A Parliamentary Affair (76 page)

A special Cabinet had decided the election date that morning, though speculation had clogged the front pages for weeks. The local election results had been at best equivocal. Council seats lost four years earlier had been won back, but not in great numbers. Mainly urban council seats had been contested this time in cities like Derby, Birmingham, Leeds. If progress could be made in such marginal areas then the election itself was worth trying. In any case, if the government were to act with increased confidence it needed a new mandate. Waiting any longer could erode rather than increase the thin 3 per cent lead the polls were now hinting at. The omens for administrations which clung to power, like Callaghan’s in the late 1970s, were not good: the electorate did not relish such deliberate exclusion from the decision-making process, and were prone to vent their disapproval accordingly.

A great cheer, tinged with relief, went up from government benches as the grey head of the Prime Minister hove into view. Moving smoothly he settled himself next to Roger, behind and to the left of Muncastle, who was leaning over the dispatch box and shouting into the microphone, though nobody in the Chamber could hear a word he said. The timing in one sense was perfect. No sooner was Andrew perched back on the bench, red folder open in tense hands, ready for the next round, than the Speaker glanced at the clock and announced Prime Minister’s Question Time.

‘Question number one!’ roared Freddie Ferriman, whose fortune it was to have come first in the ballot. Around him colleagues jostled excitedly, pretending to be intensely interested in the matter. Behind Freddie, where the cameras would pick up their earnest expressions, were poised five Members with highly marginal seats. The process was dubbed ‘doughnutting’. Whether it would make any difference that they would be seen fleetingly on national television that night, and be recognised only by a few of their better-informed constituents who had probably already made up their minds, was a moot point.

There was no need to read out the question: it was identical to nearly all the others put to Prime Ministers in recent years, asking him to list his engagements for the day. That would enable a supplementary to be put on almost any subject.

‘This morning I presided at a meeting of Cabinet and had meetings with ministerial colleagues and others. In addition to my duties in the House, I shall be having further meetings later today.’ The standard reply, designed to be as boring as possible, revealed very little.

Ferriman knew what to ask next. He had been the proud recipient of a call from the Prime Minister’s office that morning and it had taken all his strength not to breathe a word right through a very good and liquid lunch. Flushed with a second brandy, he stood as tall as he could and crossed his hands over his ample girth in what he hoped was a distinguished and impressive manner.

‘And would the Prime Minister tell us’, he intoned pompously, ‘whether any decisions of significance were taken at Cabinet this morning?’

That was unfortunate. ‘NO!’ yelled the Opposition benches and then collapsed giggling at their own cleverness. Freddie held his ground for a moment, blustering, then gave it up as a bad job. He would have his moment of fame this evening, but not quite in the way he had intended.

The Prime Minister waited until the hubbub died down. Suddenly the House was silent, except for the shuffling of well-padded bottoms on well-upholstered seats. On the Labour benches Keith Quin shushed Janey Irvine and desperately longed to hold her hand at the historic moment. In the Strangers’ Gallery facing the Speaker, Tessa Muncastle, warned by Andrew of the likely business of the day, smiled down on her husband. On the government front bench Johnson, now senior Whip, opened the whips’ folder and wrote a crisp remark about Ferriman. Up on the highest of the back benches Elaine Stalker in her smartest suit gazed down on Roger’s head and noted with proprietorial amusement that the silvered dark hair was beginning to thin on top.

‘It may help the House to know,’ the Prime Minister continued with total solemnity, ‘that Cabinet this morning accepted my recommendation that Parliament should be dissolved on 11 May, this Friday. I have accordingly asked the Queen for an audience tonight. If my request is granted, the general election will be on Thursday 7 June.’

The House erupted. This was the news they had been waiting for. Several jumped up quickly and left, heading for telephones. Others who had already announced their retirements sat quietly, hands clasped on knees, looking around the Chamber for perhaps the last time. Members who faced an easy election in safe seats considered which of their friends were worth going to help; those in marginals turned cold, their hearts no longer beating in quite the same way.

The remainder of Prime Minister’s Questions was acted out as the start of the campaign, with energetic party points yelled across the Chamber, to the amazement of those seated behind Tessa in the Strangers’ Gallery. A group of Japanese businessmen accompanied by their ambassador clung to
simultaneous-translation headphones, expressions of puzzled despair on their faces, for the translator could not keep up with the rapid exchanges laced with idiom and abuse. The ambassador groaned inwardly and started making notes: it would take all through dinner to explain. The Press Association tapes began to clatter urgently, while on the Stock Exchange shares wobbled. Dealers busily hedged their bets. The polls were all over the place. It was impossible to read, this time.

‘You must tell all your contacts,’ the doctor said, with a practised persuasion which rang hollow in the windowless room. ‘We have a contact-tracing service here and we can help you. It is in all their interests, you know.’

Peter touched the purple mark again. It was definitely growing, with a crust forming at the centre. He shuddered: in all his life there had never been a blemish, not till now. His mouth tasted foul, but the doctor had explained that thrush was not serious at this stage and could be controlled by antibiotics.

‘Most of them are abroad,’ he said dully. ‘Only a couple in the UK and … most are OK, I’m sure of that.’

‘You’ve been careful, then?’ The doctor’s insufferable niceness was stifling. He was young and moustached and earnest and probably gay. The man really wanted names and addresses for his wretched computer, gathering details to be turned into grim statistics, useful in the fight to win more money for his department. Peter was not minded to assist: except, perhaps, in one case. He reached for pen and paper.

‘I only had unprotected sex with one man. He is married, so I don’t want to give you his home address, but this is his office number. It will be quite a shock to him. Civil servant, rather high up. Expecting a long and distinguished career.’

It was on the point of the doctor’s tongue to remark that, in that case, this chap – Mr Chadwick? – should have been far more careful. Mrs Chadwick would have to be tested as well, and told why. She would probably be quite upset. What a business.

Roger walked back into his office, closed the door, took the photocopied letter out and looked at it once more.

He had not replied, not acknowledged it in any way. But its sender would know it had arrived safely, for it had been put on the message board, marked ‘Personal’, so that his Commons secretary, trained to know what was not her business, had left it for him unopened. It was for his eyes only.

He read the words again for the umpteenth time. In themselves, there was nothing really incriminating. ‘I am so sorry I missed you.’ Anybody could say that. ‘Do contact me.’ Well, why not? ‘Have a good trip’ – no problem there. But it was the last phrase, scribbled as an afterthought, which made his heart thump: ‘Thinking of you.’

Thinking of you – and why would a married male MP write that to a female colleague, also married, so affectionately, if there wasn’t something going on? What a fool he had been. Then there was the whole tone of the note, so casual and intimate. He could well see the conclusions that a dirty-minded journalist would jump to, with his readers not far behind.

But could he stop it, or sue? He swallowed hard and allowed his imagination to run. A defending libel lawyer, waving that missive in court, would have a field day. Denial would not be credible, or at the least would dent his credibility. As if he didn’t have enough on his plate.

He wondered how the note, written so long ago, had fallen into the wrong hands. Elaine would never show it around – might not even have kept it. He examined the photocopy carefully: it
looked as if the page had been torn up and reassembled. Fished out of a waste-paper basket, then. A cleaner, maybe. But he was in no position to make a complaint.

What it told him, more than anything, was that somebody outside knew of the liaison. Not just his agent Tom Sparrow, who could be trusted, or Elaine’s daughter, who might not understand but presumably would also keep her mouth shut, for her mother’s sake. Someone much more dangerous, who was waiting for his response: who would telephone, or more likely confront him, and judge by his reaction exactly how big a story could be made out of it.

He shivered. He ought to warn Elaine – or maybe she too had received a copy. If not, she may well have forgotten all about that innocent-sounding note and deny its existence. That would be quite a story in itself. His head ached with the twists and turns, all of them fraught with danger. It felt like a devilish game, a punishment. Perhaps the true wages of sin were the fear of discovery, and of disgrace.

The
Globe
office was a hive of activity. Jim Betts sat hunched over a screen inputting prose as fast as his fingers would let him. A cigarette dangled from his lips, dropping ash softly on the grey keys. Above his head a screen was tuned to Sky’s continuous new service. Life was a lot easier in the days before satellite TV; now the newspapers were in a constant struggle to keep up. When stuck, Betts would simply repeat what he heard broadcast. At least that gave his reports instant authenticity.

Nick Thwaite stuck his head inside Betts’s door. ‘When you’re ready, conference, please, Jim. Tell the others.’

In a few minutes people began to gather outside Thwaite’s office. Betts hurried up and ushered them in. He enjoyed being more important in the hierarchy, the sensation that some at least of the newspaper revolved around himself. Still there was something missing since his early days. The place was not as exciting now that Miranda had gone. The fashion editor in her elegant black shift dress and huge metallic brooch tried to take her place, but there was something about the too thin neck and bony knees that put him off. It was not simply that Miranda had filled all her clothes so well with that marvellous body: it was her personality, her love of life. By contrast, making love to the fashion editor would be like caressing a vase of brittle paper flowers. Betts ignored the woman and settled at the table.

‘Right! General election time,’ Thwaite announced, unnecessarily. ‘No doubt the nation will get bored to tears with it all, just as they did before. But there’s change in the air and I want to make sure
The Globe
reports accurately what is happening. We got it wrong last time, boys and girls, as did most of the other papers. So ears to the ground. Don’t report what you don’t hear. No writing slick pieces supposedly from the bar of the Lamb and Flag in Barham South which were really produced in your own little bedsits and are absolute rubbish. No announcing landslides in key marginals which then turn out to be rock solid. No writing off the Prime Minister – or the Leader of the Opposition, for that matter – until we are stone cold certain. Which way the paper will jump, how we advise our readers to vote, will be an editorial decision taken in the last few days before the poll, not now, and not by you. Till then we play it long. Am I making myself clear?’

There were nods all round. Thwaite consulted a list. ‘Sports can look after themselves for the moment, though I’d like a piece on how the result might affect the Test series this summer. Part jokey – will they play better if there’s a Tory or Labour government? – and part serious. Take a look at the parties’ policies on sport, if they have any. And find out the party affiliations of the top players. Some will be only too happy to tell you.’

The sports editor looked up with a grin. ‘We’ve done that already for the England football team playing in Turin next week. They’ve agreed to line up in blue and red jerseys for a picture.’

‘Yeah – but just remind them they’re there to beat the Italians to pulp, not each other.’ Thwaite had a low opinion of the current team, with good reason. He turned to the fashion editor.

‘Cherry, sweetheart, we need several pieces you can start on right away. What to wear on the campaign trail: smart outfits for both men and women hopefuls. Include underwear – you can make that a separate story. Can you get some of the MPs to do a bit of modelling? As long as they’re not photographed in their constituencies we’re within the law. In their undies is OK. One or two of the women are quite passable – try that Elaine Stalker. Offer money if necessary, but she’ll be desperate for the publicity with a majority like hers. Freddie Ferriman might be game for a modelling piece too, or you could try Keith Quin, if you’re trying to turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse.’

The idea of the pompous Ferriman disporting himself in the latest from Gap struck Betts as highly comical.

Thwaite turned to him. ‘We’ll have plenty of political input, or at least all we can handle, from Andy Mack and our chaps up here, Jim. What I need from you is a through going-over of the main marginals. It only needs a handful to change and the government is out. Last time, however, the marginals held and it was the next lot – the ones regarded as safer – which fell like ninepins. So use your nose. You’re on the road for the next few weeks, Jim: I don’t want to see you back here till the Monday after the election. Hire a Jaguar and enjoy yourself.’

Elaine looked in horror at the teetering piles of correspondence awaiting her signature. ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ she said weakly.