A Parliamentary Affair (53 page)

But Marcus was not trusting to luck. A week earlier he had prevailed on Nigel to write a short private note, somewhat against the older man’s better judgement, to the chairman, setting out the
special qualities Marcus would bring to the post. As it ended with the standard phrase widely used in references, ‘I would recommend this candidate without reserve’, the letter could easily be taken for vigorous support. That was good enough, at least for Mr Bulstrode. He watched Marcus carefully.

Questions flew around the table, like cricket balls from bowlers of varying degrees of skill. Marcus dealt with them all as an experienced batsman, scoring each time. The committee relaxed a little; this was more like it. They could understand why Cheltenham decided to take a risk with John Taylor – but this was a much safer seat, with a rock- solid majority.

Standish, still with an expression of undisguised horror, was signalling a frantic desire to ask a question. Bulstrode decided to ignore him and turned instead to Mrs Farebrother. She took a deep breath. She owed it to Marcus to warn him. Or at least to see if he was well prepared.

Mr Carey, if you don’t mind my asking, how will you cope with remarks about your colour?’

She watched for any weakness, a flash of annoyance, but there was none. Marcus pulled his shoulders back. Apart from Mr Standish, whose face was now rigid and furious, the whole committee was leaning forward attentively.

Marcus’s voice was sincere. ‘I am glad you asked me that. It is far better to face these … ah … more difficult matters than pretend they don’t exist. My father came here forty years ago, following the advertisements placed in West Indian magazines by the then Tory government. He was and still is proud to be British and regards most of us as nowhere near patriotic enough. He was employed in the dockyards in Southampton and studied at night school, working his way up to deputy works manager. I am proud in be that man’s son.’

Mrs Farebrother could picture it. How disappointing the man must have found this damp, inhospitable country. What determination must have been required to stick it out, and more, to slave away at midnight books, to be ambitious, never to give in.

‘Let me say this, though,’ he continued with a smile. ‘I have one enormous advantage. Within a week of my photo appearing in the local press, I’ll be instantly recognised all over the constituency. It takes most prospective candidates years to do that. I think that’s half the battle, don’t you?’ The committee tittered discreetly. Mrs Farebrother was thrilled. She hoped he meant what he said, and could cope.

There was an appreciative light in the chairman’s eye also. He drew the interview to a graceful close, then rose and showed Marcus to the door, shaking his hand, a gesture he had not offered to any other candidate. When Bulstrode resumed his seat without comment, a more satisfied expression had settled on his features.

‘And the last one, ladies and gentlemen! Mary, we’ll have young Fred Laidlaw in, if you don’t mind.’

By comparison with Carey’s experienced smoothness Fred was very green and hesitant. Stumbling to his seat, he slouched, one hand in pocket, till Mrs Farebrother’s raised eyebrows showed his mistake. With a muttered apology he sat up straight.

Mr Standish was by now in a foul mood. Invited by the chairman to lead off, he almost spat out his question: ‘What is your answer, Mr Laidlaw, to the rising crime wave?’ Fred’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He cudgelled his brain for a response and decided to make a virtue of ignorance.

‘I am not sure anybody knows, Mr Standish,’ he ventured.

Mrs Farebrother covered her mouth to smile unseen. That was the first honest answer to that question they had had all day.

As no more seemed to be forthcoming, Mr Standish tried again. Asking this puppy to come before the committee had been a big mistake. ‘Well, then, are you in favour of capital punishment?’

That was easier. Even if it sent steam through the ears of such as Mr Standish. ‘No, I’m not. Too easy to top the wrong person.’

Perhaps Marcus was fortunate that Fred’s gawkiness stood in such sharp contrast to his own courteous manner. Or perhaps Fred was more than unusually unlucky, for Marcus would have been a hard act for anyone to follow. Walking out head bowed, Fred reflected ruefully that simply wanting to be an MP was nowhere near enough and that considerable homework would be required before he dare try again. He resolved to put the whole matter down to experience.

Outside it was almost dusk. Street lights glowed first a dull orange, then burst one by one into garish light. Flocks of black starlings screamed and scrabbled for roosting positions, clattering against the windows as if demanding admission. Mr Standish winced.
There would be no black candidate here
. Should never have been allowed to enter the country in the first place, stealing jobs. A Tory candidate? Absolutely not. Over his dead body. He’d see to it.

Mr Bulstrode knew who was top of his personal list and wondered how the others had voted. ‘Now you know the rules. We can choose three or four to go into a second round, if you want. Or we can skip that. The winner goes to a full meeting, makes a proper speech and answers questions.’ He glanced with interest at the summary sheet handed to him by Mary. ‘Well now – it might ’elp if I tell you that one person came out ’ead and shoulders above all the others.’

The chairman was enjoying himself, keeping them all in suspense.

‘Go on, then!’ Mr Standish remonstrated. ‘Who is it? Who’s our man?’ It had not occurred to him that it mightn’t he a man. The women candidates had been uniformly terrible, in his view.

‘Of the twelve here, eight scored the same name first, several having him way ahead. Three put him second, with this morning’s estate agent first.’ Mary shuddered; he had not been her type at all. ‘One did not give our winner any marks at all, which I can only presume was a mistake.’ Mr Bulstrode glared at Mr Standish, whose narrow face slowly turned colour from pasty through scarlet to puce. Mrs Farebrother’s eyes widened in delight. It couldn’t be, surely, that most of these good people here had done as she had obliged herself to do, forced back her instinctive antagonisms and insisted on evaluation on merit? Under the table she crossed her fingers.

‘Our winner, ladies and gentlemen, by a long chalk, was Mr Marcus Carey, whom we saw this afternoon. I must say that I agree with that entirely. He was excellent and dealt with all the questions nicely, even the – shall we say – most indelicate. I think he will do us ’ere in Milton and ’Ambridge very well.’

Most of the occupants of the room, unknown to Mrs Farebrother, had followed a similar odyssey to her own. Now several faces beamed, looking at each other as if sharing a happy conspiracy. Mary clapped her hands with delight. To surprised stares she twittered, ‘I thought he was lovely, just like Sir Nigel when he was young. I’m so glad it’s him. Much nicer than the others.’

‘I move we accept him now, and I suggest we ask if he will be kind enough to bring Mrs Carey to the open meeting,’ offered Mrs Farebrother helpfully.

The chairman checked his notes. ‘
Dr
Carey, it is, not Mrs. Good idea, we’ll see to that. That’s it, then. Thank you all –’

‘
Wait a minute!
’ Standish was on his feet, his chair clattering away behind him. Committee members in various states of collecting papers froze. Trouble, had there been any trouble, was not anticipated from Standish, always the soul of propriety. The meeting was finished, the decision taken.

‘You can’t have him.’ Standish was quite definite. ‘You can’t. He is totally unsuitable. The idea is quite unthinkable!’

Proud and rigid he held his position. Behind him he could feel fingers pointing. Bulstrode was also on his feet, leaning on the table on his fingers in an aggressive pose. He was not about to have his authority challenged.

‘And why not, pray? Mr Carey was on the list good and proper, which is more than we could say for young Fred. He ’as a brilliant CV. He’s exceptionally well thought of by Sir Nigel; I ’appen to know that. He dealt with everything we threw at ’im with great distinction and … and dignity: yes,
that’s the word, dignity. I should be proud to go canvassing with that young man. Do I ’ave the feeling of this meeting, or not?’

Rapidly all present made a choice between the belligerent figure of Bulstrode the retired banker, kindly, decent, occasionally silly, but as honourable a man as any in Milton and Hambridge, and his arch-rival with the long nose and thin smile who knew too much about them all and had never managed a kind word in his life. An affirmative chorus flitted around the room.

‘Mary is right, as you are, chairman. Mr Carey it is,’ Mrs Farebrother firmly summed up.

Standish was left protesting and spluttering, mouth agape, alone in the disorderly remains of the room as his erstwhile friends and neighbours crept past and avoided looking at him. It was impossible! They were all mad, even thinking of having a black man as a Tory candidate. No more pussy-footing around. What was he? Not a proper man at all, still swinging from the trees in Africa. Fit only for manual work, scrubbing toilets in hospitals. Most of them could barely read or write. Drugs – weren’t most of the drug problems of this country due to them, bringing in cannabis and getting high all the time? The whole idea was preposterous, ludicrous, horrible. A black man here? Never!

He would appeal to the Prime Minister. The selection had not been properly conducted. It would have to be done again, this time with himself in the chair. He would vet the applicants first, insist on photographs with the forms. He would write to the Party Chairman in protest. He would mobilise local supporters. He would say his piece in the press, though it would have to be tactful – the chap didn’t have enough experience, or was unsuited to the area. Not a matter of colour, not at all.

Even as his fevered mind ran through the options, Mr Standish grimly realised how limited was his scope for action. For almost fifteen minutes he stood in the empty room, muttering to himself and banging the unprotesting table with his fist, until at last its rickety legs gave way. It collapsed to the floor with a sudden crash, sending the few remaining mint imperials rolling over the floorboards. The vase of flowers fell and broke right across Mrs Thatcher’s profile, limp petals and stems lying in a spreading stain on Mi Standish’s own carpet. Cursing he pushed the furniture roughly out of the way, bent down to brush the wet leaves off and started to roll it up. Then his foot caught on a sweet mid went from under him with a sharp crack.

When Mary and Mr Bulstrode entered the room to find the cause of the commotion, they found their erstwhile colleague prostrate on the floor, clutching his thigh and whimpering in pain. Mrs Farebrother permitted herself a moment’s satisfaction as Mr Standish writhed and moaned, before reverting to her Christian duty and summoning an ambulance. Mary, ever superstitious, was deeply thankful she had openly approved of the new dark arrival in their midst. Mr Standish had taken against him so virulently, and that wasn’t right. It was God’s law that we are equal. Somehow Mr Standish’s accident seemed, in a way, a warning.

There was, predictably, a row about Marcus Carey’s selection but the tone was curiously muted, perhaps because the result was such a surprise. For a complete unknown to be chosen to succeed the much admired Sir Nigel Boswood, and one who was black, must imply that this person is in possession of remarkable qualities. Four people resigned ostentatiously from Milton and Hambridge Conservative Association and looked around to find no one else following their lead. The chairman gamely stood his ground and explained bluntly that Marcus was much the best of an excellent bunch. Mr Standish was left fuming helplessly, flat on his back for six weeks in hospital with his plastered leg in traction.

Nigel, the Dicksons, the Muncastles and Elaine, among others, sent supportive messages, while a shower of national and international congratulations of varying degrees of hypocrisy cascaded around Marcus’s bemused head. The hate mail came too, usually without stamps, misspelled little missives in capital letters on lined paper torn from cheap exercise books. The Prime Minister, challenged at a fund-raising dinner about the new black Tory, smiled vaguely, said he knew the man and he was very good, and that this proved the Tory Party were well ahead of Labour. Right wingers meticulously cultivated by Marcus in the days when his potential for candidacy was a joke were nonplussed, but broadly welcomed another supporter to their wing of the party. Even Baroness Thatcher, who had long represented an ethnically mixed constituency in North London, when asked her view in the transit lounge at Taipei airport, expressed pleasure at his adoption as representative of those newly enriched families she was so proud to have had a hand in creating. Carey himself, though pursued for weeks by a frenzied press, wisely refused any comment. It was a highly successful tactic: every time he appeared on television surrounded by screaming pressmen shoving mikes up his nostrils, another batch of admirers was gained.

Sir Nigel Boswood weighed in immediately to welcome the choice of a ‘distinguished, loyal member of our party’ with a ‘fine track record’ who would ‘offer many years of conscientious service to Milton and Hambridge’, which he himself had been so proud to serve. Under these circumstances it was impossible to keep his impending retirement quiet, but the bold choice of Marcus moved debate so much further on that his own sadness seemed trivial by comparison.

Several people remarked that Sir Nigel seemed to have aged a lot recently. The scars on his face, mainly superficial, healed quickly into unaccustomed fine wrinkles on his previous smooth features. With some juggling of timetables he had remained in seclusion until no further excuses about his face were required. As attention switched to Marcus, Nigel found himself bowing quietly and without ceremony out of the local limelight. It left him feeling utterly bereft, with a terrible sense of anguish and loss. The thought of suicide recurred briefly, but putting an end to it all suddenly seemed not noble but foolish, an admission of defeat. Instead he counteracted his misery the only way he knew how, by throwing himself into his work. He stayed late at the department and in his large dismal room in the Commons basement, ignoring Chadwick’s ostentatious yawns from the outer office. He thrust himself once more into detailed papers which had been somewhat skimped and neglected, he now admitted dolefully, during the disastrous dalliance with Peter. Thereafter the demands on his time inexorably increased, for, as all ministers discover, completing the homework night after night promptly creates more of the same; the minister who impresses civil servants with enthusiastic assiduity has only himself to blame for much fuller boxes the subsequent week. The overriding task of officials is to keep their minister so busy he has no time for reflection, or he may end up that dreaded nuisance, a minister with original ideas.

Retirement from the front bench loomed as a much less attractive prospect than when Peter was on the scene. In tearful moments late at night, whisky in hand, Nigel realised with an emotion
approaching utter despair just how much of his own future he had invested in the boy, and wondered how he would cope when the red boxes no longer appeared.

Back in the constituency Marcus Carey made headway. Most of those who interested themselves locally in political life wisely waited for the chance to meet the man and make up their own minds. Alison joined him for the main adoption meeting and smiled loyally at everyone. Startled once more, this time to find their candidate married to a white woman, pretty and slim with neat brown hair and intelligent eyes, those present were embarrassed at their own tolerance. In the shifting world of the 1990s the old certainties about what was and wasn’t acceptable were vanishing. The stage looked set for an easy ride for the new man.

Peter rolled over on his back and rested his head in the crook of his white underarm, aware that cradling his blond hair softly in this fashion made him look adorably feminine. With his other hand he caressed the lanky body of his new lover and slithered his fingers over sleek body hair, massaging taut tendons in the shoulders. His voice had a practised tinge of genuine regret.

‘I may not be able to visit you very often. The press are chasing me over an old relationship. You wouldn’t want to be seen in my company while that was going on.’

The man twisted half around so that he could rest his head on Peter’s abdomen. ‘Might it be anybody I know? Perhaps I can warn you,’ he suggested conspiratorially.

Peter ruminated. ‘It could be, I suppose. Big cheese in the Department of the Environment.’

The man kept his surprise under control, but the well-educated voice elongated into a drawl. ‘Ah, I see. Civil servant? Or politician?’

Peter’s amused silence at the first suggestion and knowledgeable shrug at the second told him all he needed to know. ‘An older man, shall we say, then? Unmarried?’

A giggle. ‘You can say what you like. I’m saying nothing.’

Then Peter halted the conversation by leaning over and kissing him on the mouth, making the kiss rich and irresistible, until the man’s eyes began to glaze over.

The younger man spoke so softly the sibilance hung in the air. ‘No more questions. I don’t talk about you, and I don’t talk about any others, savvy? We’ll have to be careful until it all blows over. That’s all.’

Andrew was preoccupied as he headed out of the Chamber towards the whips’ office. A reshuffle was due in the summer, everyone now agreed. Naturally he wondered if his name was on any lists, even though he had been a PPS for less than a year. The next few weeks might be crucial. Men in his position were often sent to the whips’ office, not as now with a message demanding the prompt appearance on the front bench of the next whip on duty, who was late, but as an appointee. The thought had its appeal. Both Boswood and Dickson had served their time there, and both spoke of it with relish as the finest place to learn all the doings of parliamentary politics. Yet he was unsure how effective he might be in this difficult Parliament at twisting the arms of recalcitrants to persuade them to vote. Faced with belligerence or superior intellect he feared he would give up without a fight.

Look how easily he had given up on Miranda, for example. Four months had passed and he had not seen her, not dared. He recognised his own inertia for what it was: fear that she would simply tell him it was all over. Outright rejection was to be avoided at all costs. He had left plaintive telephone messages on her answerphone but she had not replied. Perhaps she had taken his coolness, at their last meeting, as unwillingness to become further involved; but he had only been startled, and unprepared for her offer. She came into his mind in the first moments of waking, the instant he realised that he was in his own bed and not hers; the memory of her body lulled him to forgetfulness as he turned out the light. Yet he yearned for her, more than he could have believed possible.

Damn Parliament for keeping him so busy. Although it was spring he felt sleepy, as if in hibernation. The timetable was a stinker, despite all the promises of an easier session alter the Maastricht marathon. The result of voting late night after night was an enervating exhaustion. If he had lulled to pursue Miranda with any urgency since their strange discussion in the Italian restaurant, it was in part because he needed every ounce of energy for his job.

Then it happened. He saw her, standing self-consciously in the lobby, her ID card displayed prominently on her bosom. She was dressed more modestly than usual, her skirt still tight but almost reaching her knees and the stance less confrontational. She was talking to Bryan Gould and hail not seen him. Andrew hesitated, then delivered his message quickly and returned to the lobby.

Gould was expounding his theories of the collapse of Europe. Born in New Zealand and like many former colonials in love with the motherland, he failed to understand how any true Brits could be attracted to the high-flown nonsense of the European idea. Miranda’s own accent could be heard as she commiserated.

Andrew approached quietly from behind so that he was almost at her side without her becoming aware of him. Her perfume was different, more suited to the modest surroundings, but still delicious. She looked well if a little thinner.

‘I wouldn’t believe a word this renegade is saying, Miss Jamieson,’ Andrew said with mock gravity.

At his voice Miranda jumped and a flush spread over her skin. Gould stopped in mid-sentence. The attention of his audience had obviously wandered, or rather galloped off in another direction. It was clear this new lobby journalist was more interested in dim Tories on the make than in intelligent socialists. Resentfully he walked away.

Andrew watched his retreating back briefly. ‘It’s good to see you here, Miranda, but it’s not your usual beat, is it?’

‘Correct, but we’re so short-staffed that someone has to do it while our political correspondent takes time off for a nervous breakdown.’

‘I was wondering…’ He stopped. She waited, but a grin slowly spread over her features. To Andrew it was as if sunshine had burst into the gloomy interior of the Commons. He took a deep breath and tried a different tack. ‘Would you, by any chance, be working too hard? If I can assist you in any way, you know I’d be happy to oblige. Tell you the gossip, that sort of thing.’

There it was: she laughed out loud, the old gurgle that set his hormones racing. Lightly she touched his arm. ‘You’re right, I have been neglecting my other duties. Very remiss of me, and quite foolish. I couldn’t return your calls because I’ve been working half the night. First things first.’

A whip had spotted the PPS talking to a journalist, had sidled up and was trying to eavesdrop. Andrew gave her a warning look and Miranda dropped her voice.

‘Forgive me. I’d love an informed,
active
discussion of some of the points raised with me today. I was hoping I would see you. Let me get some copy filed, and I could see you later. How does that sound?’

A great surge of relief rolled over Andrew. It was all he could do to prevent himself picking the lovely woman up there and then and hugging her for all to see.

By spring many of the troubles at
The Globe
were being resolved. The new computers had begun to show their capabilities. Fresh editions could be churned out at the push of a button, displaying superb high-definition colour photographs beamed by satellite with never so much as a smudge. Redundancy bit deeply but costs fell sharply along with the time taken to produce each edition. Slowly the newspaper gained a small edge over its main tabloid rivals.

Companies desperate to spend their way out of recession gratefully accepted the lowest advertising rates in what remained of Fleet Street. Debts and gearing which had reached astronomical levels started to subside. The economic recovery helped too, though it was still sluggish.

Other papers in the same group, on the owner’s orders, pitched in to assist, quoting
Globe
stories with approbation. The paper’s remaining journalists, unaccustomed to positive attention deserved or otherwise, began to feel less like mangy dogs. By the summer a few new faces had appeared to fill gaps and even its own staff were speaking hopefully of the paper’s future.

Deputy editor Miranda Jamieson’s intensive efforts were credited with much of the success of the rescue operation. She stopped checking flights to Melbourne and recovered much of her normal aggressively flirtatious manner as the frown mark eased from between her brows. Officially she was still dating Matthew Frank, who claimed to know a good woman when he saw one. That she was also involved seriously with someone else, who was, she hinted, in Australia, suited him fine; too many women wanted to drag achap to the altar even in these laidback days. Their photos together at the first night of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s latest hit, Frank with a self-satisfied grin on his rubbery features, Miranda hanging on Frank’s arm with her cleavage thrust towards the paparazzi lenses, appeared on all the diary pages, keeping everyone agog. It was all a thoroughly professional business, supporting both their newspapers. Her spare time was, however, still spent with Andrew Muncastle.

Andrew never ceased to marvel at her. Knowing she chose him above all others his
self-confidence
increased, with diffidence and coldness replaced by more warmth, albeit still reserved, for he still found it difficult to be the Inst to unbend. When Marcus turned to him and Roger for advice on matters arising from his candidacy, both were happy to give it, with the three of them becoming regular diners at the Gran Paradiso restaurant in Wilton Road, tucked away behind Victoria Station. At home, as it became clear that he no longer needed Tessa for sexual activity, she became less fearful and thus more welcoming. There were no more anguished rows. Barney became aware that his parents were getting on better and in turn lost some of his awesome solemnity, so they could enjoy his earnest presence more together and at last had some family pleasure to share. Even Miranda had stopped talking about choices and Australia, though he caught a romantic glow on her face sometimes as they made love.