A Parliamentary Affair (25 page)

Furthermore, Roger reflected wryly, such people were not swayed by the usual influences. Chadwick would have been genuinely disgusted had anyone ever tried to offer him a bribe. Had he smelled corruption it would have been his duty to speak to his superior and put his worries on record. That the administration in many other countries was run entirely on backhanders would cause the man real grief, especially when he tried ineffectually to explain during training sessions with puzzled and incredulous trainees from Third World governments at the Civil Service College in Belgrave Road. It was a kind of trust. Their reward was a job well done. And, of course, the knowledge that with absolute certainty, as night follows day, their unknown names would eventually be duty honoured. Roger could already picture Chadwick at the palace in morning dress, cradling the stunning jewels of a KCMG nestling in a white silk-lined box in his gloved hand, the lady wife holding on to her hat and simpering. By then a handsome inflation-proofed pension would be augmented by generous directorships arranged by ex-civil servants who had gone before. Nothing arduous. Nothing not lucrative. Not corrupting at all.

Chadwick shook Dickson’s hand formally and introduced himself. As the Secretary of State’s private secretary he took precedence over Dickson’s own staff, to whom the new minister was then introduced. Flora Murray was to be his own private secretary; not a dogsbody, not a PA, but a career civil servant in charge of his office. Flora was thin, red-haired and very Scottish. His other staff included Jane, the diary secretary, a bouncy youngster from Liverpool. Winston was in charge of correspondence, another equality appointment, for he was a six-foot-two Rastafarian with dreadlocks hidden under a red, green and black striped woolly hat, the colours not of Britain but Jamaica. Lastly there was the trainee, Sharon from Leytonstone, a podgy mouse with lank hair and terrified eyes. As Roger glanced over her desk littered with the remains of her lunch, Sharon blushed furiously and swept the papers away, knocking a plastic cup of coffee over in the process. Flora pursed her lips; Jane looked at the ceiling in disgust. Roger wondered how such a disparate bunch in these cramped conditions could function smoothly, if at all.

The phone rang: it was the Secretary of State’s office three doors away, asking if the minister might be available in ten minutes to see the Secretary of State in his room. Used to the easy informality of the whips’ office, Roger could see that life as a Minister would be distinctly different.

Boswood greeted him like an old friend and shook hands warmly. Over a drink and a sandwich the two men fell to discussing the department’s programme and likely problems. Roger would be fortunate to have Boswood as boss in his first ministerial job, for behind the bonhomie was a shrewd brain and consideration for those working with him. The complexities were daunting. Roger squared his shoulders and concentrated.

‘You’ll need some help of course,’ Boswood pointed out. Each senior minister was entitled to an unpaid political assistant, an MP who would rejoice in the cumbersome title of parliamentary private secretary, or PPS. The place was awash with secretaries, none of whom could type or take shorthand. The incumbent would be expected to do his master’s bidding, be his eyes and ears around
the Commons, help with speeches and questions and those letters of a more political nature than Winston could be entrusted with; carry Roger’s bags and coat and papers, except those secret files which would be Flora’s responsibility. It was the first step on the ladder, a much sought-after post.

Temporarily back at the whips’ office to collect his personal effects, Roger checked which MPs were currently on the secret list of those judged ready for preferment. He pondered, paper in hand. Elaine’s name was there, at the bottom, in pencil. That implied she had only recently been added: the scribbled impermanence suggested hesitancy, that others were firmly regarded as more suitable. It would have been quite easy to appoint her. And fun. A minister would expect to see a great deal of his PPS. It would add spice to life, especially given that strange collection in the outer office, to have her around, sharing lunch, bringing coffee the way he preferred it, commenting in that quirky wise way of hers. There would be no difficulty arranging evening rendezvous – afternoons, even. It would, however, cause gossip, even though Roger was certain no one had an inkling. He would be teased about her, asked how ‘private’ the relationship was; jealous rivals would watch like hawks. It might be awkward if they fell out, even temporarily – just suppose if a row in bed were to interfere with departmental business. The body language might be tricky. The Civil Service were sharp and cynical, would spot a longing look, might overhear a snatch of conversation. Altogether, asking for Elaine, even though she was desperate for promotion, would not be a good idea.

He ran his finger up the list and alighted on Muncastle. He was pleasant and earnest and hardworking. His achievements so far were quite impressive – the man seemed to have done all the right things. In the end, a PPS job was either a first step up or it went nowhere fast. It was up to the incumbent. Muncastle offered no threat, no risk, no challenge, no fear.

Muncastle it was.

‘Conference time, everybody! Conference. Let’s get moving.’

Nick Thwaite, the paper’s news editor, stuck a dishevelled grey head around the door of the editor’s office and yelled down the corridor. Morning editorial conference at
The Globe
was already late, today as yesterday; the place was beginning to fall apart. Not surprisingly, he thought grimly, given the pressure from their owner to cut costs, the features editor’s defection last week to a rival, the sports editor in hospital facing a charge of drunk driving, a collapse in advertising revenue and a raging recession. He was feeling foul.

To be fair,
The Globe
was not the only paper forced to confront a slowly falling circulation. Newspapers were going out of fashion. These days the punters got their news from television. Given the state of the country’s education system it was amazing anybody under thirty-five could read at all, let alone buy a paper other than for topless girls and Spot the Ball.
The Globe
, like more than one other, would be lucky to survive the next year.

Thwaite called out once more. Behind him the editor, Steve McSharry, waited, quiet but impatient. Doors flew open and bodies appeared, brows furrowed anxiously, arms full of notebooks, proof photographs, page layouts, text, sheets torn from press agency tapes. Thwaite nodded curtly as each entered. He loved the tension, the possibility of creating each time the best edition, of beating competitors to a story, of taking an original line.

The paper had a short but distinguished history. Thwaite had been there from early days when in the wake of the introduction of new technology the then proprietor decided to take on the trade unions. Thwaite had been the only senior journalist willing to support him. Once the row was won the proprietor had a well-earned heart attack and sold out to a mysterious Australian. Nick Thwaite had hoped to be promoted but the coveted editor’s post had gone to the softly spoken Steve McSharry, who moved from a Sunday tabloid. The two men got on well and warily liked each other. The editor had ideas for
The Globe
, but was constantly hampered by lack of money. The new owner left them alone as long as the business was making a profit, which at present it most definitely was not.

A dozen men and women were now settling around the big table. The editor himself was in his forties and dark-haired, donnish and bespectacled. Miranda Jamieson, his breezy young deputy, was a complete contrast. Reputedly she had simply caught a plane from Melbourne and turned up one day as a reporter. Thwaite knew what wasn’t his business and had carefully not enquired how she had come to know the owner.

As Miranda entered the room, Thwaite winked at her, a friendly, avuncular gesture, which she returned with a wry wave. Despite her smart dress she was looking distinctly bleary. The computer links to the printing presses had crashed halfway through the first edition in the dead of night, and Miranda had personally had to input much of the second edition line by line through to the print setters, writing chunks of it from her imagination and press agency tapes as she went along. Around 100,000 copies had been lost, but the fact that there was a paper at all on the newsstands was entirely due to her. Thwaite envied her: with guts like that, she would have her own editor’s chair before long. She already outranked him. This was the new generation.

Five senior staff sat round the table helping themselves to a large pot of real coffee, the only concession to hospitality. An outer concentric circle was by mute agreement reserved for lesser breeds obliged to peer over shoulders as the page layout was discussed. Should they want to make a point it was necessary to stand up, reinforcing the atmosphere of a headmaster’s study. On a good morning there were chocolate biscuits. Not today.

McSharry and Thwaite listened, prodded and questioned as the photographic editor showed displays from war zones in three parts of the world. The fashion editor was tossing her red hair
petulantly, itching to catch a lunchtime plane to Milan. Late, as ever, came Andy Mack, the paper’s shambling, bearded political editor. He grabbed a coffee and pulled out his notebook.

‘Just been to the Prime Minister’s press conference,’ he announced, as if to justify his existence. ‘Great news on the – wait for it! – Citizens’ Charter! It appears that real success is being achieved over at British Raj. Instead of only seventy-five per cent of the trains arriving on time – that is to say, within ten minutes either way, folks – it’s anticipated that next year eighty-five per cent will! That will be achieved by the simple expedient of cutting the number of trains on the least reliable routes, mind you, including Network Southeast.’

Journalists dependent on the worst railway in the world for getting to work groaned. Only senior editors had car park places. Thank goodness they were not in Canary Wharf.

The conference lasted about forty minutes. Nick was impressed as ever at his boss’s light hand, chairing rather than instructing, summing up, obtaining agreement, giving leads. The man operated through a practised mixture of cajolery and encouragement. At last staff were sent on their way.

‘Nick, a moment.’ McSharry motioned him quietly to close the door and sit down again. Miranda hovered, hand on hip, sucking the blue pencil used for layouts. ‘More coffee?’ It was nearly noon.

Nick Thwaite took his fourth cup of the morning. Miranda started to speak, as if McSharry found it too painful.

‘We’re still slipping. The board are concerned about our position.’

On the wall a poster advertised the latest promotion, £100,000 bingo. It didn’t compete with
The Sun
’s Million Pound Madness, but then the Sun was slipping too, more expensively.

‘There’s a critical mass for our advertisers, as you know. We don’t have much of a business section, so we have only limited attraction for insurance ads and the like. We carry no personnel advertising, unlike
The Guardian
, who have created a niche especially in media jobs. Nobody much is buying houses, though we’ve kept up that side. Nevertheless we pay our staffers and contributors the usual over-generous tabloid rates, which we cannot afford. The fact is, we are more dependent than most of our rivals on income from the cover price.’

‘So what’s new? I know all that.’ Nick wondered what was coming.

McSharry took over. His voice was cool, almost lifeless. ‘Last night’s loss of circulation was £35,000 down the drain. That’s two junior members of staff, so I would be grateful if you could decide who you can do without by the end of the month.’

Thwaite swallowed hard. Once news staff were laid off, the effectiveness of the paper started to slide. On the other hand, there were few other areas where cuts could quickly be made.

McSharry was still speaking. Thwaite had heard he practised transcendental meditation in secret: that could account for the steady gaze, the lack of tremor in his voice. An editor without histrionics was rare – and creepy.

‘And we’re being asked to do what we can to increase circulation. There’s precious little on the political front at the moment, but I’d like material ready for when Parliament reassembles in the autumn. I’m afraid it’s dirt-digging time again. Would you discuss with Andy who might be vulnerable – losses at Lloyd’s, financial scandals, fingers in pies, hidden assets, funny friends not declared on the register of Members’ interests, that sort of thing. Don’t neglect sex, of course. Take a look at some of the up-and-coming stars and find out what you can about them. Get somebody on to the new women MPs – how did they get where they are? Which is the sexiest? That sort of thing.’

Miranda, standing behind her editor, pulled a face but said nothing. Nick caught the slight movement out of the corner of his eye. Despite the dark circles under her eyes she was spectacular to look at. If it was true she had slept with somebody to get where she was, he was a lucky chap and his
identity was likely to remain a secret. Only two groups were reasonably sure their private lives would be ignored, mostly, by the tabloids: libel lawyers and senior staff in their own newspapers.

Nick Thwaite sighed, made a note and headed for his own room. He threw off his jacket, called in Thompson and phoned Andy. In a proper office he would have a secretary who could ring around, and who might also make decent coffee. A proper secretary might even be worth having a fling with – fat chance here when he had to share an elderly temp with three other editors. ‘Somebody organise sandwiches for four, now please. Where’s Jim Betts? Go and get him for me.’

Within minutes
The Globe
’s news and political brains were hard at work. None of the men round the table cared a damn that their victims might get hurt. Politicians were public property. Anyone conceited enough to hand in nomination papers should expect such scrutiny as his or her due. Most of the time the electorate was not interested in issues but in personalities: the world was a giant soap opera, filled with princesses, pop stars and politicians – morons every one. Nick Thwaite’s scruples ran as far as insisting on accuracy. The paper could not be sued for what was true, at least not successfully.

Seated opposite the news editor and making rapid notes, Jim Betts munched soggy prawn mayonnaise sandwiches on brown bread, sipped bad coffee with vegetable creamer from a polystyrene cup, and longed for a pint with pie and chips. Being brought up in Liverpool meant food wasn’t wholesome unless it was hot and greasy and doused in vinegar, ketchup or HP sauce. He picked a bit of lettuce leaf out of his teeth and examined it mournfully. Eating this rubbish would make him grumpy all afternoon.

He was thirty, and educated fitfully at Quarry Bank School, whose proudest boast was John Lennon as a former pupil. His apprenticeship on the
Liverpool Echo
was uneventful but thorough, a fact for which he would be perennially grateful. By contrast the Warmingshire interlude had been tedious in the extreme. He was of medium height with pale skin. A ragged moustache, sharply pointed nose and sandy hair made him ferret-like – as, he felt, befitted an outstanding investigative reporter on a great national paper. It was only a matter of time before everybody agreed on the former estimation, if not the latter.

The discussion continued in a desultory fashion until Thwaite had exhausted the possibilities. Armed with a list of suitable targets Betts headed out into the corridor with a swagger. For this job he could have a pool car and could draw out-of-London expenses as much as he judged necessary, provided he brought home the bacon. Jim Betts turned a corner, humming to himself, to find Miranda barring his way.

Although only a year or two older than Miranda, he was acutely conscious that he was not in her class. For a start she was several inches taller, bringing her bosom uncomfortably close to his nose. It was impossible not to look down her cleavage, but watching it heave up and down made him almost seasick. It put him at a serious disadvantage, while she regarded him with amused disdain.

‘Jim! I hear you’re on the dirty MPs job.’ A half-smile. Surely she didn’t want to come too.

‘Uh-huh.’ Non-committal.

‘Can I see who you’ve got? I might be able to point you in the right direction for one or two.’

He produced the notebook and ran through names. He had volunteered to take the second half of the alphabet, more or less, starting with M.

‘Mmm, Muncastle,’ murmured Miranda. ‘I wouldn’t bother with him, Jim, not if you value your job here.’

Betts’s ears pricked up. Miranda leaned over, holding her thick, dark hair with one hand, indicating that she wanted to speak privately, close to his ear. Obediently he bent forward.

‘I hear he has some link to the owner. There could be trouble, even if he’s clean as a whistle. Get it?’

Betts nodded and put a line through the name. That Miranda had some link with the owner was a widespread whisper, probably resulting merely from the coincidence of accents and origins. If, however, there was any truth in it then her suggestion that one of the duller names in his notebook might be best forgotten was fine by him. Others on his list were far more promising. Time to get on with it.

It had been a splendid day’s shooting; the birds had flown fast and free, the dogs had been faithful and his eye was still true. Nigel Boswood positioned himself, whisky in hand, in front of the painting of a distinguished ancestor who had been Foreign Secretary, and awaited his guests. He glanced at the picture behind him wistfully. He would have loved to have become Foreign Secretary himself, but that was never to be.

Indeed, he was likely to see more of his Scottish shooting lodge, and his friends, in future. For Nigel planned to tell the Prime Minister, when the time was right, that he would not be standing again for Parliament, and that he therefore expected to relinquish his Ministry post within the next year or so, at the Leader’s convenience. He would be sixty in January and had first joined the front-bench team as a junior whip in 1970 – a generation ago. A year or two on the back benches being helpful to the government would secure a couple of useful City directorships, each paying more than a parliamentary salary – not, of course, that money was a problem. At the conclusion of his time in the Commons a peerage, reflecting over thirty years’ service and the attainment of Cabinet rank, would be his certain due. As Lord Boswood he could enjoy a happy, useful and comfortable old age.

The voices of his guests as they changed for dinner floated down through the ceiling. For entertainment as he waited, Nigel debated different names and titles. Lord Nigel-Boswood, perhaps, like Lord George-Brown? Or Lord Nigel, like the former Labour MP Cledwyn Hughes who became Lord Cledwyn of Penrhos, quietly forgetting the proletarian Jones? Maybe something altogether fancier. Perhaps he should consult his cousin the Earl. There was plenty of time to decide.

One huge area of relief beckoned: his personal life would at last be private. If he chose to fly to Amsterdam or San Francisco or Haiti or Bangkok, or even sample a discreet gay bar in London, that would be his own business. Of course, if Peter decided to stay on in the basement, no such trips would be necessary. What a pity the boy had demurred at coming here. Didn’t fancy it, he said, preferring to be dropped off at Gatwick so he could go to visit friends in Germany.