A Parliamentary Affair (40 page)

Karen nodded mutely. The doctor turned to go. The girl put out an arm.

‘Thank you,’ she said sombrely.

Down in the Lord John Russell, Peter was knocking back tequila sunrises and chatting amiably to Jim Betts. It was long after Betts should have phoned in copy, however anodyne, for the following day’s paper, but this was too good to miss. Betts had slid nonchalantly into the role of host, plying the boy with drinks in mimicry of what he guessed might well be a familiar scene, if he was correct in his suspicion that Peter’s link with Sir Nigel derived originally from a gay pick-up. Lull him into a sense of false security and loosen his tongue with liquor – it usually worked. No point in taking notes or taping the conversation; that might have scared the little poofter off. Softly softly catchee monkey.

Jim Betts’s own attitudes to homosexuals were equivocal. In the treeless terraced streets of Wavertree, Liverpool, where he grew up there had been prostitutes of every kind, mostly blousy women doused in cheap scent keeping the tallyman at bay. If you wanted something better or out of the ordinary, a narrow-hipped tart or a Chinese or a queer, you had to go down near the Pier Head, or tip the head porter in certain hotels. A mate from school had plied his trade down there occasionally when business was slow. Most gays that he had met in that sad grimy port had been more desperate and more diseased than this and he had felt some pity. Peter, young and highly presentable, would make a tremendous subject for a double-page spread. With his cooperation, or otherwise.

‘You spoke well of Sir Nigel.’ Betts lit another cigarette. It was time to turn on the charm. ‘I liked that, Peter. Not often these days does anyone have a good word to say about politicians.’

Peter had put away four drinks on an empty stomach and was feeling light-headed. Talking to a journalist was almost fun; the chap opposite was so pleasant and not pushy, he made it easy. Peter was not unaware that his own vanity was being flattered, and liked it.

‘He doesn’t keep me, you know. I work. I paint. It’s just that I haven’t managed to do much since I’ve been in that flat. No room, see. And paints are so bloody expensive.’

‘Doesn’t Sir Nigel give you anything? Not even for looking after the house? It must deter burglars having you around.’

‘Yeah, I hadn’t thought of that. No, not a penny. He should, shouldn’t he? I’ll have to ask him. Tell him a newspaperman said I should.’ The blue eyes were not focusing properly. An attempt at a smile didn’t quite work and emerged as a leer.

‘No, I shouldn’t do that, Peter. He might be a bit upset that you’ve had a drink with me. Probably wouldn’t understand that we were just… friends, you and I.’ Then, warily: ‘You could make money out of him if you wanted to, of course.’

The sentence hung on the smoke-filled air, coiled around Peter’s head. Dreamily he let his gaze rove around the room, then rested them on Betts’s face and giggled.

‘You mean if I talked about Nigel don’t you? No, I wouldn’t do that.’

Betts took a chance. Stubbing out his cigarette: ‘That wouldn’t be enough, anyway. That’s not the sort of story I would work on, of course – I do this social awareness stuff, homelessness and the like. But if you wanted to earn a lot of money from selling a story, you would need dates, times, details. You would have to be prepared to tell everything. And you’d need photographs.’

‘What do we mean by “a lot of money”?’ Peter asked. Knowledge like that was always useful to a working boy.

Betts considered, taking his time. ‘Well, like I say, I have no experience of that kind of reporting myself, but you could ask … ah … twenty-five thousand pounds. If it was with someone famous. And you had some decent photographs. You need proof, see, that you’re not making it all up.’

He allowed his own eyes to rest on Peter’s face in his best imitation of a straightforward honest look. It was a long time since he had felt so in control of an interview.

‘I am not going to encourage you in any direction, Peter.’ Betts tore off a piece of paper from his notepad and scribbled his own name, the office phone number and, as an afterthought, his flat number. ‘That number is for late at night only. If I can be of assistance, phone me. In fact I’d say don’t do anything without phoning me. Even if all you want is some advice, there’s no charge. I can put you in touch with the right people who would value your story highly and look after you properly, should you ever want to tell it.’

He rose to go, patting the boy on the shoulder. With some satisfaction he noticed a disconsolate look. Being the boyfriend of a busy Cabinet minister must be a lonely occupation.

‘In cash? Could it be paid abroad?’

‘Anywhere in the world. Don’t forget, phone me.’

At the pub door Betts turned. A thought had occurred to him. ‘By the way, Peter, how old are you?’

‘Me? Nineteen last birthday.’

‘Really? Illegal, isn’t it?’ A conspiratorial grin.

Peter’s pretty face was flushed. He smirked: ‘I’m old enough. It’s sixteen in Holland. Anyway, what does it matter?’

How odd, Betts thought fleetingly, that, whereas age with the too young Miss Stalker was a prohibition, with this boy it offered an opportunity. He waited till he was out of sight of the pub before kicking his heels and breaking into a run. Only one activity in Britain was still illegal till the age of twenty-one. It mattered all right.

Roger and Elaine made love that night in silence, needing comfort, sharing their yearning for each other. Outside it was raining hard. The persistent shushing sound of heavy rain lingered in the air as a steady stream of dirty water sluiced down the window. Roger’s overcoat, hung over a radiator, steamed gently and smelled of winter.

As they lay together on the double bed a feeling of greater warmth at last stole over them, so that they dozed, and yawned and stretched, and began to smile. He consented as she leaned over and
turned the bedside lamp on. There was no rush; Caroline was out of town, happily cleaning mud off her boots in a brightly lit kitchen at home after a grand day’s hunting. He could stay the night if he wanted; though the two red boxes waiting in the hallway suggested he would eventually leave to sleep alone.

He opened a sleepy eye. ‘God, this is nice. I wish it could go on forever.’

She made no answer, but raised herself on an elbow and stroked his face with a caressing finger. The frown line between his eyes was deepening. His handsome face was half hidden in shadow and his mood seemed reflective and sombre.

‘Penny for them?’ she asked quietly.

He hesitated. ‘I was only reflecting how very much harder government is in reality than those on the outside believe. Whichever way you look at it, it’s been a dreadful year. Yet I don’t think we made many mistakes, things we ought to change. The problem is to get people to accept what needs doing, all of which is unpopular.’

Elaine wriggled down closer to him. Her voice had the slightest edge. ‘Since I’m not a member of the government, I’ve not been obliged to consider such questions. What is the view of Her Majesty’s ministers, sir?’

‘Well … persuading the voters to accept short-term pain for longer-term goals requires two things we don’t currently have in abundance: firstly, skills in communication, which would give us the power to orate and inspire, if you like.’ Roger paused, half smiling.

She picked up the bait. ‘And the other?’

‘Since you press me, my dear Elaine, a clear idea of what those long-term goals are.’

She was shocked. ‘You shouldn’t talk like that, even to me. You’re a member of this government, and likely to be an even more important member of it in future. You can be a major contributor to thinking ahead, Roger. What’s the point of being in power otherwise?’

At that he was silent.

There was no clock in the bedroom. Elaine made a point of hiding the radio alarm under the bed before Roger came, to give him no reminders of passing time. Their encounters were events suspended in time, non-existent: recorded in no diary, measured by no instrument, referred to outside in no dialogue. Should he want it, his watch was on the table in the living room, but he made no move. Supported on her elbow, her finger slowly traced the hollows of his face.

‘You seem more than usually contemplative tonight, my darling. Do I detect a fatal faltering, a lack of confidence?’

His reaction was to laugh ruefully. ‘I could muddle through, keeping my head down and staying out of trouble, but that’s not enough. You’re absolutely right that I’d like to make a greater contribution. The twist is that I don’t feel, unfortunately, that I have the capability.’

‘Rot!’

Now she sounded like Caroline and he grinned up at her. Maybe all his women were right and he should simply shake off moods like this.

‘Look, Roger, you are, first, one of the best-looking men on the British public scene. And an exceptional lover. Outstanding, unbelievable! If that wasn’t true, you wouldn’t be anywhere near my bed. Furthermore, you’re one of the most thoughtful, most intelligent people in the House. Your colleagues, the most critical audience in the land, think well of you and that’s no accident. You’re rapidly improving as a speaker on TV and radio – getting really good at it; all that woodenness has disappeared. Most of all, you come across as honest and sincere. That’s no surprise. In my humble view, my love, your public reputation accurately reflects your superb personality.’

‘More! More!’ Dickson was grinning broadly.

‘Well…’ She had been saving this thought for a suitable moment. ‘For a person who left school at sixteen you haven’t done badly.’

In normal conversation Roger would have murmured self-deprecatingly that he owed everything to his wife. Financially that was certainly true. However, as he climbed further up the greasy pole, he was prone to say it less often.

On one occasion an opponent had remarked tartly that in that case perhaps they should have elected his wife.

‘Roger, most of the top jobs are still held by public school and Oxbridge types. I know how highly you think of Nigel Boswood, but you should be asking why we don’t bring on more people similar to yourself. And more women, too. This country can’t afford to continue in the same old way. People like you can help make the changes we need. It’s the top you should be aiming for, Roger Dickson. By the end of this parliament you’ll be in the Cabinet, and you should keep going.’

‘Oh, nonsense. I shall be lucky to survive in this job. Half of what’s on my plate I don’t understand at all. Environment is heavy-duty stuff, a lot of it horribly scientific. The other half consists of endlessly stroking interested parties, and arm-twisting at Westminster to get measures through. I learned that in the whips’ office.’

She prodded him. ‘You’re not going to divert me. I think you should be chock full of self-confidence, and as ambitious as hell. You’re as capable as anyone currently in Cabinet and you’ve come a lot further than most already. Something must be driving you onwards, or you would be … just running a shop, or whatever.’ Elaine searched her lover’s face. ‘So what makes you tick, Roger Dickson?’

It was the question he never dared ask. As a young man his motivation had been clear – to begin with, a hatred of having his horizons limited by the ignorance and acquiescence of his family, teachers, peers. Then the need to make money, to create that bedrock of security so lacking in his early days. Running away from his past, of course. Nothing wrong with that. But now that those objectives had been achieved he was on a plateau. To go further required a clear grasp of why: what did he seek now?

‘It’s easier for someone like Nigel Boswood, Elaine.’ That seemed an easy entree. ‘He was brought up to it – to govern, to expect office. That gives him a thick skin – he expects the slings and arrows and ignores them. He has a whole class of people like himself – a clan, almost, who act as support and friends. His clubs, for example. The invitations he receives, the country house parties he attends. As long as he does his job well, he’s invulnerable.’

There was no need to explain to Elaine that his comments were not motivated by jealousy. He continued slowly, ‘I always felt it’s not my place to push myself forward, even to dream of taking a top job. When I was a child, ambition was seen as … wicked, dangerous – as courting disaster. Staying at home, settled for ever in the same street or area, was soothing and safe. To counteract that fear, to dig it out and get it to the surface and destroy it, is the hardest thing I have ever done. It means leaving friends behind – I have already. When I meet people I was at school with, we hardly communicate at all – we have nothing whatever in common. Worst of all, they think I’m a traitor.’

‘It means knowing what you want to do and why, Roger. I suspect you do know, but you’re reluctant to seem disloyal to Nigel. You should be planning and plotting like crazy, if not to replace him eventually, then at least to get as close as possible. I mean not just Nigel – the very top. Don’t argue! If you were in Cabinet, and stood for the leadership next time, you might not win it but you’d have put down a marker.’

She sat up and looked down at him. ‘You should want the top job, like the people who climb Everest, because it’s
there
.’

He had to play devil’s advocate, to find the right way. ‘To have any chance of success I’d need to build up a backing, a group of followers. I don’t quite see how I can do that as a Minister of State. That really would be disloyal.’

He was thinking out loud. Her heart skipped a beat as she realised that some of these thoughts were not new to him. It was one thing to seduce a whip, her whip, and to engage him in sexual badinage, for fun. A whip more than anyone knew the risks and, having assessed them, minimised them. Having a lover on the inside was infinitely safer than pursuing one on the outside. It was quite another matter sleeping with a senior minister: like playing dominoes with sticks of high explosive. Even if all the fuses and detonators were safely locked away in a lead-lined box, with nothing loose or unconsidered to cause an accidental explosion – yet what they were playing with was still dynamite.