A Woman's Place (37 page)

Friendship required steady cultivation too: he never took it for granted. George was assiduous in offering and accepting invitations, while attendance was always followed by warm notes of thanks so that he was ever the most welcome of guests.

The care was apparent even in his love-making – though George would not have dreamed of discussing the matter with anyone. It had to be competently done. He would have been distressed had he not been certain that his partners, such as they were, found his approaches a pleasure, and that his technique left nothing to be desired. Indeed he took such pride in his skill and (in private) his looks that it threatened to make him a little vain. That fault served only to keep him good-humouredly and literally on his toes. Other middle-aged friends may have given up or been ordered back to the gym by doctors worried about spread girths. For George, to stay in rude physical health was central to his approach to life: if you were going to live at all, you might as well do it
properly
.

For decades the army had been his love, but after commanding his own regiment – the top job open to him by the time he reached his mid-forties – only a plateau of boredom beckoned. He had left without a backward glance. Several civilian posts which did not appeal were politely declined; but
without activity he was frustrated.

Early one morning he had found himself in a hotel room trying to obtain BBC 1 in an area notorious for poor television reception. To his surprise the delivery from his bedside set was clear as a bell. The service was provided on local cable.

Impressed, he had picked up the remote control and begun to explore. He discovered he could gain access to no fewer than forty-one TV channels including BBC, ITV, CNN, the Parliamentary Channel, Sky and the main satellite services, with live more in other European languages and one in Punjabi, as well as twenty-three radio stations. Automatic video recording of any items missed was possible. He could watch every moment in Parliament should he wish, which was more than parliamentarians in their Commons offices could do. He could see sport in a dozen countries and the news in more.

The astonishing scope of the thing had attracted him, and he had turned to the information booklet on the bedside table. It reminded him of his time as a young soldier learning the rudiments of short-wave radio on an old set: even then, the technical details kept him fascinated for hours. These days the consumer did no more than press a button.

And all, the hotel manager informed him, without the inconvenience of aerials and dishes, which were in the process of being removed. Would he like to see? George needed no persuasion. Soon the two men were on the roof of the hotel as a cool wind ruffled their shirts, watching while workmen struggled to dismantle rusty equipment. Together they pondered the new pollution-free science in which fibres thinner than a human hair could carry thousands of phone messages at once. George had a sudden romantic vision of towns and countryside devoid of ugly metal and telegraph poles and served by invisible underground systems. As the millennium approached, it felt like the dawn of a new age.

That had done it. Still talking animatedly to the manager he had descended the stairs, headed back to his room, picked up his address book and reached for the phone. Not long after he found himself invited to join the board of Prima, a new American-backed company which had won the cable franchise for the Midlands area near his home. A year or so later, on the retirement of the original chairman, the promotion of George both as a committed advocate for the medium and as a man of the highest reputation was assured. He had found his niche.

That was how he came to be standing in the shade of a large blue marquee and enthusing to the assembled dignitaries about the wonders that would accrue to those of their citizens who opted for the new technology, as soon as His Worship the Mayor had switched it on.

‘It's future-proof,' he heard himself saying. ‘It won't become obsolete. It's quick, it's clean, it's silent. We can connect just about everything you like once a household has opted for Prima: phone, fax, television of course, stereo. Use it for your computer modem – great for small businesses. If you've more than one television you can use them independently. Overall it'll cost you less. This is the twenty-first century, ladies and gentlemen. The impact will be as huge as the advent of the motor car, as dramatic as the spread of electricity itself; and you are part of it.'

‘Not sure I want our grandchildren watching sex shows from the Continent – Red Hot Dutch and that,' the mayoress muttered to her husband. He hushed her. The whole notion of satellites whizzing around above his head filled him with wonder and terror. His socialism, such as it was, came from a detailed perusal of the works of George Orwell. What malevolence might be possible if it all fell into the wrong hands?

George touched the mayoress's arm respectfully. ‘We don't broadcast that sort of thing,' he murmured. ‘There's a market for it, no doubt. But I feel sorry for people who have to watch it. Suggests they don't get much of the real thing, doesn't it? Although we did a survey to find out what viewers got up to while they watched TV. You'd be surprised.'

The mayoress cast a glance at the portly figure of her husband and sniffed.

The group was led into the switching hall. Grey cabinets were opened to exhibit complexities of wiring twisted and coiled like so many nerves or intestines. Lights winked, monitor screens flickered. The chief engineer, white-coated like a surgeon, hid a screwdriver behind his back and shook hands. Councillors and hacks nodded with incomprehension as George explained how the signal was received from every broadcasting station, converted to Prima's frequencies, then sent to subscribers down the thin yellow wire which disappeared into a large black pipe by their feet.

Suddenly he halted in mid-sentence. His eyes swivelled to the monitor. ‘Turn it up,' he told the engineer.

Elaine was alone in a studio a hundred miles away talking straight to a remote camera, doing her best to defend the government in some minor crisis. Her performance would be seen by a million people on the lunchtime news. Extracts would replay that night to a far larger audience. If the issue was significant the very sentence she was mouthing would find its way into press files and profiles. A pithy comment might end up in her obituary. Yet she had no idea George was observing her. It made him shiver.

He knew her, as nobody else present did.
They
saw a public figure, a symbol. The mayor was already uttering noisy imprecations about the government. Elaine was disliked by thousands who had never met her simply because of what she represented. If people bumped into her in a street they would assume they knew her and launch into disputes and heated denunciations. She must find it burdensome to be targeted like that. It was inevitable given the government's persistent unpopularity; and given the extraordinary power of television to make the remote familiar.

Yet she was a good woman. Not ordinary: ordinary people did not aspire to become MPs, let alone government Ministers. A pity, therefore, that so many turned out to be merely average or worse once in office.

‘Right cow, that one,' observed the mayor.

George frowned. The pressmen moved closer to catch his response.

‘I think she's better than most. Easier on the eye, anyway,' George murmured. That produced a cackle from the mayor and a snort from his consort. ‘Now, Mr Mayor, time to go outside. We haven't any ceremonial scissors, I'm afraid – too old fashioned altogether. But we do have an
extra-large
switch. Would you be so kind…?'

With aplomb George led the way, and the remainder of the occasion passed off without incident. But his mind was seething.

Why did he feel so guilty? Had she been a fellow officer accused unjustly he would have leapt to her defence. Yet in her case his protective instincts were as nought. Just because she was a politician he had avoided the issue. He'd been disloyal, and his only positive remark had been sexist: that made him doubly angry with himself. The exchange had tarnished his mood.

He resolved to phone Elaine and ensure he spent an evening with her. He would make it up to her somehow.

It would have been quicker to fly to Nantes, but the service was infrequent and Anthony liked trains. Not any old train, of course. The elegant pointed nose of Eurostar promised rapid action once the meander through the Kent countryside was over. The Channel Tunnel itself took less than thirty minutes, leaving him with a slight disorientation: the voyage to another country ought to be more momentous. If it became mundane, would the political barriers dissolve too? Did they matter, anyway?

As the train emerged into the sunlight and smoothly picked up speed, the surface of the cup of coffee on the small table before him hardly shimmered. In less than an hour they would arrive in Paris, where he planned to stay for a couple of days. Then he would carry on by the TGV Atlantique. The others would collect him at Nantes for the short drive to the sea.

Anthony gazed out of the window. He ought to resist the temptation to think of life as a journey, travelling God knew where. He had not anticipated being a Minister so soon, nor in such circumstances. Harrison's amorous escapades had been the talk of the Commons since the chap had been elected. Instinctively Anthony disliked Derek's attitudes to women. That he'd come a cropper sooner or later was expected, but that it should not be over a woman was a surprise. Anthony was grateful that the incident had propelled him so quickly into office, but the realisation that he was thus assumed to be morally superior to the person he replaced made him queasy.

Derek had spoken briefly in the House in a personal statement but (presumably on the advice of his lawyers) had kept his mouth firmly shut thereafter. He had made it plain he had no intention of resigning his seat and intended if he could to clear his name. While warrants were out for Jayanti Bhadeshia's arrest on several charges the ex-Minister was required only as a material witness. Any charges of corruption might implicate other parts of the government. To everyone's relief, therefore – other than those who had lost money – the view was taken that prosecution of Mr Harrison himself would not be in the national interest.

Anthony pondered. Derek's riposte to his critics had hinged on motivation – his, and theirs in condemning the ignoble Lord Bhadeshia. He had wanted merely to assist an honest entrepreneur engaged in commercial activity which would be helpful to an under-developed country. Because of the man's origins he had been refused finance by institutions in London, quite unfairly. The ODA had seen the force of the arguments, which had been put without inducement or favour (many doubted that, but nothing could be proved). Construction contracts would have gone to a British consortium. Exports would have been boosted. Derek declared he could not understand the condemnation of actions so transparently worthy, unless racial intolerance was in play. As he spoke, his side of the House had growled approval.

Herein lay, Anthony guessed, the greatest gap between politicians' perception of their activities and the public's judgement. To Derek or Elaine, or most of their fellows, what mattered was whether a person aimed to do good or harm. If the motives were sound, then however disastrous the outcome the individual expected to be forgiven. Even that studied neutrality which stemmed from laziness or indifference could be claimed as a virtue. Only when an office holder set out deliberately to do damage or had his own secret agenda – like the former defence Minister Alan Clark, who did not believe in free trade except in love and armaments – would disapproval be right.

The public didn't see it that way. They couldn't care less about a man's purpose – they didn't believe what most politicians said, anyway. What mattered were the
results.
To be honourably earnest might impress other politicians but for voters it was insufficient. It was outcome which counted, and little else.

The train slowed; a hiss in the air and a deep Gallic voice over the intercom announced Paris while the scenes outside were still rural. Anthony reached for his jacket and bag.

The only conclusion he could arrive at was that within its confines he had to try to fulfil his new office as well as possible. A phrase came to his mind.
Do, or not do. There is no room for ‘try
'
. What he achieved might not be entirely within his control but he would be judged on that and not on his simple desire to do the right thing. The transition from backbencher, where he merely talked about ideas, to Minister, where he was charged with carrying them out, was enormous. The responsibility weighed heavily as he rose to leave the train.

‘I can't.'

‘Why not? I haven't seen you in a month.'

‘Because I'm busy. I'm the only senior Minister on duty.'

‘So? Does that mean a sixteen-hour day every day, even in recess?'

‘Yes. Sorry, George, but I have to finish this box. Otherwise there'll be some explaining to do
when Ted returns.'

‘You going to get any holiday at all?'

A sigh. ‘When Ted's back I can take a few days off. Not now.'

‘Not good for you. Your brain will soften. You'll make worse decisions unless you take time for yourself. Tonight, for example.'

‘No – there's a bid for me to do
Newsnight.
That's at ten-thirty.'

‘Cancel it. Get a backbencher to do it. Postpone it.' She hesitated.

‘Elaine?'

‘Yes?'

‘I love you.'

Silence.

‘Come and have dinner with me.'

‘Oh, George –'

‘Or shall I come to your place? I could bring a baby chicken roasted in honey with salad and a bottle of chilled wine. Instant meal, ready in a trice. Don't hang up on me! Say yes.'

He had never before told her he loved her. She had not heard the words from a man for a dreadfully long time. The new knowledge hung in the air between them.