A Parliamentary Affair (41 page)

Both thrived on the risk. Both fought off boredom and loneliness and ordinariness as greater evils. And, she suspected, their lovemaking, so successful, such an opportunity for honesty, for loving support, was becoming steadily more important to them both, even as the struggle to find time for it intensified. A desperate longing came over her sometimes in the House when she watched him at the dispatch box, head up, hammering away at his points, refusing to give an inch. Of course she wanted him to succeed! But as he rose higher in the hierarchy, where would it end? If he were to spread his wings and fly, would there be room in the sky for her?

‘I think you should be as ambitious as hell,’ she repeated firmly. ‘Some of the other ministers are: look in their eyes. They want to be Leader, they burn to do it. So should you. I’d rather see you there at the top than anybody else.’

He laughed, and rolled over easily. The frown on his brow had cleared and he gazed at her appreciatively. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without these fireside chats.’ He was teasing but his tone was serious. ‘You cheer me up immensely.’

They were silent for a while, digesting their own confused thoughts as the rain pattered on the window. His mind at least was much clearer. He glanced towards the doorway and sighed heavily. ‘In the normal course of events, I would now place my hand in supplication on your luscious bosom and beg you to make love to me once more. But if I do that I’ll fall asleep afterwards. Then I and my untouched boxes will have some explaining to do tomorrow. So I must go.’

The warm bed was abandoned with reluctance. Roger dressed meticulously as usual. Outside the rain eased to a soft drizzle, reducing his excuses for staying. As he knotted his tie they chatted, the topics moving from the intense to the mundane, as if both were slowly being beamed back to the real world.

‘And how are you, my lovely Elaine? We haven’t talked much about you tonight.’

She shrugged, pulling a dressing gown around her shoulders. ‘OK, I guess. My husband is as ever not there a lot, and not very communicative when he is. I don’t think it’s in any way your fault, Roger. We’d probably be drifting a bit anyway. I must make a bigger effort – he is, after all, my home and the father of my child. I wouldn’t be the first woman MP to find that her husband couldn’t cope. And my daughter Karen is back at school but is very quiet – I think she’s worrying about exams.’

He lifted the still damp coat, pulled a face and placed it over his shoulders.

She continued, hastily, not wanting him to leave. ‘Yet to be truthful, Roger, I resent the constant pressure on me. There are double standards at play here. Why should it always be me that has to try harder? Why should the woman have to carry the burden? That sounds so selfish – but I could do with more love and support from my family, week in, week out. I get it from you, but that’s uncertain, and dangerous.’

‘Too right.’ There was no need to elaborate. It was respectable for a male MP to seek solace from his family, to demand uncritical support. Many didn’t get it, but none was thought selfish for expecting it.

He took her face in his big hands in his farewell gesture, and kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks. Then his mouth was on hers, hard and longing, but he pulled brusquely away from her with a grunt, touched his forelock in a sad, ironic movement, picked up his boxes and was gone.

Question Time. Roger reflected ruefully that far more work goes into First Order Questions than meets the eye. It was his turn – or, rather, the department’s – on Tuesdays every four weeks. The Prime Minister had to face the music much more frequently, twice a week on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but for fifteen minutes only, whereas the Boswood team’s ordeal would last three quarters of an hour. The questions had been put down in their hundreds by MPs a fortnight earlier and shuffled in an electronic ballot. Forty now appeared on the order paper. Only the first twenty or so would be answered today. He was not looking forward to it.

Once Commons officials in the Table Office accepted a question as in order, it had to be answered as quickly as possible. In the previous session nearly 2,400 questions had been answered orally at an average cost of £202 each, with over 16,000 put down for written reply at around half the cost. In an election year the numbers could soar to over 50,000. Nevertheless it was all value for money, considering how much material could be dug out by curious or campaigning MPs. Hansard the following day would thus be dominated by the Department of the Environment in all its glory, as scrutinised, prettied up and censored by Minister of State Roger Dickson and his colleagues.

The whole team was on show. All morning Roger and Sir Nigel Boswood had been closeted with officials and other ministers, worrying over tricky points. The pitfalls lay with possible supplementaries called by the Speaker. Provided MPs referred however vaguely to the topic, their queries would be allowed. Point-scoring was the game. Boswood’s team could not expect an easy ride, even from their own side.

Madam Speaker was in the Chair. Prayers were over. An expectant rustle filled the air as Members and press turned to their order papers. The atmosphere was businesslike.

Nigel sat stolidly on the front bench, the first of two imposing red folders in his lap. Most of it he knew almost by heart. Thank heaven for a good memory. A brand-new polka-dot tie graced the fleshy Boswood neck. He wriggled his bottom to get comfortable. No doubt about it, he was putting on a bit of weight. Came from being contented with life. A faint image of Peter’s blue eyes, blond hair falling fetchingly over his forehead, came hazily into view, and was regretfully pushed away.

Roger was joking with the whip at his side but felt nervous. The experience of First Order Questions was still too new to have become routine. Opposite, a remote-controlled television camera swung its black eye at him. That there was no human being standing behind it, no face or skin, only that gaping black hole impassively examining him, possibly in close-up, was horribly unnerving.

Elaine’s encouragement had been timely. He had been feeling more uncertain than he would admit, even to her. To ask openly for advice was not in his nature; accustomed to keeping fears and failings to himself, he would normally have denied there were any problems. Her shrewd understanding had led her quickly to a correct guess, without his spelling it out. Nor did she think of herself as she responded unselfishly, only of how to help him. Their lovemaking did wonders for his ego too. He was vaguely aware of a paradox. Whatever her overt views on the role of women, which increasingly he acknowledged, Ms Stalker played certain of the traditional parts very well indeed. If that caused her any queazy moments, it was not his fault. And not really for him to resolve.

He glimpsed Elaine for a heart-stopping second as she entered from Members’ Lobby. She bowed to the Speaker and took her place out of his direct sight. That meant she intended him not to be distracted by seeing her, instead of concentrating. He felt grateful. What Elaine had urged was all very well, but confidence-boosting in this job came in the end from performing effectively. Every public event was a test to be fluffed or conquered. There was no room for mediocrity or hesitancy or waffling or mistakes.

He took a deep breath to calm the thumping of his pulse, shut Elaine firmly out of his mind and signified readiness to the Speaker. For the ever-present camera, he lifted his head and smiled sweetly. As if angry or embarrassed at being so manipulated, the alien eye turned away with a faint whirr.

Seated directly behind Dickson, Andrew Muncastle was also jumpy. He would be on screen as a mute background to his masters every time they were on their feet. To be more precise, since his head would be cut off the picture much of the time, his midriff and groin would be on show. Quickly he fastened his jacket buttons, checked his fly and sat up straight.

Question Time is supposed to be an occasion for careful Commons scrutiny of Ministries, not an extension of preplanned party politics. However, two weeks before, on the day for putting down Environment questions, Andrew had scurried around the tea room with a conspiratorial air, offering a fistful of suitable enquiries, answers to which would draw conclusions favourable to his masters. Nothing in Westminster is quite as it seems.

Andrew’s job this day included passing rapidly scribbled advice back and forth from the Civil Service bench behind the Speaker’s chair. He turned and checked. Officials were entering, getting their bearings, clutching black briefcases.

In charge was Martin Chadwick; next to him sat Marcus Carey, who was glancing wistfully at the languid man by his side. Perhaps he hoped the Chadwickian manner of dignified English coolness might be contagious.

Ferriman and other supporters were in their places. So were many not so friendly faces, including the Labour MP Keith Quin, whose name was on the first question, which Roger was due to tackle.

At last the preliminaries were over and Madam Speaker was on her feet. ‘Order! Order!’ she bawled. The House subsided. ‘Questions to the Secretary of State for the Environment.’ The first questioner, eager and composed, was in his place. ‘Question number one – Mr Quin.’

‘Number one, Madam Speaker.’ Keith Quin, MP for Manchester Canalside, did not need to read it out. The question was printed for all to see, asking whether the Secretary of State planned any new measures to reduce the number of homeless people sleeping rough. He resumed his seat and waited.

Roger rose solemnly. ‘Madam Speaker: the government are providing more than six million pounds in grants this year to voluntary organisations throughout England which give direct help to homeless people. The primary responsibility for assistance to people sleeping rough rests with local authorities.’

It was a long time since he had strolled home on foot, late. The ministerial car and Alec were always waiting by Members’ Entrance, engine purring. Special Branch would have had a fit had he tried. The memory was fading of doorways in Victoria Street crammed with muffled sleepers. But he knew they were still there.

Swiftly gathering the red folder in his arms, Dickson sat down. Quin was on his feet, speaking politely but with pointed force. ‘Will the minister consider increasing those grants to voluntary bodies? I refer him to the annual report of the Salford Centre, a charitable hostel in my constituency. In the past year they have helped over four hundred clients and most had slept rough at some point I recently. I urge the government to do more.’

Dickson checked his notes before replying and rose to his feet. ‘According to the census in April, only six people were sleeping rough in Salford. I believe the assistance we are giving is … ah … effective’ (the briefing said ‘sufficient’, but Dickson’s compassionate side rebelled) ‘but I shall look with interest at the figures cited by the Honourable Gentleman.’

It was a Tory’s turn. Ferriman was up, hands clasped together across his middle like a country rector from a well-fed parish. ‘Would I be right in thinking that the government has allocated not six
but more than
eighty-six
million pounds to this problem in London alone, to cover the next three years? Somebody’s getting a lot of money to deal with this problem. Where’s it going? Should not Labour-controlled local councils’ – he glared across at Quin as his voice rose –’which fail to collect rents or do repairs, thus keeping
thousands
of properties empty through sheer
incompetence
, take much of the blame?’

Dickson was benign. ‘My Honourable Friend is absolutely right,’ he acknowledged graciously. Of course he was; Andrew had given Freddie the information just before Prayers. ‘At the last count there were over seventy-four thousand vacant properties in the hands of local councils, far more –
far
more – than the numbers of homeless.’

A rumble of ‘Hear, hears’ came from the back benches. Dickson, already well known and liked for his handling of his former role as whip, was winning further approval.

The Speaker felt that one had been flogged enough. ‘Mr Roy Hughes!’ she called.

‘Number two, Madam Speaker,’ came the reply from the dark-haired Welshman, and the House moved on.

Twenty minutes into Question Time the event was assuming an air of routine. It was going reasonably well. Dickson fought back complacency. The next question could always mean trouble. As Boswood dealt with a tricky issue with graceful aplomb, Roger thanked the lucky stars which had brought him to Nigel’s side. Plenty of Cabinet ministers, jealous of their juniors or unable to stop competing or just plain arrogant, could be unpleasant to work with. Not Nigel; the old man was steady and kind and thorough. His retirement in due course would diminish the government, however peacefully he moved over. Even if it created a vacancy.

‘Because it is there,’ Elaine had said. He had never worked out exactly why he wanted promotion. Her sharp brain had forged the link with the motivation of all ambitious people. Someone like Boswood, by contrast, had a sense of public obligation. Dickson tried whether such nobility fitted himself, but found it rang false. His best approximation to selfless service was knowing that his own occupation of high office might keep out nincompoops, or extremists or fixers or fools.

If he didn’t make the grade, he would always feel dissatisfied. If he did not try, to his utmost, he could never forgive himself – as, in secret, he had not pardoned the people he grew up with who accepted their diminished lot, whose dreams so rapidly died.

Because he had to: because, in the end, he was made that way. As swallows head south in autumn twilight, it was his nature and he had no choice.

One of the black-uniformed messengers hovered at the end of the row, waving a fistful of the pink paper slips which recorded telephone messages for those Members not at their desks. At last he attracted Andrew Muncastle’s attention. ‘Two for you, sir,’ he whispered, pressing the slips into Andrew’s hand. For a moment Andrew was distracted by laughter at a particularly effective response from Roger. Then, head bent, he examined the slips.

Both were from Miranda. One was timed at 1.15, when he had been walking over from the department, the other at 2.15, by which time he was heading into the Chamber. He cursed the fact that he had come up the back stairs and not through Members’ Lobby where he might have picked them up at once. Both had the same words: ‘Please ring – urgent.’

The next half-hour seemed interminable, with Andrew growing more anxious by the minute. There must be trouble. His liaison with Miranda was over four months old. He had not tired of her, nor she of him, as far as he could tell. Quite the contrary. Their lovemaking had introduced him to a new world of simply enjoying oneself and pleasuring another in complete openness and delight. He had never realised that was possible. Now it happened repeatedly, indeed grew better each time as if their attraction were favoured by God, a latter-day Adam and Eve. That was how it felt: primeval, exotic. Not wicked, not at all. He was supposed to eat the fruit, not reject it, as he had been rejected. It had a feeling of destiny, of the inevitable. He had not hesitated for a moment.

Moral values had not been a consideration. Andrew’s church attendances were a matter of form, not belief. Tessa’s passionate faith brought her neither joy nor inner peace and he felt no compunction to share it, instead condemning it as a sign of an inability to think for herself. The propriety of his affair was a different matter – what other people would think of it if he were found out. Any abandonment of Tessa would meet with strong disapproval from his local supporters. Not all of them had pristine lives, not by a long chalk. None the less they felt instinctively that their MP should do better.

Of course some constituencies would accept a divorced or remarried Member, but all hated a current scandal. To gain any sympathy for himself he would have to complain discreetly about Tessa, or imply that she was ill. That would be ungentlemanly. His grandfather would shudder at the thought. And there would be the effect on Barney. It wasn’t on: so Andrew would have to shoulder the blame, implying that the fault lay with his own nature. A philanderer was unacceptable as an MP for all sorts of reasons. He would have been caught telling lies. If he could deceive his wife, what was to stop him deceiving anybody? He would not be what he seemed when he and Tessa, hand in hand and smiling shyly, had presented themselves to the selection committee. Above all, his behaviour would be seen to attack marriage itself, the most cherished but abused institution of British society.

With Miranda’s worrying messages nestled in his hand, Muncastle found his mind was working extraordinarily clearly. He looked around at colleagues and the whips and considered what effect discovery might have. A flurry of interest in the newspapers, but not much – Miranda would see to that. There was the equivalent of honour among thieves in the newspaper world. Nor was he important enough for more than a little sniggering. It might not be terminal. Several Cabinet ministers had made discreet transfers from one spouse to another, at some point in their careers. It was not impossible. Sir Nigel was on his feet again; Andrew composed his features into an expression of earnest support, but his mind was exploring unfamiliar paths elsewhere. He settled to examining that last novel consideration much more carefully.

It was not impossible to change spouses
. Was he seriously planning to abandon Tessa and switch to Miranda? Almost immediately the idea sounded silly. Miranda was probably not the marrying kind. Miranda opening a church fete, Miranda clutching a yelling baby, did not ring true at all. Nor was there any need: Miranda in bed was available without a marriage ceremony. Or even a divorce certificate. Maybe she preferred men who had a home to go to, leaving plenty of space for her own professional life. He and she never talked about such matters. He did not want to take any risk of disapproving of her lifestyle and so perhaps losing his own place in it.