A Parliamentary Affair (17 page)

She saw Mike glance in the mirror at Karen. The girl was slumped in her seatbelt, breathing deeply.

‘You might have tried a little harder, Elaine.’ His voice was low but full of suppressed anger.

Good job he could not read her thoughts. It was not worth a row, not after her self-discipline all afternoon.

‘I’m sorry, Mike. It’s just that I don’t click with your mother. I don’t know why. I have tried, but nothing I’ve ever done seems to satisfy her. I’m fond of your father, but he doesn’t exactly assert himself, does he? And she seems to be getting worse. I’ve been part of her family for fifteen years. Can she still not accept me?’

Mike Stalker watched the road. It was beginning to rain, making visibility poor. ‘She’s getting old and that hip causes her a lot of pain though she won’t admit it. She’s a very strong woman, Elaine, like you. I’ll admit Christine can be a sourpuss, but she was like that even when I was a little boy.’

‘Christine was probably always destined to be a dried-up old spinster. She should never have married – it’s merely confirmed her unhappy view of life.’ It did not seem appropriate to add, ‘Not like us.’

Mike continued, self-justifying, half pleading: ‘It’s not as if we see such a lot of them.’

‘That’s not my fault. You could if you wanted.’

‘Elaine, be realistic. I have a job to do.’

‘So have I.’

No more was said. It was an unsatisfactory conversation and left ends trailing. Even if her fling with Roger Dickson was nothing more than a bit of fun, a friendship at work, it seemed to be affecting the way she responded to her husband. By contrast with Roger he seemed dull and
one-dimensional
. It took longer when she and Mike were together to re-establish worthwhile contact, to find again the private gentle words of married people, that way of signalling affection which leads to
intimacy. His willingness to put up with his family and to defend them and his insistence that filial duty overrode other considerations – including his responsibility to her – seemed to her more a weakness than a strength.

That night, as rain sleeted down and rattled the windows, she and Mike slept back-to-back, not touching. She lay awake for a long while, and wished defiantly that she were in Roger’s bed instead.

By the evening of Christmas Day it was clear that this would be the worst Christmas they would ever spend together. She overslept and woke with a headache. The turkey had taken so long to defrost that it was not cooked till after three o’clock. Both Mike and Karen were so ravenous by noon that they demolished half a loaf of bread and destroyed their appetites. Mike opened a bottle of Clos de L’Echo 1991 red wine and declared it too young; but that did not stop him drinking most of it and falling asleep in front of the Queen’s Christmas broadcast. Karen played records in her bedroom all morning, then commandeered the telephone for long calls to friends. In clearing the kitchen table of its usual layers of papers and junk in order to lay for lunch, Elaine knocked her pocket dictating machine on to the tiled floor and smashed it. A pretty crystal bowl full of paperclips, a wedding present, had followed soon after. She consoled herself with a large glass of sherry, and then another.

By the time the food appeared it was good but unappreciated. No one wanted Christmas pudding and not for the first time Elaine wondered if the rest of the nation, like herself, bought it as a talisman and eventually dumped it cold and uneaten in the bin. The Belgian chocolates Mike had brought her were prettily wrapped but she ate too many and felt slightly sick.

Then the pretence disintegrated with a vengeance. Karen announced that a friend would be picking her up at five to go out; Mike said he would not be needing supper and would spend an hour or two at the pub; and that left Elaine alone, sitting marooned and slightly drunk at the bedecked table still littered with substantial remains, picking at an unwanted tangerine, wondering what was on television and slowly starting to cry.

It had to be possible to be a good mother and wife and good at her job too.
It had to be possible
. Lots of other people managed it. Margaret Thatcher had been appointed to the Cabinet when her children were the same age as Karen, and she had had twins. Astonished civil servants still told the story that at five o’clock one afternoon she had dashed out of a meeting to go and buy bacon for Denis Thatcher’s tea. It must be easier now. Prejudice against women had been much greater in those days, and Mike was not the sort of chap to demand dinner on the table at set hours. Indeed, given today’s performance maybe he did not want dinner cooked by her at all. Enough: next year she would book them all in at the Dog & Partridge Special Christmas Grill and Carvery instead.

The phone rang and made her jump. She wiped her nose, drained her glass and reached for the handset.

It was Roger.

‘Hello, Mrs Stalker. A very Merry Christmas to you and yours!’

‘Oh, put a sock in it. I can do without Christmas and all that false merriment.’ She noted, her spirits rising, that he sounded a little merry himself. There was childish laughter in the background. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘Nothing in particular. I merely longed to hear your wonderful voice. Yes, there is something. You’re having some of my people over to your house tomorrow, isn’t that right? I wanted to thank you. You’ll meet my agent, Tom Sparrow. Be nice to him – he doesn’t approve of women MPs, other than the Blessed Margaret, but if he did he’d quite approve of you. As I do. I’ve told him. Hope it all goes well… Bye.’

Abruptly he rang off, as if someone had interrupted him.

It was fortunate Mike was not there to ask who was calling her on Christmas Day. What he did not know would not hurt him. She shook her befuddled head, collected the dirty plates and with a heavy sigh headed back into the kitchen.

Tom Sparrow stood at the door of the big airy study which Elaine had converted into a buffet, noted the beautifully decorated table groaning under the food and nodded in appreciation. He was a tall, upright man in his mid-fifties, grey-haired and moustached with sharp eyes and a military bearing. Tom had so enjoyed National Service that he had signed up and completed twenty-two years in the British Army, rising through the ranks of the Royal Fusiliers to warrant officer. Eventually an old cartilage injury had put an end to his modest career. Thus in early middle age, armed with a substantial army pension and with no ties, he had been looking for a job. Sparrow had always used his service vote, though he was scrupulous not to inquire too closely into the intricacies of policy affecting wherever he happened to be serving, in case it reduced his effectiveness as a soldier. While mooching around testing the employment market he attended a rally addressed by Opposition Leader Margaret Thatcher and was hooked. On asking how he might help ensure her victory he was directed to North-West Warwickshire, then a key marginal seat close to his home. The election set every bone in his body tingling, even though the seat was retained by Labour. He knew he had found his
métier
, with its extraordinary combination of teamwork and leadership, hard slog and downright cunning. As soon as possible he trained as an agent and was appointed to the post, just as the Boundary Commission changed the boundaries in their favour and Roger Dickson was adopted.

Elaine slapped the last hot quiche down on the table, smiled sweetly at Tom, took off her pinny with a flourish, strode into the crowded main room and clapped her hands for attention.

‘Ladies and gentlemen! First of all, Mike and I would like to welcome you all to our home, and particularly those who have come a long way, as you did nine months ago to ensure we won this seat. You will be delighted to hear there’s no charge today’ – muffled cheers from long-suffering party workers who were accustomed to dipping endlessly into pockets for the cause –’no raffle’ (‘Hooray!’) ‘and no speeches’ (‘Hear, hear!’). ‘I just want you to enjoy yourselves, and thank you all very much. Lunch is now served.’

It was graciously done. She stood to one side and ushered her guests in, accepting their compliments with satisfaction. Mike was at the bar unpopping sparkling Saumur, a respectable substitute for champagne. British Airways had phoned that morning and rostered him to fly the following day in place of a sick colleague; he had not seemed devastated as he told her. Karen was wearing black tights and a black velvet miniskirt she had bought in a sale, too short in her father’s view, her long legs seeming to start from her ears. The child was already taller than her mother. With a start Elaine realised that the girl was turning into a woman. She felt almost panicky – that should not happen before she had talked to her more, warned her about the pitfalls of a world so cruel to women and yet so full of opportunities. Not today – there was no time today: it would have, to wait.

‘We’re grateful to you for your help.’ Mindful of Roger’s warning, Elaine spoke formally to Sparrow, whose bearing and demeanour did not invite informality. He bowed slightly, though she half expected him to come to attention and salute.

‘Did you do all this yourself?’

‘More or less!’ Elaine laughed. Why, she had taken pride in doing all this herself, apart from the booze, which was Mike’s fiefdom. ‘Sainsbury’s provided the cold pies, specially ordered last week and collected first thing this morning. Everything else is mine own fair hand, though the secret is to get the maximum result out of the minimum effort. Just like politics.’ She gave him a conspiratorial grin: the look which had so captivated Roger.

Dickson had mentioned Mrs Stalker more than once.

Sparrow was a man of the world and had been in politics long enough to know that anything was possible. He examined the lady with professional interest, hoping she was not setting her cap at his MP. That would lead only to trouble.

The event was a great success and more than made up for the unmitigated disaster of Christmas Day which Elaine put resolutely behind her. Four women insisted on staying behind to help clear up and filled the kitchen with bustle and companionship. By the time all the spare Stilton had been cut into chunks and given away, butter restored to the fridge, the remaining trifle guzzled and the empties removed to the garage her house was looking tidier than for ages and she was feeling a lot happier. She kissed Mike goodbye and waved him off without a twinge.

When the phone rang with Roger once more on the other end she was vastly more cheerful and composed. A slight buzz suggested he might be using his car phone.

‘You sounded so blue yesterday. Did I catch you at a bad time?’

‘Ummm, yes; I don’t think I am going to succeed at my ambition of being a combination of Sheila Kitzinger and Eve Pollard.’

‘What?’

‘Earth mother and career girl. I think I’m better at the latter. I seem to tackle work with more enthusiasm and more … talent; I’m better at my job than most people, but pretty mediocre in the household stakes. Any advice?’

‘Sounds exactly like me and most of your male colleagues. We all face precisely the same problem, yet most men don’t trouble themselves over it.’ Roger was reassuring. ‘Why do women want to be good at everything? From what I hear, however, you’ve excellent domestic skills. I just spoke to Tom Sparrow and he’s singing your praises.’

They chatted for a bit. The international news was gloomy, the recess might be cut short. She sensed that he was building up to something and cut in, making the offer herself.

‘Roger? It’s lovely talking to you but we aren’t secure on the car phone. If you had a few minutes perhaps you could pop over. Mike is on duty and Karen is at a disco with friends. She was afraid I’d make her clear up so she skedaddled sharpish after the party this afternoon and may stay over. Could you come?’

She had read his mind correctly, for he was parked on the brow of a hill barely a mile away and had been watching her house in the wintry sunlight even as he dialled her number. Ten minutes later his car was neatly in Mike Stalker’s place in the garage with the door closed. Ten minutes after that he was firmly in Mike Stalker’s bed, the glass of French fizzy on the bedside table warm and flat and forgotten as he made love, slowly and with the greatest pleasure, to Mike Stalker’s wife.

Elaine had missed him and told him so. Both had spent too long with their families, getting bored and fidgety, aching for serious insider conversation. Now they indulged, talking through the poor state of the economy, the atrocious performance of key Cabinet figures, the perils of steering the government’s programme through the Commons. All around them husbands and wives were falling out after the holiday, stomping off and heading for the solicitor’s, for more couples break up at Christmas after concentrated exposure to failed relationships than at any other time of year.

He lay at last on his back, tucked her head on to his shoulder and pulled the duvet over them both. The evening was quiet.

‘Why are we like this, Roger? Why are we so driven by our outside lives, so that we can’t function for five minutes without them? There are times when I can’t imagine how I would live without my work. Honestly, I love my family, and in particular dread the day when Karen will have grown up and left. I’m not sure how well Mike and I would get on without her to cement us together. I also adore being an MP and I want to do it well and be recognised as competent – and be promoted. At times that’s a much more powerful pull. I’m beginning to feel torn in two.’

‘You will be promoted!’ That was what she wanted to hear. Roger eased his arm, which was going numb. ‘You just have to be patient, that’s all. Haven’t I told you a dozen times?’

‘I get scared my ambition will damage my family. Perhaps it already has: I’m less patient with them, especially my ghastly in-laws. Once I used to make an effort but on Christmas Eve I sat there seething the whole time we were at their house. If I could find some way of never going there again I would – isn’t that awful? Or perhaps it’s because I meet so many lovely people these days that my relations seem even worse by comparison.’