A Parliamentary Affair (71 page)

It kept coming back to Roger, and to the fact that their affair seemed to have been getting in the way at all the crucial points. The most obvious contrast between her and Andrew Muncastle was this: that one of them was sleeping with Roger Dickson and the other wasn’t.

The television screen filled with the credits and bouncy music of the current affairs programme,
Question Time,
recorded an hour or so earlier. One figure from each of the three main
parties appeared, the fourth place taken by a commentator or industrialist or otherwise supposedly neutral figure, plus a chairman. The whole style was a throwback to days when discussion between intelligent beings was the bedrock of British debate.

This week’s team was high-powered. The Secretary of State for the Environment was matched with the Labour spokesman on Trade and Industry, while Lord Blackthorn represented the Liberal Democrats. The Director-General of the Confederation of British Industry made up the foursome: All male, though nobody seemed in the least apologetic. When the team was all female, as on one occasion when Elaine herself was a panellist, it excited heated comment in the national press.

Roger would also be tuned in, back in the Great Peter Street house, probably with Caroline. He had conquered his fear of watching his performances on television and would be checking with a critical eye, chewing through the remarks made by the other side, debating how he might have demolished them better.

The first question from a member of the audience was about the qualities required by politicians. The panel had a choice. They could by mutual consent avoid the Muncastle issue, in which case the chairman was briefed to make a sarcastic remark before moving on to the next question. He needn’t have worried. The Liberal Democrat peer, married for forty years to an extremely dull woman, licked his lips and sallied forth.

‘I would have said,’ he remarked unctuously, ‘that if we are going to trust our politicians we do need to know they are honourable people. Not like the junior minister in your department, Roger.’

Dickson folded his arms belligerently and glared, knowing the camera would pick up his angry face, more expressive than any riposte.

‘Steady on!’ the industrialist intervened. ‘Your own leader hasn’t exactly got an unblemished history, has he?’

‘Ah, but he confessed at once,’ smoothed the Liberal (which was not true). ‘The public appreciate that sort of honesty.’

The chairman was aware from his hidden monitor that Dickson’s silent disapproval had dominated the screen for several moments. ‘Would you like to add anything, Mr Dickson?’

‘Certainly.’ Roger leaned forward and ignored the camera, knowing that would increase the sincerity of his pronouncement. He allowed a steely edge to enter his voice. ‘Andrew and Tessa Muncastle are good friends of mine. Andrew is an outstanding young MP and member of my team. I think they should be allowed to work out for themselves whatever personal problems they may have, and the rest of us should
mind our own business.’

His mouth clamped firmly shut as it there were no more to be said. Elaine felt like applauding.

Supposing Roger had said, just once, with that same firm jaw, even while still in the whips’ office: ‘Elaine Stalker is an outstanding young MP. It really is about time we stopped talking about women politicians as if they were freaks – she in particular is a remarkable person. I recommend she be appointed to high office without delay.’

He had never said that. The political atmosphere brought it back to her: she had seduced him in the first place, partly because he was so very special, partly because he was an irresistible challenge – and partly to help her career. She had made no secret of it: he would have expected it a bit. It had been natural to assume he would push her case. On that she had made a big mistake, it now appeared. The very qualities which made her love him precluded any such underhand activity. He was too decent, too cautious, to do any such thing. But the assumption that Roger would look after trivial details – like speaking well of her – had led her to a dead end, and to neglect fatally the necessity of promoting herself elsewhere.

There had been other ways, apparently insignificant, in which the affair had been destructive. More than once, knowing Roger was expected that evening, she had given up the chance to speak in a
debate in order to rush home and wait for him. Wanting to watch him at every opportunity she had written the future dates of Environment Questions in her diary and refused invitations which would clash, including several emanating from Freddie Ferriman, who given his reputation as a kingmaker, might have been useful. She had hardly noticed other tentative approaches from colleagues, whips or PPSs, so wrapped up in Roger was she. Believing Roger’s kind-hearted assertion that all she needed was patience and that her promotion was only a matter of time, she had refused to join in cross-party agitation over women’s issues or transport of industrial waste or excessive cuts in the armed forces or the size of the European budget, and thus failed to make other valuable friends. No wonder she quickly found the Commons a cool place; she had put all her eggs in one basket, and placed it at the back of the fridge.

Elaine watched the television, fascinated. Had Roger rehearsed he could not have done better. He was a fine performer these days, fearless, well informed, adroit and honest in his delivery. He was nowhere near the summit of his career but was capable of going much further. More than capable, in fact, of a fair showing in a leadership election.

Which possibly he would win.

This was important. She followed the thought through carefully. The current Prime Minister had promised himself and any friends who would listen, back at the time of his own elevation, that in his view there were other things besides politics, and that he would himself do the job no longer than the age of fifty-five. Elaine lay back and chewed her thumb, feeling guilty and disloyal. He wouldn’t last that long. His predecessor had gone on too long too.

The most likely challenge would come after a general election; if it did not go well. The opinion polls showed that none of the possible current contenders scored better than the Prime Minister, while the Foreign Secretary, a man in his sixties, was already planning his memoirs. But a new contender – Roger Dickson? – might change the political landscape entirely.

He would make a good Prime Minister. Even if, were they in Opposition, he would have to serve a term as Leader on the wrong bench first. Maybe that would be no had thing. Margaret Thatcher had used her four years facing Labour Prime Ministers brilliantly, generating enough fresh ideas to carry the party through a string of election successes. Roger Dickson was perfectly capable of doing the same.

But not with her in tow.

Her reverie stopped suddenly. The final credits were rolling. Roger was obviously well pleased with himself, and so he might be. Smart, positive, friendly and believable, he looked every inch a potential future Prime Minister. But not with any skeletons in his cupboard. He must realise that. It puzzled her that he had not accepted her hint that the time was near to end the affair. It did not fit her picture of him, garnered over a long period, that he might be so arrogant as to imagine it did not matter.

Yet it must end. And if he would not come to his senses she would have to force the issue. Soon.

But oh, merciful God, not just yet. Not while the pain of losing Mike was still so real. Not until she had adjusted to the idea of being alone. There was a limit to what she could take. The break-up of her marriage and the uncomfortable adjustment to her public image and status – with the unpleasant publicity which was bound to follow even a quiet split – would take some time to absorb. The wounds needed a while to heal. She needed Roger now more than ever.

Dorothy Holmes was dying. To her helpless fury she could no longer dress or feed herself. Elaine sat by her bed in Eventide holding her limp hand. For the first time Dorothy was wigless. Instead of her usual formidable and startling appearance she seemed tiny and non-viable, like the dead chicks which fall out of trees in spring, scrawny, awkward, hairless.

‘Bloody awful, this.’ The old lady still managed a hoarse whisper. ‘Can’t do anything for myself any more. Have to have a bedpan. You’d think an old nurse wouldn’t mind, but I do. So darned undignified.’

Elaine had brought chocolates as usual, but this time Dorothy showed no interest. Matron Swanson had been very matter of fact: ‘It won’t be long now, Mrs Stalker. It’s good of you to come. She’s had a series of small strokes and the next one will probably finish her. No point in sending her into hospital – she would never come out alive. At least here she has all her own things.’ Elaine looked around Dorothy’s bedroom. She could not imagine that the once vigorous and intelligent woman would have chosen the insipid landscape on the wall or the peony wallpaper with its matching frilly curtains. Dorothy’s character was hidden in the cupboard along with Marie Lloyd sheet music and the oversized sherry bottle and the dusty pages of the unpublished novel she had written in dark nights nursing, waiting for someone to die, so long ago.

‘Saw your Roger on TV the other night,’ Dorothy was saying, ‘it was your Roger, wasn’t it? On
Question Time
? … I thought so. Defending that young minister who went off the rails a bit. They give me morphine to dull the pain but it makes me dopey, so I sometimes don’t let on when it’s wearing off. That way the brain still functions a bit. I thought he was splendid. I can see why you’re so fond of him.’

Exhausted, she let her naked head with its few sparse silvery hairs fall back on the pillows. The false teeth no longer fitted her skeletal gums and she could only articulate with effort; she had, however, refused point blank to see her visitor without her teeth in. The smell in the room was of disinfectant and talc.

‘He is doing very well, “my” Roger. My real worry is that somebody may find out. It would do my career no good at all, but it would wreck his. The press are always looking for an excuse to hound a person, and this – having an affair with a fellow MP – would be a real cracker. So, Dorothy: just as I admit to myself, and to him, that I am very much in love with the bloke – and that he’s worth loving and admiring, something special – it’s all becoming much too dangerous.’

Dorothy said nothing. Her eyes rested on Elaine’s troubled face and she squeezed the younger woman’s hand hard. Elaine felt the slight tremor in the fingers and stroked them with her own absent-mindedly. She was talking almost to herself.

‘I watched him on TV like you, Dorothy. He’s so good at it now. Used to be terrible, if truth were told – shy and diffident, no idea how to handle the press or cameras. But I told him what to do, and made him practise. It was only a question of persuading him not to put up barriers all the time. Everyone else now can see the qualities I admire in him so much. He must be due for higher things, I’m certain. He’s a man entirely without enemies: nobody has a bad word to say about him. And with many friends and allies. He needs me now like he needs a hole in the head. What am I to do?’

Dorothy waited. Elaine’s face swam in and out of her vision, her voice alternately faint and clear. It would be a relief to go now. The whole journey was taking just too long: more than 103 years – crazy. She had not wanted to leave as long as life had been fun, but helplessness had eroded her sense of self, and once off her legs she had deteriorated quickly. Despite her upbringing she was not at all sure if there was any life afterwards. The possibility of meeting Oliver again made her groan. Then her little girl, so long dead, and her brothers, handsome dashing young men cut to pieces by the pounding guns, swam into her head. They seemed to be beckoning.

Elaine heard the groan. ‘Are you all right? Shall I fetch someone?’

‘No, no.’ Dorothy was testy. No more poking about. She opened her eyes. ‘You can’t leave it like that, Elaine. I will not die in torment! What are you going to do with your Roger? Carry on, or stop?’

The younger woman spread her hands in a helpless gesture.

‘Would
he
stop?’

‘Him? No, I don’t believe so. It doesn’t matter so much to him, so he won’t talk about it. That’s what happens to all the blokes that get into trouble; their brains are not engaged. He really doesn’t think it through.’

‘Then you’ll have to be the strong one, won’t you?’ Dorothy summoned all her own strength to stare challengingly at Elaine.

‘I’m not sure I’m strong enough to do without him.’

‘Stuff. You did all right before. Put your energies into your job. Nothing like work.’

Elaine shook her head. ‘It’s made worse, Dorothy, by the fact that my husband has left me and wants a divorce. It’ll all come out soon – he’s found someone else. Nothing to do with Roger – Mike doesn’t know, I’m pretty sure. But it makes me feel very low. I am, for the first time in my adult life, horribly alone. If I stop my affair with Roger I should be manless for the first time in – oh, nearly twenty years. All right, the feminists would say I was man-free and should relish it. But all my working life I have used my husband as a prop – he took care of the necessity to earn a living, he provided me with respectability, even his name, he fetched and carried and paid, he was always great when the children were little, he comforted and defended and bedded me. I suppose I treated him much like my male colleagues treat their spouses – like Roger treats Caroline: distantly affectionate. Mike didn’t interfere in my working life and expected relatively little in return. I couldn’t even give him that. I feel such a total failure as a human being, as a woman. If I lose Roger as well…’

‘You’re thinking of yourself again.’ The old woman’s tone was severe.

‘I’m at least good at that. Who else am I to think of?’

Dorothy shifted restlessly. ‘Do you really love this Roger?’

Elaine thought for a long while. Then she nodded.

‘Well then, silly young woman, you have your answer.’ The voice was getting fainter.

‘But what would I have left, without either of them?’ Elaine wailed. ‘Do you know the really daft thing, Dorothy? What makes me grind my teeth in despair at my own stupidity? Let me tell you. In trying not to behave as other women do I’ve succeeded only in falling into the same trap – needing a man, living through a man, feeling lost and helpless and terrified without a man. My God! I am a fool. And I never realised it, till now.’