A Parliamentary Affair (73 page)

‘The IRA, and indeed all terrorists, should know that they simply cannot win like this.’ Elaine stood facing the camera by the police line in Bishopsgate. Her hands were trembling but she held herself firmly. ‘Everyone here will work to ensure that the disruption is kept to a minimum. The IRA must be told that these tactics are a failure. The United Kingdom is a democracy. They will not obtain by the bomb or the bullet what they cannot win by the ballot box. Don’t they realise that by now?’

Overhead the chunter of police helicopters interrupted the recording and she was obliged to start again. The young broadcaster was obviously keen to get away from the area.

‘Do you think this will have a bad effect on London as an international financial centre?’

This was taking unbiased reporting a little too far. Elaine glared at him.

‘Of course not. Why should it?’ she said, belligerently. A breeze ruffled her hair, bringing an acrid smell to her nostrils. In the distance the Lord Mayor of London, wearing his chain of office, a business suit and a hard hat, moped disconsolately: and kept his mouth shut. No doubt the hand-wringing over the last time bombs hit the City had inspired the bombers to try again. Nor would their success today be the last.

Next day in the Commons security room Gerry Keown was conscious of an atmosphere. Fear and apprehension were natural; this was the front line in any attempt to undermine national order. Everyone was on their toes for, even though the video cameras had done the trick and the police had pulled four men in for questioning, there was no guarantee that the whole team involved was now in custody.

Angry looks greeted Keown as he walked in, hung his leather jacket on its hook and began to button up his uniform. He lowered his head and muttered a ‘Good morning’. It was not clear whose voice returned the greeting with a sneer, the lilt exaggerated with loathing. Never before had he been made to feel so self-conscious about his Ulster accent. For a second his gorge rose and he contemplated having an argument; but he had to live and work with these men and it was unlikely they would ever understand the sectarian hatred which undercut the province’s politics. He was not certain he grasped it himself, though he knew which side he was on.

A message was waiting for him in the control room, neatly addressed in a House of Commons envelope. It was from Karen Stalker, telling him that she was planning to come to help out at
half-term,
and perhaps at Easter too if Parliament were still open then, as a break from endless studying for her A levels. The word ‘endless’ was underlined, speaking volumes about the tedium of English examinations. If by chance he were still interested perhaps he would ring her. Dates and a phone number, which Gerry knew already, followed.

His spirits rose and he was able to ignore the unpleasantness for the rest of the day. By the following morning tempers had cooled and a gruff apology made. The view was passed around that Keown was a decent sort and it was not his fault he was born on the wrong side of the Irish Sea. The unpleasant incident was forgotten.

‘You can tell the election will be soon,’ commented Diane Hardy. ‘The postbag’s gone bananas. Every problem under the sun, but mostly hunting.’

Elaine looked up from the previous day’s pile. Beside her the bin was overflowing. ‘The economy is still under severe strain, there’s bloodshed and mayhem in London and in the most God-forsaken places on the Russian steppes, and they’re still going on about fox-hunting. Is South Warmingshire for or against?’

Diane flicked through the pile and consulted a calculator. ‘Both,’ she grunted. ‘Hunting accounts for around twenty-five per cent of the entire month’s post; it’s running twelve point three per cent pro and twelve point two per cent against.’

‘That settles it: I shall abstain.’ Elaine chuckled wryly. ‘What a daft country we are, more agitated about animals, than any other issue. Yet we abuse our children and treat our old people with neglect and cruelty. Which reminds me, we have a memorial service for Dorothy Holmes coming up I must attend. It turns out she was quite distinguished. Another vote lost – and I shall miss her.’

‘Come back to bed.’ The voice wheedled, but carried a hint of command.

Peter was standing at the dressing table, looking in the mirror. He was certain that there had not been that large freckle on his neck the week before. It was not a mole, and its faintly purplish colour was not pigment. He pressed it gingerly. It did not hurt; the colour faded under the pressure, then came back, a touch darker.

On the dressing table the short note from Hermann caught his eye once more. It was a while since Peter had used his German, but the simple words swam into each other until only one short phrase remained.

‘…eine schlechte Nachricht’ – bad news. It was bad news, all right. HIV-positive. It was all very well Hermann saying now that he still loved him. It was too late.

The man on the bed stirred restlessly. Lean and languid, he took pleasure examining Peter’s girlish buttocks as the boy stood a few feet away, but he could not wait forever.

‘Come on, sweetheart, I haven’t got all day. I’m supposed to be tying up a report on the latest hole in the ozone layer and I’d really like to explore your holes and protuberances a little more before I leave. I have paid for your time, you know, handsomely.’

Peter turned back to the bed with a practised smile which might have appeared warm and affectionate. Yet there was no light in the blue eyes, just bitter loathing, of this man, of all the men like him, of what they had done and what they wanted done.

‘I’m out of condoms,’ he lied. ‘Does it bother you? You know me well enough now.’

‘I don’t suppose you can pop down to the chemist’s looking like that,’ said the client in a bored tone. ‘Come on over here. We’ll manage. Now, where were we?’

Clarissa Dickson held buttery toast with both hands and surveyed her father gravely. The youngest of the family and now seven, she was a pretty child with dark curls and huge brown eyes. She missed her older brother Toby who was away at boarding school, while Emma, upstairs hogging the bathroom, was the worst kind of big sister possible. Yet it was Clarissa who ruled her father’s heart, not least because her intelligence outsmarted everyone else in the household and because her spirit and beauty reminded him so strongly of the woman he loved, who was not her mother.

‘Daddy.’

‘Um?’ Roger was deeply into the
Times
leader which was calling for elections before Easter. His preference was for after, though not long after, to take advantage of fine weather. People were more likely to feel good, and therefore vote –

‘
Daddy.’

The child leaned over and planted a sticky hand on Roger’s shirtsleeve. It made a greasy mark, as she knew it would. He started up with annoyance.

‘I’m sorry, Daddy, but I have to get your ’tention. Why are you so busy now? You never have time even to come and kiss me goodnight.’

Roger folded the newspaper and made to lift the child on to his lap. To his surprise she was too heavy.

‘My, kitten, but you’re getting to be a big girl. You’ve been growing up as my back was turned. I’m sorry I was ignoring you. I did kiss you goodnight last night, but it was after midnight and you were fast asleep. If you dreamed of a handsome prince it was me. But there’s going to be an election soon, and I have a lot to do.’

‘What’s an ’lection?’

He thought for a moment. Outside the sleek shape of the ministerial Jaguar purred quietly into place by the front door. He heard the doorbell and Caroline’s answer; Alec would sit in the car till he was ready. Damn and drat. It was all very well being part of the inner Cabinet, yet how cruel it was, how horribly high the price. His children were growing up and he was not part of their precious childhood, hardly at all. Not that he noticed it, most of the time.

‘An election, my sweet, is when we choose our MPs. Do you know what an MP is?’

‘Member of Parl’ment’ – instantly.

‘Correct. And what do Members of Parliament do?’

The child considered. What did her father do – actually do? She put her finger in her mouth and shook her curly head.

‘Our job is to look after people – to attend to their problems. A bit like the doctor, but he looks after your body. I look after all sorts of things for people back in Warwickshire – getting their house repaired, helping them with their pension and so on, if they can’t do it for themselves. Every so often we ask people if they like the way we’re doing it and they choose. That’s an election.’

‘How do they decide?’

If he explained, he would be late for the first briefing meeting. That could mean going into a tricky negotiation sailing by the seat of his pants. The child was watching him.

‘Don’t you have school?’

‘Not today. Teachers being trained – Baker day, they call it.’

Roger was looking at the clock. Conscious that she was losing his interest, the child hurried on: ‘Mummy was going to take us to the Planetarium but I’ve been there and it’s boring. She says we’re too young for the London Dungeon but I like all the gory stuff and I’m not a bit scared. Can I come into your office? Or tea at the Housacommons? Please say yes. Can I bring my friend Minna? She’s never been. She’s American. Her daddy is
really
important. He draws the Simpsons on TV. But you won’t know about the Simpsons, Daddy, because
you
don’t have time to watch TV either.’

Clarissa was doing her childish best to look severe. Roger felt his gut contract and knew it would be a miserable day, not least because the child’s reproaches would haunt and distract him when he ought to be concentrating on the latest ruling from the European Court of Justice. He rose heavily and ruffled her hair.

‘Don’t,’ Clarissa said crossly. ‘I’m too big for that now.’

‘That’s enough.’ There was sharpness in his voice, and her lower lip trembled. Immediately he regretted his brusqueness. ‘I’m truly sorry, sweetheart, but I’m tied up all day. Mummy can bring you into the Commons but I shan’t be there. I’m not free at all till later this evening. Forgive me but I have a job to do.’

Before Clarissa could start again, or cry, or detain him any further, Roger Dickson  rose quickly, and moved to the door. With a forced smile he waved and was gone.

Elaine wondered groggily how long the body could manage without quite enough sleep. Not the total sleep deprivation which results from not being allowed to close the eyes at all, but the insidious raggedness which comes from being an hour or two short night after night and never catching up. The debate the previous evening had finished at midnight – not too bad, considering – but the Opposition had insisted on separate votes on four different motions, requiring Members to traipse through the lobbies and hang around in the tea room. It was the second time that week and there was more to come as the legislative programme intensified. Eventually she returned home, eyelids drooping, after one thirty, then was up at seven for a radio breakfast show. Now it was almost nine and time to leave for the House again, when all she wanted was to go back to bed.

Karen was asleep in the spare room, which had rapidly been turned into a tip in classic teenager fashion. She had insisted on bringing a large suitcase and a carrier with her even for the four days of half-term, and now their contents were scattered all over the floor, on chairs and on every other surface.

Karen opened an eye. Her fingers emerged from the tossed sea of the duvet and she wiggled them in a wave at her mother.

‘Hi, Mum,’ she mumbled sleepily. ‘You off to work?’

‘Don’t be so surprised, young lady. The question is, are you? Do you intend to show your face at the Commons before lunchtime?’

There was the suspicion of a guilty struggle on Karen’s face. ‘Oh, right. I’m supposed to be helping. Yeah, I’ll be in soon, don’t worry. Is it all right if I go out tonight? Gerry Keown has asked me out again.’

Elaine’s glance fell on the lines of her long-legged daughter’s body. The girl stretched, pushing her bare toes out of the bottom of the duvet in a natural relaxed move, like a lithe young cat.

‘You be careful.’

‘Oh, Mum, don’t be silly. I’m sure he’s all right. I’m not a little girl any more, remember? Eighteen soon.’

‘I know he works at the Commons, but I don’t know anything about him. I’m only concerned for your welfare, Karen.’

‘You’ll be wanting to vet all my boyfriends next. Don’t lean on me, Mum, I don’t like it.’

The girl’s tone contained a hint of warning, the child challenging the authority of her elders, feeling her strength. Elaine checked herself. She was jumpy partly because of the long-term lack of sleep, but also because of the bombs, and because of the heightened political atmosphere once television cameras caught Maurice Saatchi sliding into Conservative Central Office. Not until elections were out of the way, which could be months yet, would matters improve. It was not worth having a fight with Karen: she needed all her energy for the campaign. If she did not hold on to South Warmingshire, which was looking increasingly unpromising, the future might be bleak indeed.

Then there was the nagging question of Roger. It was as if she and her lover were travelling in a car with faulty brakes, with an enhanced sense of danger and the madness of carrying on, unwilling to consider that round the next corner a juggernaut might be blocking the road. Yet if either of them jumped out and refused to go any further the fateful journey would come to an end, for them both, for ever. And that thought made her heart stop.

The worry and indecision were affecting her work. There were times when she could think of nothing else. She was no longer certain she knew what Roger wanted. A natural politician operating in a man’s world, and thus not accustomed to considering anyone else’s welfare for long above her own, she was utterly unprepared for the womanly dilemma, as to whether her man’s needs should be best met by giving in or denying him.