A Parliamentary Affair (24 page)

‘Umm? … Don’t stop, that’s lovely.’

‘I promised a character I know called Marcus Carey that I’d put in a good word for him. He’s on the Anglo-Irish joint talks at present, but he wants to get back into mainstream politics. I think he’d like to be a special adviser of some kind. I’ve told him I can’t really help, but at least now I’ve kept my promise.’

‘I know him. Tell him I’ll pass on his interest… Ah, look what you are doing to me! Now before we make love once more, O most delicious and tantalising Elaine, are there any other suits you wish to put?’

She hesitated. ‘Only my own, really. It’s fifteen months and still nothing, while I see others getting on. Are there any chances for me in this reshuffle, do you think?’

Her voice was wistful. He took her hand and kissed it, and turning it over kissed the palm, using it to hide his expression. For he too wanted her to rise in the hierarchy, if that was her desire, but he doubted whether she was made of the right material, and he did not dare use his position to help her. The sparkle which so attracted him hinted at a lack of gravitas. The sharp observations and wry comments with which she lightened his life raised dullard eyebrows in the tea room and made her enemies. Her very femaleness in that male environment was not fresh and welcome, but an intrusion and a threat.

‘Goodness only knows, Elaine. If a chance comes, I’ll put in a good word for you, too. But don’t count on it. You must just be…’ His voice tailed off, but now his eyes were merry, for her hand had moved back to caressing him and he was ready to make love once more.

‘Patient! I know.’

He grabbed her and tumbled her on to her back, and with a whoop pinned her arms above her head, and entered her with the full vigour of a man in the prime of life with the woman he adored; and this time their two bodies clung together and became as one, as one, as one, till at last night fell, all unnoticed, in the darkened room.

She lay on her back, the ceiling hidden by his bulk, the world shut out by his profound dominance. She put her hands to his shoulders, pushed him off her a little and looked into his eyes. She wanted to win, tonight, a reward for all the lessons. She wanted to tell the truth to him, to be one person who did not lie to him, with whom there were no lies.

‘I love you, Roger Dickson,’ she said softly, ‘and I believe I will love you till I die.’

A sigh came from his lips, but she could not see his face clearly in the darkness. He moved his head slowly from side to side, and seemed to be saying, ‘No … no…’ but no sound came out.

He let his weight down on her, then rolled away, but still held her close, stroking her hair, making strange guttural sounds in his throat. His eyes were shut tight. The street light caught the corner of his eyelid, and there was a wetness, which rolled slowly down his cheek on to the pillow.

He lay still for a long time, then opened his eyes, and instantly old straightforward Roger was back inside his skin. He sat up and stretched.

‘Ah! My dear Patience. All good things come to an end. I am afraid I must go. Pass me my clothes, please.’

Carrying the little pile he headed into the bathroom, staggering slightly. The blue underpants fell to the floor. She picked them up and hurried after him, then stood in the doorway watching calmly as he began soaping himself under the shower.

‘Next time, let me do that,’ she offered.

He laughed: ‘After what you got up to with the strawberries? What instrument would you propose using on me – the backbrush, maybe?’

His teasing tone restored the lighter atmosphere. She smiled at his face in the mirror as he concentrated on his task. She had no warning of his next question.

‘Do you believe in God, Elaine?’

‘What? Oh, yes, I think so. Why?’

‘And heaven?’

‘I’ve no idea. What an odd question. Yes, I think there must be something after all this life, and I hope it’s enjoyable.’

He fastened and smoothed his crumpled shirt, then his tie. He pointed at the mirror, at the strange Magritte image of the man and woman together, disturbing and exciting, he dressed, she still naked, her skin warm and flushed from their lovemaking.

‘That’s heaven, the only one we’re likely to get,’ he said. ‘So let’s just make the best of it, and not think beyond that, OK?’

There were to be no more words that night. She pulled a big bath towel around her, twisting it over her breasts to make it stay put. Fully dressed, he took her face in both hands and kissed her forehead, as if he were a priest blessing a child. Then he was gone.

Peter stood in the basement flat and jingled the bunch of keys. It was several weeks since he had led Nigel Boswood upstairs, receiving these keys, it seemed, in return. Boswood had questioned him closely about money, and when satisfied that he was not destitute told him gruffly that there would be no question of rent and that if he wanted milk he should put a note out for the milkman.

For all that, money had changed hands. Not cheques, naturally. A little wad of ten-pound notes nestled on Peter’s pillow one evening when he returned from a visit to his sister’s. He took it as a hint that his services were requested that night, and he had been correct. The sum was not large – about £100 – but useful. No words had been exchanged the next day, the money never mentioned. A fortnight later the same thing happened again, then at regular intervals, enough to make other clients unnecessary. When, almost out of curiosity, Peter commented on how expensive London had become during his long absence in Amsterdam, the sum increased substantially. It felt like hitting the jackpot: as easy as falling off a log.

That night he had slept in Nigel’s bed, curled close, one hand flung across his lover’s chest, and had been awoken in the morning with a murmured kiss. Thereafter he took to knocking gently on the door soon after Nigel had gone to bed. The man was often stuck doing his wretched boxes and would wryly shake his head. Sometimes, however, the boxes were finished, or done before leaving the
office, and the two would lie abed, holding hands and half watching the news on the television set on the dressing-table.

It was an undemanding existence. Peter realised that Nigel’s detective knew of him; the chauffeur also pretended not to see him behind the net curtains in the mornings. But Peter was practised at disappearing into the background and giving no trouble. For the moment this was a very pleasant life. At the least hint of problems he could always take the plane to Amsterdam.

‘Thank God, recess soon.’

The Prime Minister poured a mineral water and a weak whisky and soda, handed the latter to the Chief Whip and settled himself uncomfortably in a low, chintz-covered sofa. Margaret Thatcher’s taste up here, in the diminutive private flat under the eaves of 10 Downing Street, was more than a little suspect. His wife’s check jacket hung loosely over a high-backed chair near the small desk she used for her own correspondence. Tonight she was presenting the prizes for Children of Courage. Time and space to clear urgent business.

‘It has been the worst year in my parliamentary career,’ the Prime Minister continued, passing a hand over his face. Both men were clean-shaven but showing five o’clock shadows. Here in trusted company he could remove his spectacles and rub his eyes. The Prime Minister was very short-sighted, far too much for contact lenses. He peered blearily into middle distance. The fog in front seemed clearer somehow than the impenetrable future. Beneath the glasses the eyes were surprisingly dark brown and gentle. The face was drawn and a little pinched. His bad leg ached. He felt very tired.

The Chief Whip waited sympathetically. The management of a tiny majority was a new and unpleasant exercise after the overwhelmingly favourable odds of previous Parliaments. It was also grinding hard work, long tedious hours with two hundred recalcitrant backbenchers, persuading, cajoling, commiserating. Previously something might have been offered in return for firm support, a little log-rolling not unknown in other countries, a new road or a new government project in the constituency; but, with public-spending budgets already rising five times faster than inflation, all bets were off. Nor did arm-twisting work. With what could he threaten a man whose constituency was facing 15 per cent unemployment? For such Members, trying to force the government to change tack seemed not a disloyalty but a duty. Deselection could seem like a relief.

The Prime Minister sighed, replaced his spectacles, swallowed a little of the tepid water and reached for a sheet of paper underneath the table lamp. He resumed a brisk manner.

‘Reshuffle time, Chief. There aren’t a great many vacancies, I’m afraid. So many moves recently, under both Margaret and myself. A little stability would be welcome. Anyway I hate moving people just for the sake of it.’

The Chief did not entirely agree. Moving people kept everyone on their toes, especially new boys waiting for their chance. It improved behaviour, pure and simple. It was not only the troops who were badly affected by inertia.

The prevailing philosophy in the Cabinet that keeping heads down and not causing any fuss was also the best policy was having a seriously damaging effect. Far too many ministers were effectively faceless, silent, anonymous. Several made far less impact than in their livelier backbench days. A few were utterly useless. He wished the Prime Minister would use the knife.

The Chief ventured a comment: ‘Department of the Environment needs beefing up, though.’

The Prime Minister agreed. ‘I’d expect Boswood to retire before too long, but he’s so reliable that I’m reluctant to move him. Shall we put in a stronger voice as number two? Who might be suitable for Minister of State?’ Various names were bandied about. The Chief had his own preferences. The best way was to offer someone senior from the whips’ office, then promote within the office to fill the gap, taking in a new boy straight from the back benches, an apprentice to train up.
That route left control of the inflow of ministers almost entirely to the whips, for they alone decided who should join their number. New
boy
, of course. No room for any women. No need to change that.

‘Might I suggest Roger Dickson? He was Environment whip and has been in the whips’ office three years, long enough for anyone who’s not a career whip, and he isn’t. He’s very capable, and has been hinting recently that the time has come to move on. His seat is in the Midlands, which is helpful – too many chaps from the south aren’t good for the image. Pleasant, sensible, got his head screwed on. With a bit more exposure could do well on TV – just the sort to appeal to the ladies. How about it?’

‘Any skeletons?’

‘The ladies? Sorry, I meant the twinset-and-pearls brigade. Happily married, as far as I know. Not a whisper of any problem, apart from increasing frustration with the whips’ office. He hides it well, but you can feel a tension underneath. It’s time to move him on. I can recommend him without reservation.’

Consciously the Chief Whip used formal language as if he were writing a reference. The Prime Minister noted the offer.

‘All right, if you say so: Minister of State at Environment. Now, Chief, what on earth am I going to do about the Chancellor?’

Roger received the news just before lunchtime the next day from the Chief Whip at Number 12. He walked through the connecting door to No. 10 away from prying eyes. A handshake, a smile, a quick drink with the PM, and that was it.

The front door of No. 10 opened as Dickson walked out into the dull summer day. A few flashbulbs popped, but he was barely known and of no interest. A slight bespectacled figure approached in a grey chauffeur’s uniform. The man introduced himself as Alec Vinson, his new Ministry driver, and indicated the two-year-old Rover car. Whips do not have an official car allocated to them by name, but ministers do: wonderful! Roger started to laugh. Yet he needed a few moments to think. Courteously he declined the offer of a ride and began to walk rapidly towards Marsham Street and the Department of the Environment.

What a relief. And it would be a pleasure working with Boswood. Roger had noted that the Cabinet minister had been looking a little troubled recently, a mixture of excited irritability and unusual moroseness. A man his age was probably beginning to suffer from rheumatism or a queasy prostate. This life was notorious for wear and tear on the bodily fabric. He resolved to watch Boswood carefully, and offer help to relieve the burden.

Roger would be the most senior minister after the Secretary of State in a much slimmed-down department. The DoE used to be a lot larger; at one stage there had been ten ministers including the Lords. Now that one spate of pointless reform in local government was finished, indeed substantially reversed, a smaller team was preferred. Thank God he would not have to take a new poll tax through Parliament; messing around with finance systems was over, it was to be hoped, for at least a generation. On the whole Roger preferred to interfere as little as possible.

Martin Chadwick was waiting at the lift on the fourteenth floor to greet him. The two men were about the same age and height and appraised each other calmly.

Dickson saw a tall, slim man with a loud tie, a public servant from a background wholly traditional to the Civil Service. Public school, Oxbridge, a bow-windowed cottage in Sittingbourne bought wisely before the boom, a plain, dull wife in Jaeger skirts, two offspring heading in the same direction as their father, a love of expensive opera subsidised by the state, a single acceptable eccentricity – lepidoptery? An extensive knowledge of Icelandic sagas? – all coupled with a haughty disdain for Brussels and a preference for holidays in Tuscany: this was Martin Chadwick. Whatever his lamentable lack of knowledge about the workings of commerce or science and engineering,
however snooty his view of Birmingham, Manchester and all places north of Watford (and of course Watford itself), his sense of public service was profound and all-pervading.

In Chadwick it extended to keeping his own political opinions firmly to himself; only his wife knew how he voted. His job was to serve the government of the day to the best of his ability, not to decide policy or impose his personal view. As a form of self-protection over the years Chadwick had so subsumed his private beliefs that now he would be hard put to dredge some up if challenged. His opinions of his masters the ministers were another matter and often, as the head of the Secretary of State’s private office, discreetly sought. How on earth such appraisals might be transmitted to the Prime Minister or the Chief Whip was a closely guarded secret. A favourable review of Chadwick himself, who was overdue for promotion, was probably even now sitting on the Perm Sec’s desk, behind which some day Chadwick himself no doubt hoped to be seated.