A Parliamentary Affair (33 page)

Roger was genuinely sad for Boswood, who had wanted to go out on a bright note. So many younger ministers were pushing for an opportunity. The party was ruthless in sloughing off the old and changing its colours and style to suit the new: that was how it retained its hold on power so long. Dickson had no serious doubts about doing a competent job in Boswood’s place. It was not as if he were unfamiliar with the speech, which would come at the end of the debate. He had written large chunks of it, based on Marcus’s technical suggestions, though Boswood’s wily brain had supplied much of the line of attack.

The chairman, a moderately distinguished Midlands businessman who knew Roger and Caroline well, murmured a welcome. Chairs were quickly swapped around, names scribbled in and crossed out. The changeover was smoothly and quickly completed. Responsibility and authority passed silently and permanently from the flushed and coughing older man to the tall, quiet heir apparent now instinctively smoothing his greying hair. An imperceptible shift in power, as if an invisible mantle had been lifted softly from one set of shoulders and floated down to rest on another’s.

The chairman rose at the microphone and called the hall to order. He welcomed the platform party and explained the change. A groan ran around the vast building, for Nigel was held in high esteem and well loved, a familiar reassuring figure and a bit of a character in a dull world. All eyes settled in curious anticipation on his replacement. The chairman announced the motion and called the proposer, Mrs Davies, a nervous young woman from Leamington. They were off.

The debate itself was a serious matter. Most of the floor speakers would offer only barbed and conditional support. Expressions of outrage and accusations that ministers were not listening or not prepared to act on the advice of ordinary mortals such as themselves would be cheered to the echo. Had the leadership listened in the past there might have been no poll tax, no recession, no split over Europe (and probably no health service or end of empire, either). With hindsight anything is possible. That Conference would also shortly greet in rapture the same ministers who had just been so roundly abused did not seem odd to anyone present. The conundrum remained as to why the nation’s free press continued to report it all in such hostile terms.

Councillor Mrs Davies tearfully overran her time. A dozen more hopefuls sat scattered around the body of the room clutching notes. All, without exception, would try to speak for more than their allowed four minutes. Not one had timed the speech; not one had allowed time for nervous fidgeting
at the beginning or titters or a burst of applause. All came to the penultimate page in increasing panic as the red light flashed under their noses. Not one had practised as Roger had done in front of a mirror, checking facial expressions, marking the text for pauses and breathing and timing. Yet the speeches from the floor were important: herein lay the summation of the party’s current political thinking, a hint of preferred or abhorred directions. Roger listened carefully, nodded, clapped politely, and waited, heart thumping steadily, for his own turn.

The chairman checked he was ready. The great chamber hushed.

At the back of the hall Elaine leaned against a pillar and was glad the attention was all on the platform and not on herself. A great lump came to her throat as she watched the tiny figures in the distance and their multi-magnified selves, left and right, on the wall behind. The sight of Roger’s face ten feet tall, every movement jerky and inhumanly oversized, was creepy and startling. Reality was being reversed. It was as if the minute person now rising to his feet were a mannequin, a puppet being manipulated by his own giant televised enlargement.

Most people were watching the image, not the human figure. By the end of the next half-hour Roger Dickson would be recognisable to millions but would no longer be in control of his public persona. Soon he would have a nickname and a regular cartoon character. Her intimate knowledge of him, so unique, so precious, would rapidly be overwhelmed by this overpowering official version which was
not the same
. In time she would struggle to remember the special sound of his voice as he entered her room, or his private half-smile, or the cry as he came to climax, or the sweet smell of his white body afterwards, or the tender fumbling of his large clumsy hands. Instead she would hear only a measured, self-assured voice uttering twenty-second sound bites, see only the soberly attired body with tie, hair and wristwatch neat and straight, that the television editor permitted to reach the world.

‘Mr Chairman, ladies and gentlemen: may I begin by introducing our team. Sir Nigel Boswood you all know well. It seems very strange to be introducing my boss to you all, but it gives me a most welcome opportunity to say, Sir Nigel, on behalf of all your ministers, how we hold you in the highest affection and regard, and offer you our best wishes for a speedy recovery.’

Boswood was suddenly embarrassed and emotional, his face reddening. He reached for a handkerchief to blow his nose, as delegates courteously applauded.

‘The motion before us this morning speaks of the concern of the British people for the quality of our environment and urges us to do more to protect it. It may of course be true that these issues are not uppermost in people’s minds at a time of economic recession. But as our economy starts growing again, environmental questions – planning permissions, green belt, derelict land – will once more rise towards the top of the political agenda.’

The conference sat listening. It was unnerving. Roger ploughed on. ‘We have a proud record. Conservative governments have initiated all the legislative landmarks, from the Clean Air Acts of the 1950s to the Control of Pollution Act in the 1970s, the Wildlife and Countryside Act in the 1980s and the Environmental Protection Act in the 1990s.’

Getting his tongue around that lot was not easy. There had been no time to practise on the autocue. He was conscious of failing to make eye contact with his respectful audience. With an effort he looked up and fixed his gaze on a small figure at the back of the hall, leaning on a pillar. With television lights dazzling him he could not see clearly who it might be. Not that it mattered.

‘
We
are the pioneers: with the Prime Minister in charge,
we
lead the way!’

That was a cue for applause. The audience relaxed and obliged. Roger took a sip of water. Time for more political stroking.

‘The concept of inheritance is at the heart of our political tradition. It was Edmund Burke who reminded us that we belong to a partnership between those living and those yet to be born. “The ends of such a partnership cannot be obtained in many generations,” he said. Up and down the land it is
you – and people like you – who provide the backbone for so many environmental groups – the National Trust, the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, and so on.’

The chairman nodded ruefully. The party’s falling membership was a closely guarded secret but its overdraft of over £19 million was not. It would be almost the date of the next election before the last one was paid for. The Labour Party faced similar problems. Meanwhile, Greenpeace rejoiced in over 400,000 subscribers while Friends of The Earth could claim 230,000. The RSPB, non-political, gentle and effective, had over 800,000 supporters and the National Trust had a membership of over two million. Credibility was the key. Obliged to choose between the veracity of Friends of the Earth and Environment ministers, most people preferred the former. Politicians were a declining and derided breed. Roger was wise to recognise the power in the militant innocence of the pressure groups.

The audience were warming to him. Time for a ritual crack at the opposition.

‘Then there is the Labour Party’s much-vaunted support for public transport as opposed to road building. That needs to be handled with care, Mr Chairman. It is a complex issue. Our bypass building programme is at its largest for decades – that reduces congestion and pollution, as any village dweller can tell you.’ Applause, heartfelt, rippled around the hall. ‘And we are investing more in rail services than ever before, with privatisation on the horizon.’ The enthusiasm was a little more subdued. ‘Yet when the Labour Party went to its conference last week, did it travel on the bus?’

‘No!’ yelled the Tory Conference, which hadn’t either.

‘Of course not. The car park was packed out. Plenty of Renaults and Fiats and Volvos there, and a few larger cars too. I am delighted about that. I am pleased that Labour Party members can afford cars. They never could under a Labour government!’

Loud laughter greeted this sally. Roger dropped his voice and wagged an admonitory finger. ‘So it ill behoves them to criticise us, or to claim that they are the greener party. They are not: we are, and so we intend to stay, with actions not words, with respect for our land and with care for our planet.’

Time was getting short. If he edged into lunchtime, delegates would start to slip away. Roger skipped the next two pages and moved smoothly into his peroration, head high.

‘Today I want to chart a new way forward. I want to make it worth people’s while to help the environment, instead of harming it. I believe we can do that best by putting in place incentives and deterrents – carrots as well as sticks. I want to make
market forces
work for the environment.’

It was a bizarre notion that government intervention, in this field as in any other, was about making market forces work. Still Roger could obfuscate along with the best. The audience expressed its approval. The tiny figure at the back was clapping vigorously. Five thousand pairs of hands were in action. He raised his voice, cutting into the applause, not waiting for it to end, an old manipulative trick much used by skilful orators such as Arthur Scargill.

‘We have come here this week as the party of government. We have been crossing a stormy sea, but we in the Tory Party stand as a rock. We seek a Britain ahead of its critics, strong and proud, a Britain caring for the environment and proud of its achievements, conscious of its responsibilities.’

Dickson drew himself up to his full height. Above him the colossus of his image stared down at the populace, steady, wise and strong. Hands at the ready, handbags tucked under seats, papers grasped by the knees, delegates held their breath.

‘With your help we can achieve these goals. For ourselves. And – for – our – children.’

It was done. To tumultuous acclaim Dickson sat down. Dimly he became aware that members of the audience were rising to their feet. The chairman, sitting next to him, rapidly assessed the mood and rose majestically, signalling to the rest of the platform. A standing ovation – he had done it. Roger rose slowly to his feet and waved, and suddenly there it was – a big broad smile, lighting up his face, a smile which spread across the television screens, wide and happy and wonderful.

A sigh flew around the conference hall. A new star was horn. The whole conference was on its feet now, the clamour and cheers lasting several minutes, a highly gratifying result for a first appearance. Everyone would go off to lunch content.

Down behind the platform photographers were grabbing at Dickson and the ailing Boswood, but were swatted away. Nigel was looking groggy; no one wanted photos taken of him in that state.

In the distance Elaine smiled agreement with adulatory comments from nearby ladies: ‘Isn’t he good? Taking over at such short notice! Most impressive!’ How fine Roger had looked up there, upright, capable, smart, in control. Her eyes misted. Something had happened on that platform, during that speech. He no longer belonged exclusively to her.

‘I think you should know,’ Diane Hardy said with mock severity, ‘that your postbag’s now touching two hundred letters a week. And that’s in a
normal
week. What are you going to do about it?’

Elaine sat back helpless. ‘I’ve no idea. We get such a lot from outside my seat, too. Why don’t people write to their own MPs?’

Her secretary sniffed. She had worked for too many MPs not to know the answer. ‘You’re too well known, Elaine. It would help if you started saying no to all the requests for TV appearances. Otherwise you’ll be a prisoner of your postbag for ever.’

‘They pay well,’ Elaine muttered defensively. ‘We voted ourselves no pay rise this year, remember? All to set an example to the rest of the nation. Doesn’t help with the mortgage, though.’

‘If you ask me, half the British public is mad and the other half’s daft. At least if your letters are any guide.’ Diane had been up half the night with a sick mother. She was not about to admit any weakness to Elaine. A certain grumpiness of manner was all she would permit herself.

‘Not the constituents. They usually write sensibly.’ Elaine was daydreaming and looking out of the window. A weak sun sent shafts of light into the stone recesses of the inner courtyard, making it seem less forbidding. She wondered what Roger was up to.

‘I wonder sometimes if people read the stuff they write to you.’ Diane was not yet ready to stop grumbling. ‘Look at this one.’

‘Ouch! Grammar!’ Elaine grimaced.

Elaine snorted. ‘Do you think they know I am female?’

Diane laughed. ‘Don’t be too hard on them. Your own colleagues are much worse. This one was on the board for you this morning.’

Elaine winced as Diane read this out but was flapped into silence. ‘Ssh! There’s worse to come.’

‘Oh yes I have. The nerve!’ Elaine was annoyed. ‘You sure it’s addressed to me personally?’

Diane checked. ‘Oh yes, topped and tailed by hand.’

‘Am I right to feel insulted?’

‘He wants you to sign a motion calling attention to the fact that the Public Health Act 1936 discriminates against women because they have to pay for the service whereas men do not.’

‘I’d have them all pay. Then we might have decent public toilets.’ Elaine turned around from the window. ‘I hate getting letters like this, patronising us as women, talking about us as if we are all weak and frail; and then having the gall to assume that all MPs are male, and that the few who aren’t won’t mind if we’re treated as honorary men.’

‘You sound as if you’re demanding “politically correct” language.’ Diane was teasing. Conversations like this with her employer helped clarify her own feminist leanings.

‘No, the PC people go too far.’ Elaine ruminated. ‘For example, I disapprove of calling the mentally handicapped “people with learning difficulties”. It’s so unfair to them. “People”, certainly: they’re not inanimate objects, or helpless creatures devoid of feeling. But they have more than learning difficulties to cope with. They’ll have serious problems all their lives – these poor souls are handicapped, mentally, and I don’t see why we shouldn’t face that. It’s the same with calling disabled people “physically challenged”. If we try to negate the negative by renaming it, in reality we belittle the genuine problems they face, and we may forget to provide practical help at all. But I do object to “authoress” as if the female of the species were a lesser breed, and if actresses prefer to be called “actors” that’s fine by me. I prefer “police officer” and “ambulance crew” and “firefighter” because they aren’t all men now, not by a long chalk. Have you noticed that there’s no problem with “solicitor”? That’s because they always were blokes. Now, almost overnight, nearly half our law graduates are female and the women are sliding into practice without having to kick down any barriers of nomenclature.’

‘Still waiting for a woman Law Lord,’ Diane averred. Her uncle was a Crown Court recorder and a keen supporter of more female appointments.

‘“Businessman” is the worst,’ Elaine sighed. ‘How blithely we dismiss the millions of women in business. D’you realise we have no suitable word in English? We have to dive into French for “entrepreneur”. Drives me wild.’

Diane turned back to the pile of correspondence with a smile. ‘Anyway, tell me what to do with this lot. And remember, while it may be grand for you being a model professional lady, it just results in more hard work for the other woman in your life.’

‘Sorry!’ Elaine grinned. ‘Tell the students no, nicely, and put Mr Jones’s peculiar letter where it deserves.’

‘Bin?’

‘Bin.’

Mike Stalker took off his uniform jacket and hung it askew over the back of a kitchen chair. He glanced at the clock. Karen should be home soon for the weekend, bouncing in as usual clutching hockey stick and homework, with Elaine and a bulging briefcase not far behind.

He felt exhausted. There had been trouble on board that last long flight from Bermuda. All had seemed well as he started his talk-down, then three miles out of Heathrow the main undercarriage jammed. His heart had leaped into his mouth, for that could be one of the nastiest of mechanical failures. He had circled carefully to lose fuel and repeatedly shoved the control stick into gear. He could hear the faint uplift of alarm in the laconic voice from the control tower ahead. The passengers had known nothing, for after resisting for an infinity – probably all of ten heart-stopping minutes – the gear caught the offending notch and with a squeal of protest the wheel descended. Then the landing went without a hitch. One passenger even moaned the plane was early.

His arm still ached with the effort. A strained muscle in his shoulder would give hell tomorrow. Wrestling with the risks of landing a packed jumbo on two out of three wheels was not his idea of fun. Stress was all part of the job, but he wondered at what age a pilot decided enough was enough.

The clock ticked quietly. In the distance a dog barked; probably Barbara’s, the woman next door. A jar of fresh flowers stood on the table: roses, picked a little too full. A shiny brown earwig sheltered in one yellow tea rose. Mike flicked it off with his finger. The blooms seemed to have no fragrance, only prettiness. How empty the house was. It did not help that a new steward was on duty now that Simon had gone.

Suddenly Mike felt angry. A man with a stressful job like his should not return to an empty house. There should be a cheery wife and laughing children running to hug him, to make it all seem worthwhile. There wasn’t even a dog to keep him company, shoving its wet nose in his hand and wagging its tail in delight: only a bloody earwig, and that was an interloper. In his ideal home the kitchen would be full of the smell of cooking, as it once was, in the early days of his marriage. He remembered how Elaine used to bend over as she took out the dinner, offering a curvy rump to be patted. The family would sit down to eat together. It was not a fantasy; it had happened.

Nobody, and certainly not the Stalkers, sat at the table to eat with friends or family any more. Conscious of being very tired, Mike moved a little further into his reverie. There was a time – more than a decade ago – when all present would listen enraptured as he told his adventures, the dreadful dangers he had endured, the unique skills he had brought to play. He had been warmly appreciated. They used to love and admire him, and count themselves lucky that he was safely home.

‘Some chance, some chance,’ ticked the clock. ‘Poor you, poor man,’ sighed the net curtains in the gentle air. The earwig scuttled across the floor and was gone.

There was a knock, and a face at the back door, peering in at the window. A woman’s face, pleasant, kindly, a bit vacant.

‘All alone, then?’ The neighbour, Barbara, stood uncertainly on the threshold.

Mike gave her a cursory glance. She was wearing a sloppy sweater, cotton slacks and white sling-back high- heeled shoes. Probably she expected to be asked in. That Barbara didn’t bother much with her appearance, in the way Elaine always did, was readily apparent. Her earnest desire to please grated on Mike in his irritation that she wasn’t his wife and family. He was not sure whether Barbara was a widow or divorced or even whether she had children.

She had no job but did not seem short of money or time to waste. Mike did not interest himself in trivia or gossip. He did not want to know anything much about his neighbours, particularly the females. However, it paid to be polite. He turned stiffly, shook off his weariness and smiled.

‘Yes, but they’ll be back soon. Can I help?’

The woman hesitated, put one foot over the step, then withdrew it. She would be about his own age. Her expression of amiable docility made her seem older, a different generation. It was none of his business, but it was a pity when a woman still quite young neglected herself.

‘I was just checking if everything was all right. Elaine – Mrs Stalker – asked me to keep an eye on things.’ She pointed at the vase. ‘I brought some flowers in from the garden earlier. To make it nice for when Mrs Stalker gets in.’

Presumably Barbara knew the silver BMW in the driveway was his car. She was just being nosy. And there were two important breadwinners in this house, not one. His bad temper intervened.

‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs … er. I will tell Elaine you popped in.’

His cold smile suggested dismissal. Barbara pulled back rapidly, started to speak again, thought better of it and left, looking a little sad.

Instantly Mike regretted his rudeness. The silly woman meant well. She had no man to wait for, not enough to fill her life, in all probability. Sucking up to the famous family next door was pretty
harmless, and it was useful having somebody to keep guard on the house during their long absences. He cursed his hasty reactions, his defensiveness. He had never been like this before Elaine became an MP and spent so long away, before Karen went off to boarding school. If Barbara was all the welcome home he was going to get, at least he could have been friendly.

He had almost made up his mind to stroll after her to apologise when another car scrunched up the gravel. Elaine had been to fetch Karen for the weekend. The Stalkers were a family at last. He found himself still grumpily wishing they had beaten him to it, in the house to welcome him instead of the other way round. His smile was tight as his wife and only child entered.

Karen was dressed in a highly personalised version of school uniform: grey skirt down to her ankles, black tights, heavy black shoes (Doc Martens?), shirt hanging out, tie askew, blazer too big and hanging lazily off her shoulders, as fashion models wore their jackets in magazines. She seemed to have grown taller in the last month. She had started to stay at school over most weekends: she claimed there was so much to do and all her pals were there. In reality there was no pull to the house. It was a battle to persuade her to come home at all.

He watched her with puzzled pleasure. How like her mother she was – in personality at least, feminine and bright and wilful and all the more delightful for it. Not in looks, for Karen was dark where her mother was – well, blonde, officially. Mike could remember when Elaine’s hair was a muddy brown. At college she had experimented with different hair dyes until the day when he had exclaimed in surprise at the startling yellow newness of her hair. To be truthful he had liked it just as well in its natural colour, but without doubt going blonde had done wonders for her looks, as it had for Monroe and Madonna and a million others. She would stay blonde now. It was her trademark. A return to her old colour would have made her unrecognisable. It did not occur to Mike that the original was now streaked with grey, as was his own. Married people don’t always notice change in each other.

Karen was taller than her mother, slimmer and more athletic, though Elaine seemed to benefit from her visits to the Westminster gymnasium. The girl was at the turning point, changing from teenager into young woman. Too fast, surely: she was only fifteen. In some girls that age means gawkiness and wretched shyness, braces on teeth like a batsman’s face-guard, acne aflame, period pains and knees all knobbly, their virginity guarded like a silk-lined secret, negotiating to let a favoured boy touch a breast, enough to send a chap crazy but no further. At least, that was how girls were when he was fifteen, before the pill and abortions and AIDS. He shivered. Maybe he was getting old, or simply out of date.

‘Gawd!’ Karen exclaimed as she planted a cursory kiss on his cheek.

Mike was instantly disappointed, for he had not seen her for a month and yearned for a proper cuddle. He checked himself quickly. A man could get into trouble for loving a daughter too much. She was not a little girl any longer.

‘Sorry, Daddy. Got to get out of this awful kit!’ And she was off up the stairs, making the whole house shake. Bangs and thumps issued from her bedroom, then loud music and tuneless yodels in casual accompaniment to the group Madness, apparently this week’s favourites.