A Parliamentary Affair (16 page)

And, eventually, a great rush of satisfaction, a whoop of triumph at one thing well done that day, that week, as both lay spent and sweaty and gurgling and happy on the tousled bed.

‘Oh, Elaine. You are marvellous.’

Great gasping breaths came from deep inside him as he slithered clear and flopped down heavily beside her. She wriggled and stretched, familiar now with his body. Her head with its damp matted fringe of blonde hair fitted snugly on to his shoulder, but for a moment she wanted to gaze at him. She propped herself up on one elbow.

His body was solid, but boyish and almost hairless, to her surprise, for his forearms were hairy and he had persistent trouble with a five o’clock shadow. She ran an index finger lightly down the line of his cheekbone, rubbing at the rough stubble going silver at the edges. It seemed to have grown even in the hour he had spent with her. His upper body was strongly muscled, as were his thighs. She let her fingers stray wistfully down over his abdomen, but he caught her hand quickly and prevented her going further.

‘Not tonight. You seem to enjoy it so much, Elaine. You really get going, don’t you?’

Elaine was startled. Didn’t every woman? ‘Doesn’t Caroline?’ came out, involuntarily.

His look darkened. He rolled off the bed and stood up, but spoke softly. ‘We are not going to spend our time together discussing my wife. Remember the rules? And now I must be off.’

A wave of regret, as if she had burst a beautiful bubble, washed over her. When he returned from the bathroom she was still lying motionless and quiet in the same position, half covered by a duvet.

He touched her shoulder and bent down to kiss her. ‘I’ll let myself out. See you at the House, no doubt. I don’t know how often I’ll be able to do this, Elaine, but don’t expect too much. No notes or phone calls, mind.’

She shook her head. He didn’t need to tell her. His caution was impressive; it suggested he was settling in for a long affair. That pleased and comforted her. It wasn’t only the physical stuff. Knowing him made the Palace of Westminster less of a mapless maze. At the very least she could pick his brains. At her most altruistic she could give him some support. That he was a whip could surely not hinder her own progress up the greasy pole. In fact, it could only help. She felt slightly guilty at even considering using her feminine wiles to assist her career. That was not the reason for her attraction to this man, although honesty insisted that it was not entirely absent.

At best this affair could offer a lot of welcome, even innocent, pleasure and a great enrichment to her life. She spoke sleepily.

‘Understood. Roger, and out.’

The year had flown. High Street shops were full of diaries and calendars, red-coated bearded men, fractious children, tinsel, holly, mistletoe, Christmas trees real and artificial and tinny carol-singing. Marks & Spencer were doing a roaring trade in frilly knickers and flowered tea towels; foodstores were crammed with customers, their trolleys laden with turkeys and liquor. In cold churches women dusted pews and clucked at the price of altar flowers, while ministers and priests hoped forlornly for peace in a troubled world and congregations numerous and generous.

Elaine managed to get her shopping done early, with most of her gifts purchased through mail order. There was no time to do it any other way. Three full Saturdays had been occupied signing 300 Christmas cards: everyone, from the lowliest councillor to the new Deputy Lord-Lieutenant himself, expected one. Just in time she remembered that Mrs Horrocks at Whittington had been recently widowed – a card addressed to the dead did more harm than good.

The last days before the holiday were a busy time for Mike Stalker also, as thousands of Brits headed for skiing holidays and Florida. He was, however, rostered free for the rest of Christmas week. For the first time since summer Elaine would be spending time alone with her husband and daughter. The prospect filled her with unease. She was dog-tired. There would be endless cooking and clearing up, hours sitting around falling asleep in front of old films on television, more hours down in the village pub pretending merriment; no chance of shifting a heap of paperwork, no hope of persuading Mike to don wellies and jacket and come for a cheerful muddy walk – and no contact for several weeks with Roger.

Not that politics was to be absent from their lives for the whole recess. On the contrary: at Mrs Horrocks’s suggestion a function had been arranged at the Stalker home for Boxing Day. Key party loyalists were invited to a buffet lunch prepared by Elaine as thanks for their successful exertions on her behalf during the year. Mutual-aid workers from other constituencies, including Roger Dickson’s in Warwickshire North West, would be coming too. Paradoxically, although it involved an enormous amount of avoidable work, Elaine felt almost enthusiastic. With these functions, unlike family events, she had both choice and control. Feeding eighty friendly people with minimum effort and modest expense was more challenging than stuffing an unwanted bird to satisfy tradition, and wondering what to do with the remains. The lunch was all planned. She had even programmed time for a bath, washing her hair and make-up; she would be on show, performing, in her element. By contrast the family would expect her to revert to being Mum, or to an ideal of motherhood in a steaming productive kitchen which she had never completely achieved, nor aspired to.

Before that came duty to the rest of the relations, however forced it might feel. Elaine’s parents had divorced when she was a child and her mother had died when she was at college. Her relationship with her father, who had long since remarried, was perfunctory and polite. He was content with a phone call, was indeed pleased to boast about her telephoning to his friends: his little girl. Far more insistent and demanding were Mike’s parents and his sister Christine, who, following a brief unsuccessful marriage, lived with them in a damp household completed by an ancient, smelly wolfhound called Paddy which got too little exercise.

It was not that Elaine Stalker was hostile to family life. She held most strongly that the traditional family was the heart of western civilisation. Marriage meant a great deal to her, and in her marriage until quite recently she had found much of the warmth missing during her earlier years. There were, however, distinct problems. The first stemmed from her preoccupation with politics, which increasingly excluded normal conjugal and parental activity. The hours were so daft, the demands on her so exhausting. Finding time to care for Mike and Karen was not only tough but emotionally draining when she had already given her all dealing with constituents’ pressures. Their
hurt feelings on the matter might remain unexpressed, yet that fact itself added to the burden she was tempted to push away and ignore. This was why Roger filled the gap so effectively: he was fun, he was satisfying and he was brief. He understood the need to use their limited time as fully as possible. He demanded nothing of her, yet the affair was already doing its damage. It fitted more neatly into her political life than did either husband or child.

There was also the tricky matter of the role Mike still expected her to play. It was not simply that he had failed to adjust to her new-found importance, but rather that for Elaine there was the feeling, every time she entered Parliament, of that being her real home. Whenever she thought about the conundrum she felt dimly guilty, but postponed any serious consideration of what to do. Most of the time she did not think about it at all. Only at Christmas, when Mike’s family would expect her to revert to the doting submissive wife they believed she always had been, did her gorge rise with resentment.

Their attitudes were plain. Never an introspective bunch, they were clearly puzzled why Mike’s wife should be in the least interested in politics, let alone keen to go through the whole peculiar business of being elected an MP. It was hardly a respected or well-paid profession, like, say, being a solicitor. It dragged Mike and Karen unwillingly into the public eye, which was unforgiveable. It boasted of conceit and arrogance, unacceptable qualities in a Mrs Stalker. It was
weird
. Had Mike given Elaine an ultimatum at any time, that she must choose between this strange malady and himself, he would have received the applause of his family. And they would have expected her immediately to capitulate and go back to being a normal spouse. Had there been a spark of good nature in any of them, or a willingness to listen, ask questions and ruminate over the answers, she might have tried to explain, but the worst part of the whole miserable business was that Mike’s family were awful.

Elaine resisted any suggestion of eating Christmas dinner in their joyless home. The distance of over eighty miles and the poor health of both Mr Stalker senior and the dog precluded the in-laws travelling to Elaine and Mike’s, for which she was profoundly thankful. After protracted negotiation it was decided that Mike, Elaine and Karen would spend Christmas Day together at home in Warmingshire and most of Christmas Eve at the parental abode three counties away.

Mike’s big BMW was duly laden with gifts. Would Christine like the colour of the Hermès scarf? How would Mike’s mother react to the Teasmade for her bedroom – would it hint that she ought to take to her bed and stay there? Mr Stalker had angled helpfully for an electric seed propagator and its bulky form now filled the back seat jammed into Karen’s thigh. He was the only one Elaine looked forward to seeing, though his tendency to vanish at the least hint of trouble made him an uncertain ally.

Old Mrs Stalker was waiting at the door, Paddy flopped at her feet panting wetly, as the car scrunched up the gravel. Elaine was always startled at how wealthy Mike’s family were, conscious of their view that he could have married better. Not that they knew how to enjoy their money. The old lady was grumpily enduring her seventies with the help of chocolates and the remote control on the television set. She was heavily overweight and moved ponderously in her flowered-print dress and cardigan. Her sloth had not affected either mind or tongue, which responded to increasing immobility and frustration by becoming sharper every year. Mike’s older sister was standing next to her, a skinny grey-haired woman with an expression of permanent discontent. Christine’s arid routine would be put out for ages by the arrival of Mike’s worldly bunch, especially Elaine, who would want to watch the news instead of
Come Dancing
, and would ask about parish council affairs and have opinions and infuriatingly know everyone on the front pages of the newspapers. Christine would have bridled at any suggestion that she was jealous of her sister-in-law, whom she regarded as a jumped-up interloper. It was with malicious satisfaction that she noted a slight coolness, a lack of cosy familiarity between her adored brother and his wife as they climbed out of the car.

After a meal of dark-brown dry roast beef and salty packet gravy Elaine found herself in the cheerless lounge trying to make conversation. Mike was strolling around a sodden garden, the dog moping at his heel, bored and half listening as his father pointed out winter brassicas and the depredations of slugs. Karen had disappeared into the library and was seated on the floor surrounded by old books, tolerably happy and keeping her young head down. Elaine was irredeemably stuck for at least a couple of hours with the ladies of the house.

‘Enjoying the political life, are you?’

Mrs Stalker was sitting bolt upright in an overstuffed easy chair. Her huge thighs and the arms of the chair were identically rounded. Too many tight rings squeezed flesh on podgy fingers. Her unsubtle gaze examined her daughter-in-law. Dark circles under eyes. Bit pale. Overdoing it, no doubt. Neglecting herself and her family. Not a job for a woman, not at all.

‘Oh yes, very much. It is hard work, but very worthwhile. I feel like I’ve been doing it for years, not just a few months.’

She was aware she was gushing. Talking to the forbidding figure on the other side of the room necessitated raising her voice as if addressing a meeting. The armchairs were arranged almost at the edges of the carpet, as if the owners were afraid of contagion.

Elaine was reasonably sure the failure was not all on her side. Most old ladies she met were friendly and keen to chat or even give her an affectionate kiss and cuddle – Dorothy Holmes, for example. Or they had problems and were tearful and needed her advice: even then, the relationship was clear and unequivocal, with some sharing of the human condition. With Mike’s mother there were no bridges and no understanding.

It was coffee time. Christine carried the cafetière towards her as if it were a machine-gun. The water had not been boiling and the resulting brew was gritty and unpleasant. Elaine refused the sugar cubes opting instead for a sweetener from her handbag. The act of rebellion was observed icily. She shivered.

‘Cold?’ Mrs Stalker looked triumphant.

‘A little. It is chilly for this time of year.’

Mrs Stalker smiled glassily, showing stumpy yellow teeth. ‘The heat doesn’t come on till five, I’m afraid. Would you like to fetch a sweater?’

Elaine, subdued, shook her head. She felt defeated. Christine and her mother engaged in chat about members of the family and their doings, people Elaine barely knew and could not recall clearly. Mixing with so many vibrant personalities at Westminster made it harder to endure such small talk. The conversation switched to medical matters as mother and daughter discussed Mrs Stalker’s forthcoming hip operation and the doctor’s outrageous suggestion that she should lose three stone first. Long waiting lists at the local hospital caused them no anxiety. By going private they could demonstrate the family’s superiority to all and sundry.

A blast of wintry air with the sour whiff of dog signalled that the garden tour was over. Mr Stalker had spent long periods of early life abroad in the colonial service and had learned on his occasional returns to stay out of his wife’s way. He rather liked Elaine and recognised the sparkle that first had attracted his son. It seemed subdued at present; he hoped vaguely that all was well. Of course there would be strains with Elaine’s new job, and Mike was pushing for promotion too. Couldn’t be easy for either of them, especially for her: as an only son and younger child, Mike had been rather spoiled. Mr Stalker had known absolute power, had ordered beatings and imprisonments and deaths in Africa. In his own home it suited him to be powerless and thus comfortingly without conscience or responsibility. If Elaine and Mike were having difficulties, if his wife spluttered out her disapproval of Elaine over the teacups after the family had left, he would grunt noncomittally. It was none of his business.

The hands of the clock on the mantelpiece crawled round as winter gloom seeped into the lounge. Paddy was banished to the kitchen, where he left large muddy pawprints and a smell of bad breath and rotting leaves. More food appeared, thin scones and grey tea; for next Christmas, Elaine sighed, she would buy them an electric kettle which switched itself off only
after
the water boiled. Under a pile of
Woman’s Own
magazines Mrs Stalker’s open chocolate box remained resolutely unoffered.

It was an enormous relief when at last the clock struck six, the earliest hour at which it would be polite to move. The journey back would take nearly three hours on winding roads. More presents were loaded in the boot, fewer this time, for Mrs Stalker preferred to give small envelopes with cheques and save herself the bother of considering the personal preferences of recipients. Elaine kept smiling as she roused Karen, gingerly patted Paddy while averting her face from his powerful breath, kissed the old man with as much genuine warmth as she could summon after seven hours in his wife’s unrelenting company, offered a perfunctory peck to Mother and Christine, and headed with an aching need to escape into the car and away.

In the back Karen yawned, opened her envelope, nodded approvingly at her grandmother’s cheque and quickly slid down into sleep. Classic FM filled the empty silence as Mike drove. Elaine wished to God she could find some way either of breaking down the family’s coolness towards her or, failing that, of not seeing them at all. Visits like today’s did not help either family relationships or her edgy nerves. Worst of all, she was beginning not to care: not to hate the miserable old bat as she had done for much of her married life, but simply not count Mrs Stalker and by extension the appalling Christine as real people at all. Indifference was a protection. It meant she felt no obligation to change, adapt or bend. The Stalkers’ own hardness had shut her out for ever. She could simply ignore Mike’s family while feeling a little sorry for old Mr Stalker. None of them could now elicit the warm friendly response that even her lowliest constituent could command.