A Parliamentary Affair (52 page)

For Nigel could not escape his own decency. All his life he had lived a lie, though he had never covered up as some do by joining loudly in critical remarks about homosexuals. His conscience now stung. Gay people were subjected to such awful prejudice, such dreadful things were said. Yet if a person like himself were to take the plunge, to stand up and be counted, to say, ‘I am gay’, it might make things easier for many others.

His mouth wrinkled in amusement. Perhaps the chance would come in a House of Lords debate. Lord Boswood would put his name on the list of those who wished to speak, but say not a word in advance. No leaks, no hints.

That would render it all the more startling and effective. Peter would be up in the front row of the gallery, looking fondly down on him. Their Lordships were reasonable people, far more so than in the Commons. Although there might be a shocked silence at first and one or two would never speak to him again, the rest would murmur a few words of support in the bar afterwards and then change the subject. Matthew Parris had survived: so could he. And live openly afterwards, with pride if not glory, never needing to tell a lie again.

Nigel sighed softly. He felt as if a great lifelong burden had been lifted from his shoulders. The hated box was abandoned unopened in the hallway. He must tell Peter at once. He ran up the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him, pulling off his bow-tie on the way, feeling like a schoolboy on the first day of the holidays. In his bedroom he hung up his suit, setting aside his public persona like an unwanted skin, and donned the red dressing gown, folding its quilted collar panels over his middle and tying the cord firmly. As an afterthought he cleaned his teeth and rinsed.

He pushed open the basement flat door, calling softly.

The radio; switched on, sat on the bedside table under the small light. The place looked unusually tidy, for Peter. Perhaps Mrs Perkins’s complaints had struck home.

There was no sign of the boy. The darkened bathroom was empty, clean and unused. Nigel was nonplussed. Perhaps he had popped out to buy a takeaway: after all, the vote had been late. The bed looked as if it had not been slept in. Might as well wait. Nigel kicked off his slippers and settled himself on the bed feet up, leaning back, hands folded under his head, half listening to the radio discussion. What a relief it would be when he was no longer a minister, to refuse all invitations to silly broadcasts, early morning or late. He would miss the constituency; somehow he did not feel the provinces would be quite so free of homophobia as London. It would be interesting to see whether requests to speak would still come from the Milton and Hambridge area after he came out. If so, he would accept gladly, to show he was still the same old Sir Nigel, not metamorphosed into a monster with horns and a forked tail.

The midnight news came on. Nigel surfaced from his doze with a start. Peter was awfully late. How strange.

He heaved himself off the bed, ambled into the bathroom and put on the light. Just as he was about to relieve himself, the message on the mirror caught his eye. It was in red lipstick – the same colour as Peter used sometimes when they played very private dressing-up games. Nigel’s eyes were not focusing properly and itched with tiredness. He rubbed them, leaned forward and peered at the garish capitals:

Red lipstick. Unmistakable. With shaking finger he traced the dreadful words; that was Peter’s writing, all right. Not his imagination. Not a joke.

What did Peter mean, ‘Gone home’? This was his home, for as long as he wanted it. The future stretched ahead, the two of them together, like any other couple. Out and open and in public: respected, not reviled. Having dinner parties, holding at-homes, here. At home. In this house. Where else? This was home.

Not for Peter. He had once said in a revealing moment that he had no home, only the next bed, in whatever country he could earn a living. Nigel looked around wildly, opening cupboards and drawers. The boy’s personal things had gone, along with his original holdall. Neither cheque hook nor passport was in its usual place. The drawer which held clean underwear was empty.

Stumbling over the dressing-gown cord he returned to the bathroom and stood for a long time, staring with unseeing eyes at the terrible message, whispering the words over and over.

Then a great animal cry rose from Nigel Boswood’s throat, a cry that tore his heart from its cavity, that set dogs harking and cats running out in the night-black square, a cry of anguish and longing and desperation, as he crashed his own head into the mirror, once, twice, again and again, destroying the fateful image, and smashing it to a thousand shivering pieces.

He was still sobbing hysterically in the morning when Mrs Perkins found him, flung across Peter’s bed, clutching one of the boy’s many sweaters. There was blood everywhere, in sticky rivulets down the remains of the mirror, all over the pillow in which Sir Nigel had buried his head, weeping fit to die, and worst of all in a horrible black caked mask, eyelids gummed tightly together, on his wild and tragic face.

She understood at once without words, picked him up and cradled him in her ample lap, as she would a hurt child, crooning gently, easing his pain as well as she could. As his agonies slowly subsided she fetched towels from the bathroom soaked in cool water and bathed the cuts, taking out small shards of silvered glass and pressing a dry towel to stop fresh oozing. Most of them were superficial, fortunately, and would be best left uncovered, though a purple bruise and swelling disfigured the fine brow.

At last he sat still and helpless, head bowed, in an armchair.

‘Well, sir! You look a mess, and that’s a fact,’ Mrs Perkins began formally.

Nigel looked at her mournfully. ‘He’s gone.’

‘Yes, sir, he’s gone. I’m not surprised.’ She bit her lip. The man was in enough misery. No need to rub salt in the wounds.

Boswood’s fingers touched one of the cuts, making it bleed again. He looked in puzzlement at the wet smear of blood on his fingers.

Mrs Perkins decided to take charge. ‘If I might suggest it, Sir Nigel, you really ought to take a couple of aspirins and go to bed. Upstairs, if you don’t mind; that will give me a chance to clean up down here. I will phone your office and tell them you’re not too well and need a couple of days off.’

He stared at her dumbly. ‘I will kill myself,’ he whispered. Mrs Perkins swallowed hard and kept her voice even. ‘No, sir, we won’t talk like that. I’ll stay tonight in the spare room; if we need to, we can call the doctor tomorrow. That’ll give us time to concoct a story to explain all those cuts – you slipped and fell against the mirror, perhaps. It was an accident.’

Like a baby, he was, leaning on her, one hand clutching a clean towel as they stumbled upstairs. In his bedroom Mrs Perkins did not hesitate but stripped off the blood-caked dressing gown,
averting her eyes respectfully, and dressed him afresh in clean cotton pyjamas. Meekly he sipped water and swallowed tablets, then slipped into troubled sleep.

‘Right, ladies and gentlemen! Are we all done?’

Pushing away a well-cleared plate, Mr Bulstrode assumed once more the manner of a man about significant business. Around him the selection committee, now grown to around a dozen earnest members, rose hastily to its feet. Stickler for punctuality, the chairman.

Upstairs the committee room had been transformed. It would not do to lose a worthy candidate simply because a bad impression had been gained from the room’s usual air of neglect. Mary and Mrs Farebrother had slaved all the previous day removing layers of accumulated grime, leaving Mary allergic and sneezing and revealing far too much peeling paint for Mrs Farebrother’s punctilious taste. The result was patchy but effective. Mr Standish had brought in a blue-patterned rug to hide the stains on the old floorboards, which gave the room a jaunty, almost festive air. On the baize tables, now arranged in a large U, they had laid a blue cloth and placed on it jugs of water, glasses, ashtrays and bowls of mint imperials. It would be a long day. Lastly they added a small pot carrying Margaret Thatcher’s younger image with an assorted bunch of early roses from Mrs Farebrother’s garden. When the chairman protested she reminded him pointedly that the English rose did not belong to the Labour Party. As the day wore on rose petals fell on the table one by one, to be swept away between interviews; when one lady candidate stopped in mid-sentence, eyes wide with horror as a hairy caterpillar emerged from the biggest rose, even their provider admitted that the chairman had probably been right.

Mr Bulstrode sipped from the remains of his pint, then hid the empty glass on the floor behind him. The committee was not looking happy.

‘Would I be right in thinking, ladies and gentlemen, that we’ve not been much impressed by what we’ve seen so far?’ There were gloomy nods all round. The vice-chairman, Mr Standish, fiddled with his pencil, searching for words. ‘It’s not that there’s anything wrong with them. All very good, very clever. But I haven’t yet seen the one who’s right for us.’

Mrs Farebrother turned to the chairman. ‘Why do you think we’ve not had a brilliant selection?’

‘No idea.’ He shook his head. ‘Mary, do you hear anything on the agents’ grapevine?’

Mary hesitated. Ever loyal, she was torn between anxiety not to upset anybody and her professional position, however tenuous. ‘I think the worry is, chairman, that with such a well-known figure as Sir Nigel his personal viote might be very strong, and would disappear. We might have been relying on him too much, and not be as well organised or as well off as we should be.

‘They think we’re a disorganised shower, do they?’ Mr Bulstrode was clearly offended. Still, if Mary’s observation were true, there would be plenty of time to put matters to rights before the next general election. A more competent, properly trained agent might be a start. And a stronger committee.

‘We haven’t done much canvassing here for some time, either.’ Mary felt emboldened. ‘We keep going to help weaker seats nearby and trusting to luck for ourselves. Candidates don’t want to feel they’ll have an uphill struggle.’

‘Well: we ’ave another batch to see this afternoon. A lawyer, a university teacher, two businessmen – no, one’s a woman; and, if the committee will allow, young Fred Laidlaw’s asked to be considered. It’s my view we should give ’im the chance.’

‘He’s not on the approved list,’ Mary objected timidly.

‘Correct, but we ’ave the right to adopt a local candidate. ’E can go on the list afterwards,’ the chairman reminded her testily.

It was agreed that Fred should have his turn. Mary went to phone him and to bring in the next victim.

The day wore on as each interviewee, nervous or laid back, well informed about the constituency or totally baffled, mouthing platitudes or (less often) profundities, made a short speech and fielded questions. Each was asked the same points and was secretly marked by each panellist as objectively as possible. All present regarded the process with the utmost gravity. On these deliberations rested far more than the replacement for their retiring MP, but the style of politics in their neighbourhood for decades to come. That it was a fascinating exercise, spotting winners, a bit like Miss World, added to the fun.

It was a weary group, rubbing eyes and cracking finger joints, which girded up their loins in late afternoon for the last stretch. Tea was brought in. The chairman took off his jacket, thought better of it, and put it back on again.

‘Two more, and the last one’s Fred. Right: let’s ‘ave the next chicken for the slaughter in, shall we? Thank you, Mary.’

Twelve faces looked up with various degress of expectation, curiosity and welcome as Marcus Carey walked in.

Twelve mouths dropped open; or rather eleven, for it took Mr Bulstrode a few seconds to catch up with the stunned silence of his companions. Then he saw and his jaw fell also. There was a sharp hiss from Mr Standish as he pursed his thin lips. Mrs Farebrother felt herself going pink, then, furious with herself, dropped her eyes. Was she not the former wife a clergyman, a man of the church? Were not all men created equal in the sight of God and made in His image? Deeply embarrassed at her own confusion, she scrabbled around among her papers to find Marcus’s details. Good degree, relevant experience, special adviser to the Department of the Environment. Excellent on paper. Right age, married. Born in Britain. Already ahead on points. Yet the most significant fact of all about Mr Carey was omitted. There was no mention here that he was black.

Marcus was accustomed to the barely suppressed gasp of surprise as he walked into certain rooms. Although over three million British were black in verying shades, their presence in company like this was extremely rare. Not that the Labour Party found coping with the transition to a multiracial society any easier. Blacks were still banned from mnay working men’s clubs, were still heavily under-represnted in the union hierarchy, and most infuriating of all were patronised by left-wing councils as always in need of white help, and thus not yet fully qualified to become citizens.

In his best grey suit, sober tie and highly polished leather shoes, Marcus looked more self-assured than he felt. His palms were sweaty and seemed too big. His mouth was dry, making his voice falsetto.

‘Now then, Mr Carey!’ Mr Bulstrode was overdoing the gruffness. The whole committee was twitching, moving hands, touching ears, looking distractedly out of window. Only elegant Mrs Farebrother, still flushed but back under control, gazed at Marcus directly. She gave him a small encouraging smile.

‘We’d like you to tell us in your own words why you should be the next MP for this division.’

Marcus stood, feet slightly apart, trying to stay calm. ‘Mr Chairman: thank you for asking me here today. You have in Sir Nigel Boswood one of the most greatly admired and loved members of the government who will be sadly missed. I can say that, perhaps, with more authority than most, for I see Sir Nigel every day at the Department of the Environment. He is a marvellous man to work for – thorough, responsible, helpful, knowledgeable about his own subject but never losing touch with ordinary people. I know him; he appointed me to this job: and I believe that may lay claim to follow in his footsteps.’