1998 Royal Garden Party. Prince Charles serenely swanned along the lines of people, nodding and shaking hands as the band played and the marquee flapped in the chill wind.

Mo followed in his wake, wrapping herself in an unflattering beige coat to keep the cold out, forever fiddling with her specs' chain and occasionally slipping out of her high heels on to the damp turf to give her aching calves a rest. Pockets of fans interrupted her progress.

"She's brilliant,"said Joany after Mo autographed her invitation.

"All the secretaries of state were men and now we have a woman and she's got the job done," added Marie.

"She's lovely, very down to earth," chipped in Colette.

"Very approachable, no snobbishness," said Pauline.

They worked for a children's cancer charity and a homeless organisation in Belfast.

"We're from both sides of the divide," said Colette. "But we really don't care."

Which was the marvel of Mo.