As a child and a young man, Teddy was the baby of the Kennedy family through and through. Even his pet name was cute, cuddly and a little bit patronising and, growing up, Teddy was always in the shadow of his older brothers, Joseph, John, and Robert, and like most youngest children, probably took that to be his role in life. The early deaths of all three, however, left Teddy to carry the mantle, to bear the expectations of his family and his country. And, given what Ted himself called the gift of "length of years", he made a difference.

He made mistakes along the way, showing flashes of the indulged baby brother at times, but he had time. Time in which to mature and mellow and time to make amends.

And, in time, little Teddy became the only Kennedy boy to grow into an old man; the only one to die of an illness -- brain cancer -- rather than be cut down in his prime. At some point, albeit late in life, he learned to step out of his brothers' shadows, he grew to become a respected senator and one who continued to turn up at work, right through his last illness, for the senate issues for which he fought.

Barack Obama, whose success owes a lot to Ted Kennedy's backing, declared himself "heartbroken" at news of the latter's death last Wednesday. All flags on government buildings flew at half mast across America; all surviving US presidents attended Kennedy's funeral yesterday; and his extended family said they had lost their "irreplaceable centre". He was the slow burner, the survivor, the baby brother who grew slowly into gravitas -- and with his death comes the end of an era.

Edward Moore Kennedy was the youngest of Joe and Rose Kennedy's nine children, born in Boston but raised in New York, Florida, and London, where his father was US Ambassador. It was a peripatetic and privileged upbringing. He received his First Holy Communion from the Pope; went to good schools despite being little more than an average student; attended Harvard, where he was expelled for cheating in an exam, but later readmitted; and entered adulthood on the coattails of his older brothers, John and Robert, who were already making names for themselves in Democratic politics.

Even before the assassination of John F Kennedy, the tragedies for which the Kennedys are known almost as much as their talents, had begun to make a mark on the family. By the time Ted was in his teens, his sister Rosemary was institutionalised following a failed lobotomy. Later, another sister, Kathleen, died in a plane crash, as did his eldest brother, Joe, while serving in the Navy. That, in some ways, would have been enough for any family; but bizarrely, even in tragedy there were no half-measures for the Kennedys, who were raised to be larger-than-life characters -- high-achieving, risk-taking, exceptional. And for many years, within that powerful group, Teddy was the kid and the kidder, of whom no one really expected much.

After his brother John's assassination, Ted Kennedy moved into the role of Robert's right-hand man, as Robert had been John's. By all accounts, Ted proved a great asset to Robert in his presidential bid, for his easy way with people and jocularity, which the more serious-minded brother lacked. When Robert was then assassinated, Ted was understandably devastated and immediately cognisant that he was the last man standing. He had already assumed, by that stage, John's senate seat of Massachusetts, but it would not be for some decades that Ted really grew into it. For a long time, perhaps, the weight of expectation was too heavy.

The black mark on Ted Kennedy's record, despite the sincere praise of him last week -- from this country as well as the United States, where he served 47 years in the senate and had a part in almost all social legislation in that time -- was the death of Mary Jo Kopechne in 1969.

A year after his brother Robert's murder, Kennedy left a party in Chappaquiddick, on Martha's Vineyard, Masschussetts, with the young campaign assistant in his car.

He took a wrong turn, apparently, and drove the car off a bridge and into Poucha Pond. Ted escaped and made it to land; but Kopechne did not and, instead of stopping at the first house he came to, the senator went all the way back to his hotel, telephoned some members of his family and then went to sleep.

It was not until the next morning that the police were alerted and, by that time, Mary Jo Kopechne was dead.

Later, Kennedy said he had tried to save Kopechne until he barely had enough energy himself. Remarkably, the senator -- then married to his first wife, Joan -- attended Mary Jo Kopechne's funeral. He was charged with leaving the scene of an accident and subsequently punished with a two-month suspended sentence and a suspension of his driving licence.

In an interview some time later, Kennedy denied any wrongdoing, excessive drinking or untoward behaviour, and with him, most likely, dies the likelihood that the full truth will ever be known about Chappaquiddick.

This incident, of course, arose again when Ted Kennedy made a bid for the presidency in 1980, though it may not have been what scuppered his chances. It was an unusual bid, coloured with Kennedy confidence, even cockiness, as Kennedy pitted himself against fellow Democrat and incumbent president, Jimmy Carter. Significantly, however, though there was arrogance in the bid, in one interview Kennedy faltered when asked just why he wanted to be president. People wondered if it was just to follow in his brothers' footsteps, or step out of their shadows and, perhaps, Kennedy was given pause to ponder that himself.

In any case, the Democratic party did not support his bid, and it was his decision, after that, to commit his life to the senate.

After he went for the presidency, Ted Kennedy separated from and divorced Joan. Rumours had plagued their marriage in the years before, with talk of a drink problem on her part and infidelity on his. There a sort of split personality to Kennedy in the following decade.

Now in his 50s, Kennedy was well established in the senate, committed to the universal healthcare reform he called "the cause of my life", as well as issues relating to Ireland, immigration, women, education, gay rights and Aids policy. Later, it was he who persuaded Bill Clinton to give Gerry Adams a US visa and he who got that presidency as involved as it was in the peace process -- though many, even after Ted Kennedy's death, find grounds to criticise what was a sometimes romanticised view of this country.

But if politically Kennedy had matured by this time, his personal life spoke of another side to him.

He continued the laddish behaviour that might well have also characterised his brothers' middle ages, had they lived, but they did not. They remained young and golden, their pecadilloes emerging only long after their deaths, while Ted lived to see his in the spotlight.

And it wasn't just a few too many canapes; magazines as solemn as Time went so far as to write about his romantic escapades, while another magazine published pictures of him in a clinch on board a yacht. It was undignified and, for a time, Ted Kennedy seemed set to grow old disgracefully.

An incident in the early Nineties seemed to turn Ted Kennedy's life around, however, in a way that other scandals and sufferings had not.

Over the Easter weekend of 1991, he enjoyed a night out with his son Patrick and nephew William Kennedy Smith (son of Jean) while visiting the family home in Florida. They ended the night in a club, two girls came back to the house, and the next morning, Patricia Bowman made an accusation of rape against Kennedy Smith.

Taking the stand -- for the prosecution, who must have believed Kennedy's testimony would sink his nephew -- the senator gave a tour-de-force performance as the patriarch of one of America's leading families.

He admitted regret that he didn't just take a walk on the beach that night and lead by example. He admitted that he had disappointed himself and others and promised to confront his shortcomings.

William Kennedy Smith was subsequently acquitted.

Ted Kennedy, by then, was approaching his 60th birthday and, many would say, it was in the almost 20 years that followed that he did his best work and lived his best life. And, maybe, he finally accepted that he would be the one Kennedy boy to grow old, to leave a long legacy, to have a chance at a second chapter.

Many, of course, credit his second wife, Victoria Reggie, with helping to turn Kennedy around following their 1992 marriage and he himself professed greater personal happiness in the years since then than he had enjoyed before.

Had Ted Kennedy died 20 years ago, the reflections on his life and times might have been very different.

In his late 50s, he was something of a figure of fun, high-living, lampooned on US late-night talk shows for his bloated body and increasingly florid complexion, womanising and just a little bit wild for a man of his years and standing.

A magazine profile described him as "an ageing Irish boyo clutching a bottle and diddling a blonde" and his political career looked destined to end in disgrace and in sharp contrast to the high esteem in which his brothers will forever be held; but longevity allowed Ted Kennedy to turn all of that around later in his life.

On the day of his inauguration, John F Kennedy gave his baby brother, Teddy, a silver cigarette case engraved with the Biblical inscription: "And the last shall be first."

The last of the Kennedys is gone, but he has left a legacy behind him which is longer and richer than those left by his older brothers.

He, in many ways, had the greater life in terms of highs, lows, errors and achievements; a more tellingly human life and a more natural end.

He had the gift of a "length of years", and Ted Kennedy certainly used them.