A Parliamentary Affair (72 page)

The old lady’s gaze was far away. Elaine doubted if she could still hear. Dorothy had made a much better fist of her life. Tied to a hopeless alcoholic, a husband who could fulfil virtually none of the obligations of manhood, this woman had clung with fierce determination to her home, her profession, her unique character and her family, who still adored her. Elaine leaned forward and spoke again. There had to be an answer.

‘Tell me, Dorothy. I put so much energy into my love life that I took my eye off my political career. Now there’s every likelihood that I will be stuck as a backbencher for ever – that’s if I even manage to hold on to my seat. I have made a real hash of things! If I give Roger up, it won’t be because I’ve stopped loving and needing him, but because I love him too much to risk putting him in any further danger. Yet what would be the reward for all this selfless devotion – what would I have left?’

The old lady stirred and smiled, as if she had moved a last chess piece into place. She raised her hand and poked an admonitory finger in the air.

‘Ah! You ask me what you will have. What quality is it women have which keeps us going, despite all our trials? For if women stop, the world will come to an end.’

She chuckled softly, as Elaine’s troubled face puckered into a puzzled frown. Dorothy beckoned her close with a gnarled finger and whispered conspiratorially. ‘Pride, my dear. Pride.’

‘What?’ Elaine was not sure she had heard right. Dorothy’s voice came in an angry sibilant hiss.

‘Your
pride!
That’s all you need, my dear. Now put it to good use.’ 

The door opened to admit Mrs Swanson with an anxious expression and a kidney bowl containing a syringe and ampoule. Ignoring Dorothy, who had closed her eyes, she explained: ‘It’s way past her time for an injection. Without it she won’t sleep. Would you mind, Mrs Stalker?’

‘Sleep long enough soon,’ came the almost indecipherable mutter from the patient. Dorothy Holmes reached for Elaine’s hand for one last squeeze and opened one eye – and winked, with what might have been a passing reminder of her old throaty laugh.

‘Pride. Believe in yourself. If you don’t, who will? At ease with yourself. Happy in your skin. Pride, it is. Don’t forget.’

Roger Dickson sipped his drink and looked around the White Drawing Room of 10 Downing Street with mild envy.

It was the smallest and least formal of the many public rooms of the Prime Ministerial residence and elegantly decorated in cream and white. Floor-to-ceiling windows were hung with red curtains, with plump inviting cushions on the striped red and cream silk of its two comfortable sofas. A coal-effect gas fire burned cosily in the grate; the Waterford glass chandelier twinkled in the January sun. On the mantelpiece were displayed Staffordshire figurines of Gladstone, Disraeli and Wellington, while the paintings were modest and dull. One, a dismal affair of browns and greens, was entitled
The Quiet Ruin.
Not appropriate yet for No. 10, Dickson reckoned. The overall effect was similar to dozens of country houses on show throughout England – smart but not sumptuous, comfortable but not casual. A perfect location for a quiet pre-lunch drink with the Prime Minister, the Party Chairman and the Chief Whip.

‘I think it’s settled, then. We go for it this year, and as soon as possible.’ The Prime Minister pushed his spectacles up his nose. His strange vowels betrayed his nervousness.

Other people found waiting dreadful: he preferred it, as a time of savouring options, of consideration, of not having to take any decisions. Now there would have to be a plan of action, against which future gains and disasters would inevitably be measured.

The Party Chairman agreed. ‘You might want to use local elections in May as a rehearsal: summer elections have always been kind to us.’

The Chief Whip was of the same mind. ‘We have to go to the country some time in the next fifteen months. Waiting till next year pushes us up against the barriers and reduces our room for manoeuvre. Nor is there any powerful reason to delay till autumn. The economy is likely to be much the same as now, and given the trouble in Russia everything could be much worse.’

‘To be honest we’re in a much stronger position now than we might have expected,’ Dickson ventured, ticking items off on his fingers in unconscious tribute to a Prime Ministerial habit. ‘We’re not too far behind in the polls. Boundary changes will deliver us a score of winnable new seats. The last Budget was very helpful and seems to be working. The recession may have lasted too long but it is over, even if growth has been hampered by the downturn in the rest of Europe. I think the voters are sophisticated enough to accept that we have done everything possible.’

‘The line will be that they run terrible risks if they vote for the other lot, then?’ That suited the Party Chairman. All kinds of lurid monsters could be conjured up. ‘Preliminary testing by Saatchi’s suggests that’s still our best ploy. Double whammies and all that, however much the
cognoscenti
recoil in horror.’

The Chief Whip smiled delicately. ‘It worked last time. And the time before  that.’

The Prime Minister drew the discussion to a close. ‘We’ll need a presentation by Saatchi’s as soon as possible, Chairman. While you’re at it, hint they might be a bit cheaper this time. It was over a year before we could afford to clear their bill after the last election, and if you ask me, for all the vast commercial benefit they get from our victories, they ought to be paying us, not the other way round.’

The four men rose and stood talking for a moment more, conscious that once the meeting broke up, for them at least the general election campaign would have started. Spirits rose and pulses beat faster as they turned to leave. For twenty years the party had been a superb machine for gaining and holding on to power, far outliving both predictions and governments elsewhere. There was every chance that the formula would turn up trumps again.

‘Roger, just a minute.’

The Prime Minister laid a hand on Dickson’s arm and motioned him back to the sofa. He waited till the door dosed.

‘Roger, as you will have gathered, I’d like you to be a senior member of our election team. You’re a splendid speaker these days and much liked and admired in the party und in the country. There will of course be promotion for you after the election.’

Dickson grinned broadly. He was too close to the Prime Minister in background and outlook to bother demurring.

‘Thank you, Prime Minister. I shall do my best. The department is busy but no doubt the junior ministers will cope.’

‘Ah, yes, I hadn’t thought of that. Who’s your Minister of State?’

‘Lord Cairns – in the Lords. We don’t have one in the Commons. It would be useful to promote somebody: that would release me for other duties.’

‘I wasn’t planning a big reshuffle before the election, but I can see what you are driving at. Are you thinking of Muncastle? But he had all that trouble last year.’

‘Seems to have got over it. He and his wife are closer now, if anything. You might like to make the point that men who stay with their wives are to be rewarded.’

That was a cynical comment and the Prime Minister knew it. ‘Given our keenness on family life and all that. I get it. Is he any good?’

‘Excellent: reliable and competent. I’ve no complaints.’

‘Right – leave it to me. And – Roger – thank you for all your help in the coming months. We have a lot to do. This election is not at all a foregone conclusion, as I am sure you realise.’

‘They never are, Prime Minister. That’s democracy.’ The Prime Minister had made no move to dismiss him. For a moment Dickson hesitated. Then he realised that, for the Prime Minister, the morning’s decision might mean that his last days in power loomed ahead. He coughed discreetly.

‘You have served us exceptionally well, Prime Minister, if you don’t mind my saying so, in very trying times. Following in the footsteps of your predecessor was a tall order, and what with Europe and all –’

The Prime Minister cut him off with a wave. ‘The trouble is, I shall have to behave as if nothing has happened for weeks yet. I’m off to Bonn this afternoon – more secret negotiations over the next EC treaty. It might well be a brilliant idea to get the election out of the way before Son of Maastricht hits the fan. What a business.’

Dickson commiserated. ‘I wish our future was not so dependent on the German view, I must say.’

The Prime Minister chuckled. ‘Do you know I owe my title to the Germans – indeed the very nature of my job? It all boils down to Walpole. The new king, George I, the first Hanoverian, spoke not a word of English. He tried to chair the Cabinet in Latin but that didn’t work. So he asked his most distinguished Minister, Sir Robert Walpole, to take over. Caused a great deal of fuss and jealousy at the time. The traditionalists sneered that according to the constitution we could have no sole or
Prime
Minister: it was a term of abuse then, you see. Nothing changes, does it?’

Roger smiled, but his leader was looking thoughtful.

‘Was there anything else, Prime Minister?’

‘Well … yes, really. Let me try out an idea on you. I have to start putting together the next honours list. I felt very badly when Nigel Boswood had to go. In the normal course of events I would be sending him to the Lords now. The way he was hounded out was dreadful, but I gather he’s picked himself up and is helping our weaker constituencies up north. Financially he has put in quite a lot of money, and is advising candidates and so on. They all think the world of him. How would people feel if I gave him his peerage anyway?’

Roger looked at the tall man before him with new respect. ‘I think that would be a splendid idea. He was kind to me and I am proud to have known him.’

The Prime Minister seemed to be waiting, his face inscrutable.

‘It would, of course,’ Roger continued smoothly, ‘also make a point which would not be lost on the gay community.’

The Prime Minister relaxed with a wry smile. How nice it was to have these complex matters completely understood.

‘Quite. My thinking entirely.’

Out in the streets of London the pace of activity began to increase. Those who had most to gain or lose from an election set their alarm clocks earlier in the morning and went to bed later. Holidays were cancelled or left unbooked. Large amounts of money were moved from one bank account to another, evading tax, purchasing influence, slipping into invisibility. In party headquarters activity was stepped up, with private polling, collation of secret reports, commissioning of party political broadcasts, speechwriters, research assistants, booking of halls and poster sites through nominees, rewriting of draft manifestos and the quiet suppression of anything which did not have success in the election as its objective. In television companies meetings were convened to discuss media coverage, and negotiations started with Sir Robin Day, Nicholas Witchell, John Suchet, Anne Diamond, who was pregnant yet again, and Selina Scott. Publishers hassled recalcitrant commentators to finish election guides and get them into bookshops in time.
The Guardian
decided to hold political debates in suitable venues around Hampstead, but not to invite Glenda Jackson this time. In departmental offices senior civil servants met after hours and arranged the writing of the black books: incoming administrations would receive a full secret brief on where the department’s activities stood, geared up to their party’s stated preferences and policies and election manifestos. Neither would ever see the brief prepared for the other side. If power changed hands the entire departmental file would be closed for twenty-five years and the newcomers obliged, to their fury, to start from scratch.

Down in the City of London a different war was waging, a war of faceless men in black balaclavas bent on death and destruction.

On Sunday 11 February the office of Alan’s Cab Services in North London was phoned with a request for two minicabs for different addresses. In both cases two men with soft Irish accents got into the back of the cab carrying a holdall. The first car belonged to 29-year-old Ethiopian-born Mustafa Turkelew, who was told to drive his Ford Cavalier to New Scotland Yard. When he turned around he found himself staring at a machine gun. As the destination neared the men jumped out and told him to carry on. He was warned he was being followed and would be shot if he called the police or disobeyed instructions. The Nigerian driver of the second cab, a blue Nissan, was dealt with in identical fashion. With a handgun at his neck and another a few inches from his chest he was told to drive to Downing Street. His passengers announced they were from the Sixth Irish Fighters and warned that the journey must be completed inside twenty minutes. They left him near King’s Cross. Both men thus found themselves driving towards the nation’s prime terrorist targets with a vehicle empty in the back, except for a bomb.

Soon after, security cameras in Bishopsgate picked up a large eight-wheeled tipper truck parked on double yellow lines. Two men jumped out and sauntered away in opposite directions. The video operator, thankful for diversion on a quiet Sunday afternoon, was puzzled that the men did not appear to have locked the lorry and had left its hazard lights flashing. Nor had they returned ten minutes later. He reached for the phone.

Meanwhile Mustafa was checking his mirror as if his life depended on it, as indeed it did. Within three streets the experienced cabbie was satisfied he was not being followed and pulled up. For
what seemed like an eternity but was in fact only a few seconds he contemplated the holdall on the back seat. And then he got out of the cab and ran like a bat out of hell.

His workmate, an older man with three young children, had less time to think. The journey to Downing Street would have taken longer than twenty minutes. He had no doubt what he was dealing with. In any case, nobody who knows London would casually order a cab to go to Downing Street: for several years huge black iron railings have closed it off and access or even parking nearby is forbidden. He drove no further than Holborn and then, frightened and desperate, flagged down a bus to block the road. The bus driver needed no hints but used his radio to call the police.

Ten minutes later both cabs blew sky high and their cabbies were left shaking and staring at crumpled heaps of blackened metal.

When the lorry went off its ton of explosive lifted the whole street for half a mile in all directions and sent a gigantic mushroom cloud of debris high into the afternoon air. A crater twenty feet deep yawned where it had stood; shattered pipes and snaking underground cables in the broken roadway resembled a piece of mangled flesh with broken bones and tendons exposed. The lorry itself disappeared completely. A chunk of metal was hurled 200 yards down the road at head height before burying itself in a wooden panel near a popular sandwich bar. The big engine, the only part not to disintegrate, was discovered a hundred yards away smashed into a gent’s outfitters, enveloped by the smell of singed cloth. As the road was broad and open, damage was widely spread, superficial but spectacular, with windows blown out in hundreds of skyscraper buildings, their shards of glass crashing through the air like propelled weapons. The underground car park of one company shuddered in the shock wave and the chairman’s prized vintage Rolls-Royce, so carefully stored in security, was smashed beyond repair. The beautiful church of St Ethelburga built in 1470, where Henry Hudson and his crew received Holy Communion in 1607 before sailing to find the north-west passage, and which had survived not only the Great Fire of London in 1666 but the Blitz, was blown to smithereens. An angry fire belched black smoke as a gas main fractured. And hundreds of police and fire crews and ambulance men and women worked with grim faces and case-hardened professionalism to help the dozens of injured and tend the dying, all the while wondering if there might be a second bomb nearby.

As a prominent member of the backbench Northern Ireland committee Elaine was promptly contacted by the media and invited to comment. She accepted not least because her own disgust yearned for expression. By long-established precedent there would be no Commons statement, no ministerial remarks, no official outpouring of anger against the terrorists: all that would have given them what they craved, publicity.