A Parliamentary Affair (59 page)

By Sunday night the Prime Minister knew he was completely boxed in. With a sigh, for he had tried, he reached for the phone.

‘Who was it, Mum? Was it Roger?’

There was no need to pretend any more. Karen had not been trying unduly to listen in to Elaine’s phone conversations, but increasingly she took an informed interest in her mother’s life.

Elaine came into the kitchen looking thoughtful. ‘Yes, it was. Boswood has resigned from the government. He stays in Parliament for the moment. Roger is made up to take his place. That leaves a
vacancy, but the work is tailing off, so they’re making another junior minister instead, and that is to be Andrew Muncastle.’

‘Phew! Do I congratulate you on being the girlfriend of a Cabinet minister, then, Mum?’ Karen was intrigued. Never having met Roger, having seen him only through her mother’s eyes, it was automatic to feel pleased for him, for them both.

Elaine shook her head. ‘No, don’t be silly. I shall probably see even less of him now. Have to be even more careful. Not a word, miss, do you hear?’

Karen scowled. ‘Now would I, Mum? After everything that has happened?’ She stopped; that was the first reminder for some time. She coloured and dropped her eyes. Bravado still did not come easy. ‘Sorry. What’s the matter? Will you have to finish with Roger Dickson now?’

‘I don’t know. We’ll have to see how it goes, I suppose. I have no claim on him, and I’m too fond of him to cause him any trouble. Yet with your father gone…’ Elaine’s voice tailed off sadly.

‘Well, the government can sure do without any more scandals.’

Her mother winced. Karen was still too naive to know what was delicate and what wasn’t. She had in any case inherited Elaine’s natural bluntness. Catching her mother’s troubled face, the girl moved rapidly to shift the subject.

‘What about this new bloke – Andrew something? Do you know him?’

‘Yes, I know him. We came into Parliament at the same time. He has done well, and he’s a minister already. Good luck to him.’

‘Is he any good?’

‘So-so. Competent. Nothing brilliant. Bit dull, really, at least in public. It hasn’t stopped him being the first of our intake to make it to the front bench.’

‘Why him and not you?’

Elaine laughed, but there was bitterness. She wondered how to avoid sounding jealous, and gave up. ‘I ask myself the same question. Surely not because I’m a woman. Not these days, the years of equality and all that. Maybe because I’m a bundle of trouble masquerading as an MP and being a woman as well is just too much. By contrast Andrew hasn’t put a foot wrong since he arrived. He has an impeccable pedigree. He has lots of useful friends and gets on pleasantly enough with everyone. He offers no risks at all. The fact that he’s never done any TV or radio, ever, that he has no skill at putting a case over, no charisma, no imagination, or originality and about as much personality as my little finger seems to count for nothing. I’m not sure he is even particularly well endowed with brains, but that’s no disqualification either. He’ll make a first-class minister.’

‘You don’t like him much.’

‘There’s nothing much to like. I should think better of him if he wasn’t so bland. He’s an example of what has gone wrong with this country. We seem to be ruled by civil servants – or people who wouldn’t be out of place managing supermarkets. I don’t fit.’

‘You’ll make it, Mum.’ Karen came close and put an arm round her mother. ‘If you really want to, that is.’

‘Oh, stuff.’ Elaine’s mood lifted marginally. ‘You sound like Roger. At least I’m sure the department is in good hands – he will be excellent. Do you know his nickname for me is “Patience”? All I have to do, he says, is carry on as now, making my speeches to an empty House, putting down boring planted questions, coaxing our ladies at fundraising events, doing my bit on the telly. Be patient; it will bear fruit and I will make it. I think there’s more to it than that. But I don’t know what.’

‘And even if you don’t I shall still think you’re marvellous.’

Elaine hugged her daughter with renewed affection.

Thank God Mike had delayed his extramarital escapade till Karen was almost grown-up. ‘Now, young lady. You ready for an early start in the morning?’

Karen untwined herself from her mother. ‘Yeah, and it’s political history tomorrow, double period. All this stuff about charisma, Mum – sometimes it can go too far. I have to write an essay about Hitler and Mussolini. Do you think they had it?’

Elaine smiled. ‘In abundance. You’re right. Maybe dull ministers are a better idea.’

It was not until the early hours of Monday morning that Nigel Boswood climbed out of a taxi and crept in the back way of his house, his face shrouded in a scarf. He had let it be known that he was headed for Scotland, so the place was deserted apart from a young policeman on the gate who uttered a soft, curt goodnight.

Without turning on the lights Nigel went all round the house, drawing curtains tight. For a while he would live in gloom, hiding from the daylight, until the rat-pack went off to chase another hapless victim.

He was dead, empty. All these events were so crushing that his mind refused to accept them. He felt slovenly, dirty, unshaven. Pulses in his temple pounded and his mouth was dry. He had not slept for days, nor eaten properly, but exhaustion was taking over. Tonight in his own bed he would try to sleep, and sleep on restlessly but deeply in the darkened room past midday, eyes shut tight, breathing slow and laboured as if he might never wake. Would that it would happen like that, a heart attack during the night perhaps. No more trouble to anyone. He took the phone off the hook and on an afterthought unplugged it from the wall.

A pile of unopened mail looked ominous and he ignored it. In the quiet living room he mixed a stiff drink, and then another. Moving dully, methodically, allowing habit to take over, he chose a favourite book to read and made his way slowly upstairs. Every step was redolent of Peter. The whole house would have to be redecorated, furniture changed around. He must fill the basement with jumble and rubbish, obliterate the memories entirely. Start tomorrow, give himself something to do.

A new blue dressing gown was draped on the bed. The old one had been too stained to save, after that incident with the mirror. He turned on the bedside light, put down the book and drink. Woodenly, devoid of all purpose except the simple objective of getting into bed, he pulled back the bedclothes.

On the pillow was a note written in a simple, careful hand. For a brief second his heart leapt. Maybe Peter was about to apologise, explain that the terrible newspaper stories were not his fault, that he was sorry for all the misery he had caused?

Then in the gloom Nigel looked closer and recognised the writing.

At the bottom a PS had been added, a hasty afterthought:

Nigel stood still for a long time. Only increasing stiffness eventually made him move. He blew his nose, finished undressing and climbed into bed, the note clutched in his hand.

Most Sundays Elaine Stalker refused engagements. There had to be a day in the week when she did not wear makeup or tights or smart skirts, but could slop around at home in jeans and a sweater, a day when she could revert to an ordinary human being. Not that this was time off. Sunday was the only day necessary chores could be attended to: tidying the garden, changing light bulbs, fiddling with the video, polishing shoes, sewing buttons back on jackets and blouses. She wondered if male MPs had similar problems, but concluded that on the whole their wives performed such tasks. No wonder divorced men look so harassed.

It was also the chance to keep the paperwork in check. Despite Diane’s best efforts work could not be confined to weekdays and the office. Every weekend Elaine’s briefcase bulged with reports she had meant to read, or preparation for next week’s debate, or letters to sign which could not wait. All this invaded her home and spread itself over the kitchen table after Sunday lunch, as Karen watched the omnibus edition of
EastEnders
.

Sunday outings became restricted to unavoidable church parades. The cathedral had developed a nice line in commemorative services broadcast on local radio which brought in the crowds and filled the offertory plates. The Farmers’ Service each autumn saw the place filled to the rafters with sheaves and stooks, loaves of decorated bread, baskets of fruit (mostly imported), an old farm cart, trays of hen and goose eggs and the stuffed head of a favourite champion Hereford bull, the whole set off with flowers and foliage in glorious harvest colours of red and gold and dark glossy green. Local farmers and their families in heavy tweeds, nails and necks scrubbed, arrived respectful and uncertain and were reminded firmly of their place in the rural social order by dean and chapter assembled in embroidered silk.

Last Farmers’ Service had been a bit of a disaster. A visiting bishop had been invited to preach. He launched into a Green manifesto, lambasting those who ruined the land with too much fertiliser, who blocked up footpaths and set dogs on innocent ramblers, who overproduced and then demanded subsidies, and whose subsidised exports were a main cause of the collapse of Third World agriculture. Seated in the second row beside the Lord-Lieutenant, Elaine could not see the frozen expressions behind her. She could, however, sense hundreds of backs stiffen grimly. They had their silent revenge as the plates came round, dropping derisory pennies from work-roughened hands. The collection raised only £15, and the visiting bishop was never invited again.

One service all year stood out, for Elaine as for many MPs: Remembrance Day. Her constituency was recruiting territory for several regiments. Each year there seemed to be a new smattering of young soldiers on parade, war-weary from the Gulf or Bosnia, or with the watchful air of those who have served in Ulster.

The grand old organ boomed out powerful rumbling notes as the congregation rose solemnly to its feet amid wholesale clearing of throats. The weather had been damp and the cathedral was not yet warm; the standard-bearers were blue with cold and the Brownies were shivering. Lusty hymn singing would make everyone feel better.

After the hymn, a young woman infantry officer, top cadet in her year at Sandhurst, stepped forward to the lectern. In the front row her parents swelled with pride. Necks craned as the girl stood calmly in her smart green uniform, blood-red poppy at her breast. There was something about a woman dressed like that, incongruous but enormously sexy. Men, confused, lowered their eyes.

Elaine looked around her. Of course she should be concentrating on the service but her constituents were much more interesting. Mostly over middle age, comfortable and well upholstered, peaceable and kindly. Once a year they chose to remember the cost of war without mawkishness or embarrassment.

The president of the British Legion, now nearly eighty, headed for the microphone. As a young man he had served with Montgomery in North Africa, losing an eye when the tank was blown from under him and all his mates killed. Medals clanked on his chest and his long lower lip was not quite under control as he started reading the Memorial of the Dead, his voice shaking with emotion.

Elaine felt suddenly very moved. Had she been required at that moment to make a comment out loud she could not have done it. That Europe was free at all was thanks to the sacrifices of such people and their comrades.

The cathedral waited. It was eleven o’clock. High in the medieval belltower Great Tom tolled as everyone silently counted. As the last reverberations died away the president drew himself up to his full height and spoke very slowly:

Nigel Boswood had decided to attend the televised service at the Cenotaph in Whitehall. Why not? As a Cabinet minister he would have been in the second row behind the Prime Minister and Leader of the Opposition, near the Queen in her regulation black. Now he was at the back. He was well wrapped up against the bitter wind, an extra-large poppy firmly pinned to his coat, neck muffled in the black scarf kept for this event year by year. Proper dress was
de rigueu
r
.

There was a streak of sheer defiance in Nigel’s determination to come, but in any case the reasons for keeping his head down were diminishing. The Metropolitan Police had come to Ebury Street for a chat, but had been deferential and almost kind. Without a complaint from Peter, who seemed to have disappeared, there was to be neither prosecution nor libel case. Nigel refused to make any public statement and gradually the fuss died down. The press were off pursuing a bishop who had been molesting young monks. There was no longer any need to hide.

The war itself did not mean much to Nigel. Only five years old when it broke out, he had promptly been shipped off to relatives in Canada with his sister. He remembered the outward journey on board the great cruise liner, with deck tennis, a swimming pool and children’s shows, with the greatest enjoyment, which coloured his whole recollection of the following innocent years, until his return to a cheerless English prep school after VE Day. From the train, then, he was shocked at the devastation of Liverpool: a three-legged dog limping across bomb sites near the flattened Edge Hill goods depot, the yawning gaps in street after street in Wavertree where houses had received a direct hit, their inhabitants pulled out in pieces. The images stayed with him. The desire to do his bit became a driving force in his politics.

Behind him the Regimental Band of the Blues and Royals tinkled and hissed as stops were flexed, spittle discreetly emptied from trombones and bright brass raised to stiff lips. A gentle drum roll led the congregation into a very British hymn. Nigel joined in proudly. So what if God was an internationalist?

Tessa Muncastle tried to stop herself shivering and wondered if putting her gloved hands in her pockets would be too disrespectful. Hampshire might be in the lush south but half an hour in a November wind had penetrated all her defences. Next to her stood the standard-bearer of the Women’s Royal British Legion, a stout lady in a navy-blue uniform, big feet in sensible lace-up shoes planted wide apart, huge white leather gloves like catchers mitts on both hands, the Legion hat jammed intransigently on her head with several hatpins. The standard itself, having been paraded around the town, was propped up beside her.

‘Terrible, isn’t it?’

Tessa realised the standard-bearer was commiserating with her. She smiled ruefully. ‘It is a bit chilly. Wish I’d worn something warmer.’

The woman leaned forward with a cheery grin. ‘Long johns, that’s what I wear,’ she hissed. ‘Borrowed me old man’s, the short-leg ones. Look.’

To Tessa’s consternation she lifted her skirt and showed the tell-tale white ribbing covering her ample thighs, like prepared hams in a butcher’s. Tessa coloured in embarrassment.

The woman returned to attention. The MP’s wife was nice but a bit po-faced. This was a solemn occasion, but there was always room for a giggle. Do her good to enjoy herself occasionally. Him too – took himself so seriously these days now he was a minister.

Andrew held himself rigidly straight on the podium as the rest of the parade drew near, a large poppy prominently displayed in his buttonhole. Next to him stood the rural dean in flowing voluminous red, his unaccustomed portliness suggesting layers of fortification underneath.

Andrew was conscious that many eyes were on him. He worked steadily in the constituency; his photograph appeared on many a worthy occasion in local newspapers but his very blandness made him less than memorable. On this occasion he was available for everyone to gaze at for nearly an hour, when they were not scrutinising the parade for a favourite child or commenting rudely on the musical offerings. He realised with a start that he had first come to the area nearly four years ago after his selection as candidate. If his constituents were underwhelmed by him the compliment was returned. They were polite, but casework and local planning spats consistently failed to inspire. This area of Hampshire had relatively few problems; had he nothing else to do other than look after them and turn out on occasions such as Remembrance Day he would have become terribly bored.

The ministerial job was a different matter. Working for Roger, a new and inexperienced Secretary of State but with a friendly natural style, he was obliged to abandon his usual reserve and make every effort; they would be judged as a team. It was the internal unsung work at the department which unexpectedly he found he liked. He turned out to be capable in its low-key negotiations, where experts and pressure groups appreciated his attention to detail. Good thing too, on the whole. For rather too long his only thrills had come from seeing Miranda. As his career burgeoned there were fresh thoughts in his mind, their origins a document in his box, a briefing with civil servants. Life was busy and full. He was more content by the minute.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Tessa looking frozen and miserable. A moment of unreasoning anger welled in his heart: could she not dress properly for an outdoor event in winter, or was even this to be a source of discord?

The lady standard bearer gave Tessa a quick nudge. ‘Look down there!’ she pointed. ‘The TA have brought their mascot. Well I never! Now we’ll have some fun.’

Frowning slightly, Tessa peered down the wide street in the direction of the martial music. In the absence of the county’s regiments in Bosnia the local territorials, the reserves, had volunteered to
put on a good show, especially as the MP would be present. First the Scout band came into view, boys of different ages and sizes, struggling to keep step, supported by Guides and Cubs. Behind the band came the Terriers in khaki. That this mixed troop, a quarter female, were not soldiers was immediately evident by the casual originality of their marching. In real life they were building society clerks and solicitors, garage mechanics and secretaries, relieving the boredom of their daily lives. Amused neighbours pointed to each familiar face in its unaccustomed cap, while the blushing objects of their attention tried to keep eyes front and stop themselves waving.

It was then that Tessa caught sight of the mascot and her heart sank. It was a large white billy-goat with an evil face, its horns waving dangerously. The troop Secretary had shampooed it for the occasion and caparisoned the creature sumptuously in TA colours. Pulling hard, it was leering and skittering out of step in the front row under the partial control of the commandant, Mr Bulstrode the retired banker, who was red-faced from the effort of holding the brute back. Mr Bulstrode was both out of his area and a little out of his depth. There was no point in hassling people to attend a parade in nearby Milton if its MP was missing, as well he might be after all that fuss. A proper march-past needed a distinguished character to take the salute. Muncastle was nothing much, but as one of Her Majesty’s new ministers he would have to do. As long as this ghastly beast behaved.

As the groups approached the podium the goat began to scent people. That meant food: sweets, crisps, chips. Getting away would be difficult, for the man was holding tight. The parade stopped and the band rested, at ease. The animal stood balefully eyeing the crowd, head up, as all fell silent.

The goat felt Mr Bulstrode’s grip slacken minutely.

Just at that moment the Scouts put cornets to lips and in undignified mistune blasted out the Last Post. The goat, startled, jumped off all fours, jerked its head back, found itself free, looked around wildly and then made a bee-line for a half-eaten chocolate bar sticking out of the drum major’s pocket. The crowd scattered from its path with yelps and squeals as all semblance of dignity collapsed. Moving remarkably fast, the billy clattered towards its objective. Grasping the chocolate in protruding yellow teeth it began to gobble quickly, but had not counted on the angry youngster. In furious retaliation he lifted the drum with a yell and crashed it down on the goat’s head, splitting the drumskin with a loud twang and leaving the rim and remains encircling the animal’s neck. The beast’s amber eyes rolled unfocused; then, as instinct took over, it put its splendid horned head down and charged the boy full tilt.

In an instant there was uproar as the big goat, somewhat hampered by its unusual collar, careered on into the crowd, which scattered in all directions, screaming and laughing. Bulstrode waded in, scrabbling in the road for the leather lead, but the animal was not about to relinquish its newfound freedom. With a skip it dodged neatly out of the way. Mothers snatched babies from prams and clutched them to their breasts, old ladies in terror pressed themselves flat against shop windows, young men came out of pubs and ran around whooping. The hefty goat, no mean beast, chocolate wrapper still hanging from its lips, charged aimlessly and vengefully about. The lady standard-bearer, a broad grin on her weatherbeaten face, deftly moved Tessa out of the way. On the podium Andrew and the rural dean watched helplessly; once it was apparent that normal service was not to be restored, the two relaxed and joined in the general merriment.