It's been a long journey as the bureaucrat at the big man's shoulder comes around the desk and into the spotlight, writes Fionnuala O'Connor.
WHEN A fond sister told a recent BBC Radio Four profile of a newly prominent Northern Ireland figure that her brother is amazingly witty, that teachers told him to cut out the jokes in his essays, and she would never have thought of him in politics, few would have identified the young comic as Peter Robinson. The memories were even more adrift from his public image than the picture of Brian Cowen, pub singer. There is one connection, however. His nostalgic sister remembered the young Robinson as a good singer, who wrote "Donovan-Dylan, American protest-type songs".
The standard version of the private Peter Robinson is the geekish collector of ties, shirts and exotic fish who plays solitaire on his computer into the small hours. He also sings? The interview with his sister failed to unearth adolescent lyrics. It would still be properly fascinating to hear even a scrap of lyrical protest from someone who went on to specialise in harsh dismissal of opponents, outside the party and within it. A trill or two from a youthful baritone might blur the memory of corrosive Robinson sarcasm to media questioners, or the misogynistic contempt in his rejection of rash criticism from Rhonda Paisley, then 32, when he snapped that "the girl" was ill-informed.
The moments when family tensions erupted around an ageing colossus were usually cloaked and have been firmly relegated as the Paisley era fades, and the bureaucrat at the big man's shoulder comes around the desk into the light. The Paisley clan has fallen back, but will presumably be given its place in mythology and ceremony for a decent interval.
The Robinson family will not be similarly paraded on-stage, although closely involved in DUP business; Iris with her own hard-won career, a wedge of the next generation salaried assistants. It emerged this week that the Rev Ian Paisley may stay in post until June, compounding the sense of slow readjustment in a party built around one man. Although the main builder is inheriting his own handiwork, it may be a delicate transition, at least in the minds of the main players.
When the Fianna Fáil leader-elect met the DUP leader-elect in Belfast this week the centrepiece was a well-advertised announcement that Dublin companies may now locate in the North, without penalty, to find the qualified staff they need. From the emergent first minister, there was also an emphasis on the correctness of cross-Border co-operation that suggested lingering anxiety about the cut of his jib in his new role.
The DUP deputy leader who told the House of Commons 13 years ago that Margaret Thatcher had "prostituted herself" by allowing Dublin a consultative role in Northern Ireland is no doubt still tucked inside the architect of the party's crabwise approach to powersharing. Both are folded into a personality nearly as unreadable to his party as to outsiders. Old rhetoric will probably now be steadily ditched if internal feedback stays benign: though the recent Robinson article in these pages was harsh enough in its refusal to admit that the St Andrews Agreement he helped negotiate might in any way resemble the Good Friday agreement.
Discordant gear-changes are the least important accompaniment to major political shifts. DUP lesser lights, their mentor that ranting public speaker with an extra reserve of biblical vituperation, have always behaved as though abominable rudeness to and about opponents was the surest way to preferment in the party, and their voters' hearts. Sharing power with Sinn Féin has yet to be absorbed at the grassroots - and who can wonder? DUP people do not like today's political dispensation but they want it to continue, as long as they can claim to be top dog.
Appearing in public with someone called Biffo is eminently ignorable, especially since he came bearing a gift of sorts. The new and smaller party leader - 12 years older than Biffo and coming into his own as he approaches 60 - has to weather his first joint appearances with the former IRA leader now trading as Sinn Féin Deputy First Minister. Facial features must be arranged and visual warmth adjusted to the occasion. A run-through would be handy before going live with Martin McGuinness, he of the twinkling eyes - though chill incarnate, of course, until commanded to deploy his inner charm.
But a couple of touching photographs - in the Irish News last week and on the BBC website - showed Messrs Robinson and McGuinness shirt-sleeved and smiling warmly at each other. Foreign parts have worked wonders before on reticent unionists. These pleasant shots were taken last summer in Washington, when Robinson could only dream about becoming first minister. Launching a "Folklife Festival" in the Smithsonian museum, he perhaps looked more his youthful self in public than at any time since that long-ago IRA bombing killed his school friend, and pushed him into a lifetime in Ian Paisley's shadow.