A Parliamentary Affair (13 page)

There were plenty of topics of conversation – the emergency debate in the Commons, the spectacular collapse of the government’s economic strategy, the desperately narrow ‘yes’ vote in the French referendum on Europe the previous Sunday night.

Elaine was in gloomy mood. The adrenalin of the previous ten days had receded, leaving her tired and flat. ‘I confess to feelings of helplessness,’ she said. ‘We capitalists believed we were doing the right thing, freeing up international capital markets all over the world, removing exchange controls. Then the dealers go haywire, billions flying around the world non-stop, twenty-four hours a day, like a multi-headed monster that never sleeps, devouring the next weak currency as if we were all wild-eyed rabbits, and – hey presto! First the krona, then the lira and suddenly sterling slip out of our control. And it doesn’t stop.’

Andrew was scanning the inside pages of Tim’s
Financial Times
. ‘Perhaps we should have stayed floating all the time and sod the speculators. It looks as if the Bank of England has spent half our foreign exchange reserves, or more, to prop up the pound. All to no avail.’

He was chided by Elaine. ‘You didn’t say that in the tea room yesterday. You were giving the government full backing and urging us back into the system as soon as possible.’

Tim Marks folded his substantial arms and quoted softly: ‘“Those at the back cried, Forward! And those at the front cried, Back!”’ With detached enjoyment he watched the two new MPs wrangle as the train rattled north at 125 miles an hour.

For a fleeting moment Muncastle allowed a sly look to cross his face. ‘That was in public. Today I take it we are musing in private, three intelligent, well-informed people, members of the same party. Where does a supportive MP stand in all this? What are Britain’s long-term interests, and our short-term ones too for that matter?’

‘Keep inflation down, compete in world markets, generate enough capital for investment,’ Elaine offered primly. ‘Those are our objectives, and a good choice, in my view.’

Andrew said, ‘What about getting unemployment down?’

There was no answer. Somebody pays the price for international economic ineptitude – people who can only dream of riding first class up and down the line to important jobs in London.

Tim Marks leaned forward. ‘The fact is, parliaments have never controlled economies. That isn’t our job. Economic decisions are taken by business men and women around the world with a little nudging from central bankers and governments, and are seldom influenced by backbenchers in debating chambers. What parliaments do frequently is make matters worse. The Italian lira is weak because Italians can’t afford the welfare state they’ve created for themselves, particularly given their lackadaisical attitude to paying taxes. Germany reunited on the promise of zero pain and no increase in taxes, and it can’t be done. Everyone is being so bloody unrealistic. Parliamentary assemblies around the world, under pressure from the voters, vote to increase spending without the means to achieve it. UK parliamentarians are just as bad – our government’s budget deficit is simply horrendous. Then you wonder why currencies collapse and you feel so helpless.’

He prodded a finger at Elaine, who had been a prominent supporter of increased allowances for MPs, and leaned back in his seat. His remarks were accurate enough to make the other two squirm.

‘We might as well all go home?’ she enquired. His argument niggled. Governments had pleaded for hair-shirt policies before but electorates failed to support them. When nasty decisions had to be made, at least Parliament was recalled, and informed. Afterwards. As a courtesy – a formality.

Muncastle was regretting his momentary indiscretion. The best defence was always attack. Marks might be older, and have been in politics far longer, but that smirking face irritated him.

‘You presumably wouldn’t claim that the European Parliament has any more influence than we have, particularly after the chaos of the last few weeks.’

‘Ah, but there you’re wrong, old man.’ Tim Marks leaned his bulk forward, as if he could physically fill the empty space between them where the government’s policies should have been. ‘Whatever happens for the moment, the Single Market is almost complete. When we get Scandinavian and Alpine countries joining later this decade, we’re nudging 400 million people. Already the EC is bigger in population than the USA and Japan combined. Europe, my dears, is the greatest association of free nations the world has ever seen and is not about to disintegrate or disappear.’

Face flushed, he was warming to his subject. Nearby heads half turned to listen as his voice rose and boomed over the electric hiss of wheels on rails. He was dominating the two young MPs almost without effort. ‘Nobody is going to dismantle it. Nobody is going to withdraw, start putting up barriers again: that way lies economic beggary, as in the thirties. And if we’re to have rules for good behaviour, some kind of checking up and reporting and chasing miscreants, then the Commissioners have a job. As long as the Commission and pan-European activity flourish, then so does the European Parliament, slowly making national parliaments less significant. The shift is inevitable. Sorry, chaps, but that’s how it is.’ He sat back, triumphant.

Elaine felt as if she were a small child defeated unfairly in a complex argument by a
wordly-wise
adult. Marks had ignored the question whether the European Parliament had much influence either. His manner was infuriating, his arguments insulting. She counterattacked.

‘What about subsidiarity? It’s in the Maastricht Treaty, one of the best bits we negotiated – that decisions should be made at the lowest level possible. Member nations should be responsible for
everything that can be better done at national level. Or something like that,’ she ended lamely. No one had quite articulated the formula properly, though everyone thought they knew what it meant.

‘Oh yeah?’ Marks was dismissive. ‘Huge new role for national parliaments in there, and I don’t think. Even when Maastricht is ratified, all it would do is drive home the message that the institutions of Europe are superior: if it works, the Commission, the Councils of Ministers and the Parliament will be responsible not for the trivia but for all the issues member states cannot manage by themselves. In my submission, that means all the big things: economics, the Single Market, international transport, infrastructure, energy, regional development, environment and pollution, farming subsidies, countryside policy, equality law – that includes what age we all retire at, remember? – oh, crime busting, aid, AIDS, great chunks of foreign policy and a host of other subjects besides. By all means toddle around in Westminster. Enjoy yourselves. Learn your craft. But don’t be surprised if your feelings of helplessness increase over the years. The really important, juicy matters affecting the lives of hundreds of millions of people are being debated and decided elsewhere.’

It was a brutal judgement, delivered across the swaying table with driving conviction.

Elaine sat back listlessly. ‘I hear what you say, Tim. But I should feel happier if it were democratically elected politicians who were taking those decisions, not faceless bureaucrats in Brussels.’

‘Fine: I concur entirely, although the bureaucrats are very able and may make sounder choices. But in that case you should be arguing for the European Parliament. National parliaments don’t have the constitutional power to do what you are wanting. Suppose the Italians employ child labour in shoe factories, and put Clarks out of business. Can Westminster blow the whistle on them? No, but I can. Are the Greeks admitting Pakistanis with dubious entry papers, giving them access to anywhere in the Community including Bradford – and they are – and do you in Westminster know about it, and can you pass resolutions ordering Greece to desist? No, you can’t, but I can. Are the French subsidising their car industry illegally – can you stop them? No, but I can, and do, and have. The British Parliament can’t tell the Germans what to do, any more than the
Assemble Nationale
in Paris can tell the Spanish, or the Dutch censure the UK. It doesn’t work like that. But the European Parliament, young as it is, can tell each and any of these countries when they’re breaking the rules, and demand via the Commissioners that something be done.’

Marks’s rhetoric petered out as he caught up with the two stony faces in front of him. He relented a little. ‘I grant you the system is imperfect. Poke fingers at me by all means and you would have a point. But I am elected just like you, and outside Britain a lot of people care that the European Parliament should function properly. So if and when you get fed up debating the Cardiff Bay Barrage Bill, or how many toilets there ought to be per prisoner in Strangeways, let me know and we’ll bring you over for a few days. Then you can see how a great chunk of the future is working.’

Marks leaned over and dropped his voice. The whole carriage had been listening to this big, determined man, speaking in a normal English accent but perhaps not quite British.

‘You will get people asking why we need Europe, why we can’t manage by ourselves, standing alone, not joining in, not sharing any power or responsibility or – what is that buzz word? – “sovereignty”. Some like Margaret Thatcher proudly remember 1940 when we stood alone as the rest of Europe collapsed under the German jackboot. We spilled British blood rescuing continentals, foreigners, from the shit they got themselves into. Oh yes, I’ve heard all this. But the idea that we can or should stand alone again is ludicrous. Britain by itself is an offshore island, relatively poor and increasingly unimportant. If you need an answer to a bloody-minded questioner, Elaine, just remind him that there is indeed a country in Europe which turned its back on the world, refused to trade, kept its boundaries tightly closed, believed its people could manage entirely self-sufficiently without outside contacts. The result shows what happens when nationalism dominates over any kind of economic sense. You know where I mean?’

Both Elaine and Andrew looked puzzled.

‘That country is Albania.’

The train was slowing down for Leicester. Elaine, feeling deeply troubled, saying nothing, reached for her bag and jacket. Marks looked a little crestfallen, as if he knew he had overdone it and had upset his parliamentary colleagues, to no real purpose. As the train halted and she opened the door to step out, Elaine felt burdened by the sense of unpleasant revelation which the conversation had induced and for which she was quite unready. It was like discovering that God does not exist.

Her connection was not due for twenty minutes. She sat on a platform seat, feet and knees neatly together, contemplating her face reflected in her shiny black shoes, and wondered about the future.

‘Blast!’ Elaine consulted the diary. ‘It’s midweek. We may be required to vote. Yet I would like to go. I gather Dorothy is quite a character.’

‘Go and see her the weekend before,’ suggested Diane, looking up from a pile of correspondence. ‘Offer to go on the Saturday morning before that’s … wait… October the seventeenth. You can have a civilised conversation with her without loads of visitors. Tell the local press; a hundredth birthday is good news. Don’t forget to take postal vote forms. She could still be around at the election and you need all the votes you can get.’

‘Good idea. Anything else I should deal with now?’

Diane handed her a sheaf of faxes. ‘Only four more requests for television chat shows. You could become quite a star if you wanted – queen of the light entertainment circuit.’

‘Not quite what I was expecting when I came to Westminster,’ Elaine confessed. ‘I’m not sure how to handle it. Why on earth do I attract so much attention?’

Diane considered. ‘All the women MPs do: it’s not just you. But you’ve the added advantage of being young and attractive, and with a good tongue in your head. Most of your colleagues in front of a microphone are useless. They sound like Colonel Blimps or Central Office clones mouthing slogans. You at least think about what you say and it’s interesting. On TV your appearance is a huge bonus. So you’ll keep getting these invitations. If I were you I’d accept from time to time. You’d be surprised how many people will vote for you because they’ve seen you on
Celebrity Squares
. The nation is, at heart, trivial about its politics.’

Elaine was silent. Diane continued, ‘Just remember this: if your constituents don’t know who their MP is, that’s your fault, not theirs, Elaine. If they need help any time, they must know who to turn to. Politicians have no choice but to use the media. It’s a blessing you’re good at it, and talk more sense than most.’

Elaine parked the car behind Eventide Rest Home and sat for a moment listening to local radio news. A bus had crashed into a bridge at Whittington and fouled up traffic for two hours; Mrs Horrocks would be on the warpath. South Warmingshire Women’s Institute Christmas Carnival Committee was appealing for more helpers. ‘It is the same people every year and we are all getting too old’ came the
plaintive voice of the organiser. ‘I’m the youngest on the committee and I’m seventy-five.’ A rapist up for sentencing had been let off lightly because the elderly judge said the young lady had been provocative. ‘That does not give him the right, even if it were true,’ Elaine commented savagely to the dashboard. She picked up the car phone, angrily called the radio station, and soon heard her own voice promising to raise the matter urgently in Parliament. Still muttering crossly to herself she locked the car and headed for the home’s entrance.

Mrs Swanson was a tubby, motherly woman with a soft Irish accent and a ready smile, her Registered General Nurse’s badge prominently displayed on a dark-blue dress. Elaine liked her immediately, appreciating the mix of professionalism and kindliness. Tea in the best china was brought into the tiny cubby-hole which served as her office.