A Parliamentary Affair (54 page)

All in all, it was turning out not so bad a year, despite all the pressures. More than that. As late spring turned to summer and he sipped a Pimm’s once more on the Terrace with Miranda in celebration of the day they had met there two years earlier, Andrew wished it could all go on forever.

Jim Betts blew a large smoke ring experimentally into the air and watched as it disintegrated around the fair head of his latest catch. The editor’s room was filling with a blue fug which made eyes water, and produced occasional furious looks from Nick Thwaite, who was again trying to give up cigarettes. With what he hoped was a sardonic smile playing at the corners of his mouth, Betts observed the proceedings and made occasional notes. He was mightily pleased with himself.

The boy sat impassively, blue eyes darting with amused disdain from one to another. He looked well, with a fine tan remaining from a recent visit to Mustique in the company of a continental prince who had conveniently paid in Deutschmarks. On the table, spread out, were several packets of photographs, some apparently ordinary, of friends laughing together on ski slopes, some bizarre or pathetic, posed in a bedroom somewhere, of a paunchy old man clutching daffodils and wearing nothing but a red dressing gown and a besotted smile, cuddling an apparently naked version of the young man now seated opposite.

Editor Steve McSharry pushed the photographs around with a paper-knife and fought down a feeling of distaste. It was not his job to judge but to sell newspapers. Once, when young, McSharry had dreamed of unmasking corruption in the halls of state through superb, unadulterated journalism. Exposing poor old Nigel Boswood as a raving queer with a knowing hard-faced rent boy had not quite
the same nobility of purpose. Some day, he vowed, he would write a powerful bestseller exposing the whole sleazy business of tabloid journalism – and thus regain a huge measure of professional respectability, without changing the system one jot.

‘Right. I think we have ourselves a magnificent and very moving story.
EVIL CABINET MINISTER SEDUCES UNDERAGE TEENAGER
. Very timely, with all that talk of changing the age of consent. Oh, Sir Nigel, do not touch me. How my life was ruined, by tragic unemployed youngster. Well done, Jim. Now the next step is to talk to our lawyers and get contracts signed so we can start paying you. I have our chaps lined up. Once contracts are in order, I’m sure you understand what “exclusive” means, Peter: it means not talking to anybody else, no hints, no nothing. You won’t get better money than from
The Globe
anyway.’

The boy nodded. It was like dealing with any other client: ask more than you think you’ll get and watch for the blink.
The Globe
had not blinked. No point in blowing the chance by checking elsewhere. Wise, however, to appear knowledgeable.

‘I’d like a copy of the contract to check over lunch, please.’

‘Sure. It’s all standard. Then there’s a lot of work to do, inking down the whole story. Every gory detail, please. Spare me nothing. I have no sensitivity and neither have our readers. Jim, you and Peter here are going to get to know each other a lot better. A quiet country hotel somewhere. Full drinks cabinet, room service meals, charge the lot. Can you handle it?’

Betts averted his gaze from the all too handsome boy. ‘Can we have two rooms, boss?’

The editor turned, puzzled at first, then laughed at Betts’s discomfiture. ‘If it will help you, take a typist, or that long-legged young lady from reception you’ve been ogling. She’ll keep your reputation intact, if that’s what’s bothering you. She can charge overtime – no questions asked. Anything else?’

Peter stirred himself. ‘Do you have any idea when you might publish?’

McSharry considered. ‘We may be pushed to run it in the next week or two; it’s too close to the summer recess and there’s still a lot of sport around. We need plenty of space for this, with all those great photos. I think we’ll get that Nefertiti one enlarged and splash it all over the front page. Maybe run it a week earlier as a teaser – “Who is this?” I’d like as many pages as possible – four or six at least, for two or three days on the trot. And we want a big impact. D’you know, it might be best during the conference season. Much more interesting than all those speeches. On the other hand we’re expecting a reshuffle: about time too, given how useless they are. Your man is likely to be involved, in which case we can announce he’s been sacked, and why. He can’t sue, as the substance of the copy will be true. I’d like to get a couple of interviews done with him right away too, Jim, blind – get his views on homosexuality and the age of consent, you know the sort of thing. If he isn’t ditched so much the better. He will be by the time we’ve finished with him.’

It suited Peter also to stay out of the limelight for a while. The new British client had volunteered to hold the office fort in London while his family spent a month sunning themselves in a Spanish villa north of Malaga. Knowing he would have to clear off once the story broke gave an added piquancy to the latest liaison. He too had learned from the dying weeks of the Boswood business. His original instincts were correct: no long affairs, no suffocating love and adoration, no promises to stay for ever. Stuff all that. All that affection and romantic talk had begun to get through to him. It had made him almost wistful at times and took the edge off his protective armour. He almost felt sorry for the old fool. Had he stayed any longer, he might have stayed for ever. Like being caged, or buried alive.

Martin Chadwick poked his head round the door, his expression studiously neutral – an essential skill in a civil servant. He had practised many times in a mirror and knew he could trust his features not to betray him. The tie chosen that morning was relatively dignified, for the ministerial reshuffle was due and by the evening he would be introducing himself to a fresh face. He wondered who his new boss might be. He himself was also overdue a promotion. If Sir Nigel’s replacement were interesting, he could arrange to stay another year to bed the new man in. If not he would graciously make way for a new private secretary of the incumbent’s choice.

‘No. 10 on the phone, Secretary of State. Shall I put them through in here?’

It was a silly question, for Nigel was not about to leave his inner office and take an important call from the Prime Minister in full hearing of his staff. He waved the official away with a nod and waited for the phone to ring once.

This was it, then. The end of his long career, the beginning of the twilight which led downhill into old age and death. How unkind of the Prime Minister to do it by means of a telephone call without the courtesy of a face-to- lace meeting. There would be effusive thanks, of course. A pleasant letter on No. 10 notepaper would arrive, the text cleared with him before publication in tomorrow’s
Times
. He could even write chunks of it himself, provided it wasn’t too long. Whatever he wanted. It didn’t matter, now. From the moment the phone handset returned to its cradle he would be an ex-minister and, like Lucifer expelled from Elysium, would be wiped from the face of the earth. He postponed the moment as long as he could. The phone trilled at him urgently. His dismissal might be inevitable but it did not have to be welcome; he did not have to rush it.

Not a dismissal. What could he have been thinking? This was a resignation, at his own request. Nearly all ministerial careers end in tears, most at a time and date emphatically not of the minister’s choosing. The spectacular eases resulting from ministerial misbehaviour are a minority. Most are dropped, shaking their heads in puzzled resentment, because of failure to make the grade. Thus Boswood was lucky and knew it. His longevity on the front bench made him a rare bird indeed; his gracious decommissioning rarer still. It was unmanly to gripe if the Prime Minister didn’t want to see him in person.

‘Nigel?’ The voice in his hand squeaked impatiently. With a start his reverie ended and he put the phone to his ear, trying gruffly to clear the lump in his throat.

‘Prime Minister. Good morning.’

‘Ah, I’m glad I’ve got you. How are you, Nigel?’

The Prime Minister never was very good at getting to the point quickly. Still, he must be finding this interview as difficult as his listener.

‘Fine. How can I be of service, Prime Minister?’

Now he would say it. Boswood braced himself, biting his lip.

‘Ah, Nigel. Do you remember our conversation just before Christmas, about your wanting to leave? I’ve kept it in mind, obviously. But I wanted to ask if you would mind staying on a bit longer. The reshuffle is much more extensive than I’d imagined and if you go too it will look rather like Macmillan’s night of the long knives – like a panic move. Do you get my drift? Also there’s a bit of a shortage of obvious candidates for the job. Dickson really hasn’t been a minister long enough to risk, and putting Virginia there, who could do it, will look like criticism of her work at Health. So would you mind staying?’

Nigel’s eyebrows shot up. He wondered if Chadwick was listening on the extension. Mind staying? He examined his reactions quickly. The emotions he expected and sought, pleasure and relief, stubbornly refused to come. He felt instead chagrined by the Prime Minister’s cool approach. Everybody likes a little flattery. To be told you are wanted because you are by far the best for this particular job is delicious and (naturally) undeniable. To be asked to do a job as a bit of a favour was faintly patronising and deflating.

To have it implied that you are an afterthought, that the PM is in some small way not sure if the favour is worth doing, was deeply hurtful.

Perhaps the Prime Minister, usually so punctilious, had simply forgotten Nigel’s own sensitivities. He decided to give him the chance to put matters right.

‘Are you sure you want me to carry on, Prime Minister?’ The emphasis, not so subtle, was on the
me
.

‘Well, yes, please. Is that all right? The press release has been prepared and it’ll be a terrible nuisance if we have to change it.’

The PM paused and a silence ensued. Clearly the conversation was at an end. Boswood’s lip trembled briefly, then his jaw jutted forward. His voice sounded huffy and he made no attempt to hide it.

‘If it helps, Prime Minister. But I still wish to make way for a younger man in due course. I leave it in your capable hands.’

No sooner had the phone pinged softly back on its rest than Chadwick was at the door again, hands clasped before him, a smug expression on his face. Quite suddenly Boswood, who seldom thought ill of anyone, disliked this man not just his secure and comfortable existence, his well pensioned safe-for-life job, his docile wife and pretty children and the rose-strewn house in Sittingbourne. No, he disliked and detested his ruthless detachment, his ability not to care, merely to administer, to, shelve difficult problems until the fickle press and twitchy ministers found something else to chew on. Chadwick’s was a charmed, protected life, as devoid of passion or commitment as it was possible to be. How Peter had opened his eyes! The cruelty and a morality behind such bland mannerisms were now visible as never before. Stung to the quick by the Prime Minister’s casual ingratitude, Nigel reached for a pile of files with a deliberately possessive gesture.

‘I’m staying on,’ he averred brusquely. To his grim satisfaction, Chadwick’s mouth dropped open. The man gabbled a few words of congratulation as Boswood waved him away. Here was one character he would not miss, not at all, when the time came.

At the other end of the phone a nasal Betty Horrocks sniffled her deepest apologies. Her duties as chairman of Whittington Conservative branch were enjoyable, occasionally arduous but seldom hazardous, until now. Taking old ladies home in the pouring rain the previous week had given her a filthy head cold. It had been so wet this summer, a real disappointment; all the gardens in Whittington were doleful and soggy and the church fete had been a washout. Even more calamitous results for the Whittington ladies now had to be reported to their Member.

‘I don’t know how to tell you this, Elaine, but we’ve had to cancel tonight’s meeting in Whittington village hall. There’s summer flu going around and a lot of our supporters have phoned in to say they can’t make it. To tell the truth I’m not feeling too bright myself. So would you mind very much if we postponed it till another time?’

Mrs Horrocks blew her nose.

Mind?
Mind?
No, Elaine didn’t mind. The ladies at Whittington would have offered a friendly audience and tittered at every anecdote however trivial. But to learn at midday that a busy weekday evening had suddenly become free, even during recess, was like experiencing divine intervention.

Elaine sympathised: ‘I’m sorry to hear about the coughs and colds. It sounds as if you should take care of yourself as well. Thank you for phoning to let me know and saving me a journey. I’ll agree to come again on another night, on one condition.’

Mrs Horrocks was unsure what was coming. Torn between respect and affection for Elaine and her usual bustling no-nonsense approach she hesitated. ‘And what might that be, may I ask?’

‘That you don’t let on to
anyone
else in the constituency that the event has been cancelled, not yet, so that I can have an evening off and go home. If it gets out that I’ve nothing to do the phone will start and my precious time to myself will evaporate. Is that a deal?’

Mrs Horrocks laughed uproariously if croakily. ‘Of course, my dear.’

With one bound she was free, thought Elaine with almost childish glee as she stuffed papers hurriedly into an old briefcase and headed down the stairs into the car park. She was wilting under the demands of the long summer recess, the only time in the year when she could join her constituents at work and school in a constant round of duty visits. Going home would be wonderful, especially as the weather seemed set fair for the evening.

The Rover was feeling its age and protested noisily as she put her foot down and slid away from London traffic. She munched a chocolate bar instead of lunch and luxuriated in feeling guilty. It would be nice, she mused wistfully, to go out and buy a new car. One with air-conditioning, so that on days like this she could arrive at a function fresh, not like a limp rag in desperate need of a shower. Then she could be with less hassle and effort what her public wanted her to be: Icon and servant, inspiration and entertainment, thinker, campaigner, and on top of all this a successful mother and wife.