A Parliamentary Affair (50 page)

The familiar car was warm and comfortable, a cocoon of intimacy. Elaine took one of Karen’s hands in her own and stroked it. The girl half smiled back, her eyes soft and dark in the dusk.

‘You sure you’re well enough to go back to school, Karen?’

‘Sure, Mum. I’m much better now.’ The voice was low, but assured and steady, belying her wasted appearance. ‘Anyway, I can’t take much time off or I’ll get too far behind.’

‘You know your father and I love you very much, Karen.’ It was an invitation. The girl smiled again and nodded. She was thinking how pretty her mother looked these days, slim and elegant, hair a lovely gold colour which suited her, bright-eyed and perfectly made up. Karen felt a twinge of both pride and regret, especially for her own gawkiness. The girl felt deeply uncertain what fashion style to adopt herself; while she rejected much of the appearance which had given all the wrong signals to Betts, an alternative had not emerged. For the moment she reverted to schoolgirl non-chic. No wonder another man was passionately attracted to her mother. Dad was mad, leaving her
to her own devices so much and taking her loyalty for granted. It was all becoming more understandable by the minute. If her mother were not entirely innocent in this affair then neither was she wholly guilty either.

‘I know you do, Mum, and I love you too. When I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you there, all upset, I felt terrible, because I could see I’d hurt you so much. I’m very sorry for causing so much trouble.’

It was the first time she had mentioned the event. Elaine gave an encouraging look. Expecting further confidences, Karen’s next words surprised her.

‘Did you tell Dad not to come?’

‘Dad? Yes, I did. There was no point in his traipsing back across the Atlantic. You were out of danger by then, and snoring like a pig in your alcoholic stupor. You put away nearly all my Drambuie, young lady, and what you didn’t drink you spilled on my good carpet! Let me know next time and I’ll find you something cheaper.’

The teasing brought a rueful giggle, but the girl had acquired a tougher skin and would not so easily be put off. ‘Dad should have come. It was important.’

Elaine sighed. The child was right; she was not the only one to have felt abandoned at a time of great need. ‘He has a busy and important job, Karen, as I have. You can’t blame him for that. It’s no use feeling resentful. It’s harder for some men, especially when a daughter is involved. The first whiff of woman trouble and they run a mile. Your father was always like that, I’m afraid, and we won’t change him now.’

‘Are you and Dad going to get a divorce?’

With an effort Elaine kept her voice even and firm. ‘No, I don’t think so. We’re going through a bad patch at the moment; it happens in the best of marriages. Not your fault at all, sweetheart. But – it might be best if you don’t interfere, and leave us grown-ups to sort it out ourselves.’

The term ‘grown-ups’ carried an irony which was not lost on her daughter. Karen had heard words like this before, not long ago. Her mother was volunteering very little. For the third time Karen was obliged to reveal her own secret knowledge, fearful of its reception, dependent only on the kindness of the recipient.

‘I know all about it, Mum – you and Roger Dickson.’ Silence. Jagged denials flickered through Elaine’s brain – how can you know? How can you imagine what it feels like to lie with him, and to love him, you who have never loved anybody, yet? How can you guess the pain of loving a man belonging to someone else, unable to acknowledge you even in passing? But she kept her own counsel. It would be wrong to burden this youngster, struggling with all the miseries of adolescence.

Karen waited, then tried again. ‘I know it’s none of my business, and whatever happens, Mum, I will still love you. And I won’t say anything, I promise.’ She meant to add, ‘It has caused enough chaos already, my distasteful knowledge’, but thought better of it. She continued, ‘But if you and Dad are going to split up, that does affect me, doesn’t it?’

‘We are not going to split up. I intend to stay married, Karen, you can rely on that. I love my husband, my home, my family. If Daddy and I have drifted a bit, that’s probably my fault, and I can and will do something about it.’ Elaine was entirely sincere. She had taken her marriage vows with determination and conviction and had always intended to keep them. The liaison with Roger was unplanned but its existence did not change her views on the preferability, if it could be managed, of fidelity. Anything else was lesser, a failure.

Not that she had considered how the affair might end, though end it must, sooner or later, if she meant to stay married. It did not have to end, not for years yet, as long as exposure was avoided. She was newly forced to think about it since Karen’s outburst on the answerphone had suggested the matter was leaking out. She turned to her daughter.

‘Do you want to tell me how you found out about Roger and me?’

Karen swallowed and turned to look out of the window. She was thankful the darkness hid her face. ‘It wasn’t too difficult, Mum – you’ve been leaving a trail for months.’ That was all she would permit herself.

Elaine was close to tears. Karen realised she was treading on unforgiving ground and stepped back from the brink. She twisted a lock of her hair around a finger and tried, childlike, to chew it but the strands were still too short. Her voice took on a wheedling tone.

‘Mum, did you think any more about my leaving school and doing my A levels at college?’

Her mother slowly returned to the warm car and the darkening night. Karen would have to go inside shortly or be reprimanded for lateness.

‘Explain to me why school is suddenly so unsuitable.’

Karen tweaked her school tie with an impatient gesture. ‘Wearing uniform like this; make-up and jewellery banned, having to do games whether I like it or not, and loads of rules. We’re treated like children when we’re not. I know it’s supposed to be one of the best private schools, but that’s part of the problem: it’s really peddling a very old-fashioned form of English education for the daughters of rich foreigners. I don’t fit, which is daft, considering I’m the daughter of a Tory MP.’

Elaine pulled a face. ‘I can see what you mean. Remember when we brought you for interview, and asked where we might eat, thinking there might be a McDonald’s around the corner? We were directed to the best restaurant in town at thirty pounds a throw.’

With barely suppressed excitement Karen realised that she was winning.

Her mother continued, ‘Look: we preferred you to stay at school partly because it has discipline. We don’t want you running wild and forgetting your studies. Are you sure you could cope at college?’

Not trusting herself to speak, Karen nodded. Elaine hesitated. There was a hint of undue pressure being put on her by her own daughter. Chip off the old block when it came to getting her own way, Elaine noted in wry amusement.

‘Then we’ll do a deal. You work for your GCSEs and get yourself completely well, and I’ll check out the colleges. How’s that?’

The girl’s eyes danced in triumph. ‘Yes!’

‘Fine, Miss Clever, but you have to keep your side. No more wearing yourself to a frazzle, and no more binges, do you hear? I can do without funny phone calls.’ Both sensed with relief that the subject, having been aired, was closed. ‘And I don’t have to tell you not to gossip about your own family. If you want to talk on that, or anything else that might be bothering you, I’d rather you did me the courtesy of tackling me first. I am your mother. You can ask anything, though I can’t always give you a simple answer; to some questions, there is none, not yet. You, on the other hand, can tell me anything. I wouldn’t be shocked.’ Karen leaned into the back of the car and collected blazer, hockey stick, scarf, bag and a pile of fluorescent folders covered in pop star stickers.

Keeping her expression light, she kissed her mother and headed off into the gloom.

‘Oh yes, you would,’ she whispered to herself.

Mrs Margaret Perkins shook the rain from her headscarf, put her key in the lock of the front door at Ebury Street, wiped her feet and trudged down the polished tiled hallway to the kitchen. Placing her bunches of scarlet and yellow tulips in the sink, she ran cold water first for the flowers and then for the kettle. A broad, dumpy woman, Mrs Perkins hung up her coat near the Aga to dry, patted her damp grey curls into place, turned on the radio, donned a pink apron and settled herself at the kitchen table. The sound of the
Jimmy Young Show
filled the air and she hummed along tunelessly. Time for a quick cuppa first.

Another week. Not that she was complaining. Being daily help to Sir Nigel Boswood for nearly twenty years, and to his absent-minded old aunt before that, must be one of the best cleaning jobs in London. Lovely man to work for, Sir Nigel. Easy-going about holidays and time off, like when her daughter was ill. The pay wasn’t bad – considering how tidy he was in this beautiful house with its fine furniture, not bad at all, and always on time, left in a Commons envelope on the table here every Friday.

Mrs Perkins had no qualms or snobbery about being a cleaner. Her mother had been a skivvy all her life in grand houses like this. Two sisters worked for an agency servicing city office blocks, all pay slips and claim forms and tax and home on the bus exhausted before the pin-stripe brigade arrived, while her brother was shop steward for hundreds of cleaners over in Lambeth. He didn’t approve of her eating out of the hands of the aristocracy; she didn’t care for his left-wing ways. Mrs Perkins voted Tory and was proud of it.

She would have to do that basement; it couldn’t be left any longer. Fervently she prayed that Mr Peter was out. Knowing and caring for every square inch for so long, she felt it was almost her own home. He was the intruder, not she. There was something about that peculiar young man which stuck in her craw. Sir Nigel’s guests were none of her affair. She was the soul of discretion and never gossiped about her employer outside, loyalty and pride jointly keeping her mouth firmly shut. But that Sir Nigel’s naivety and kindly nature were now being blatantly exploited she had no doubt whatever.

It was her choice to tackle the flat. Sir Nigel had said gently to leave Peter alone. After much brooding at the top of the basement stairs and sniffing unhappily until her high standards overcame her caution, she had had sharp words about it with Sir Nigel. You could not, in a house like this, ignore a whole floor. The boy was clean enough in himself, she would say that for him, always in a crisp shirt and fresh socks, but he never once changed the bed or pushed a duster over a surface or emptied a waste-paper basket. Not that you could expect boys to do for themselves. Sir Nigel was giving her extra money meanwhile. What really worried her was the thought of the monumental cleaning job facing her if and when the young man cleared off, as doubtless he would sooner or later.

Housework does not get done by contemplation. With a sigh she reached inside a cupboard and collected dusters, spray polish, window cleaner, plastic rubbish bags and the vacuum cleaner. Duly laden and with the radio tinkling from under her arm, she headed for the stairs down to the flat. At the door she paused and turned off the radio, listening for a moment. Not a sound, except for street noises outside. She tapped cautiously. ‘Hallo? Anybody there?’ No answer. Satisfied and relaxing a little she turned the door-knob and went in.

The place was a pigsty, with a dusty film over everything and the mixed odours of talcum powder and aftershave and something else less palatable. Methodically she set about emptying bins and picking up clothes strewn around the floor, clucking in disapproval. A full ashtray sat on the bedside table; its crumbled contents gave off an acrid sweetish smell. Mrs Perkins’s stolid face set grim. He should not be doing that in this house, whatever he got up to outside. Her sense of the violation of a happy home was increasing by the minute.

On the radio Jimmy Young was immersed in a discussion on euthanasia. Mrs Perkins was not unintelligent. Working steadily, she listened and commented back. There were two sides to the argument, she could see that. She did not want to suffer nor be a burden to anyone, if she had cancer or a stroke. Better then to finish it all quickly. On the other hand it was unwise to give too much power to doctors, ever. With the wrong encouragement from greedy relatives they might get far too enthusiastic. She did not envy Sir Nigel and his ilk having to decide on tricky questions like that, and was glad her responsibility was confined merely to looking after him.

The bathroom was in a diabolical state. Not only were the best bath towels stained and strewn carelessly in the wet all over the floor, but the bath was still full of grey water, mirrors smeared with flecks of toothpaste, the washbasin plug-hole disgustingly blocked by shaved bits of fair hair. She
pulled out the bath plug and watched the scummy liquid slushing down the hole. This would never do; Sir Nigel would have to hear about it.

The radio discussion shifted to the differing needs of young people nowadays. Lips pursed, Mrs Perkins sprayed the mirror and rubbed vigorously. This one here could leach all those do-gooding social workers a thing or two, the lying way he took advantage. Back in the bedroom she started collecting clothes, folding and putting away. The label on one sweater was Pringle. It was wool and cashmere, lovely and soft, not your usual Marks & Spencer. Puzzled, she counted eight sweaters and two leather jackets, tossed around as if of no value. And yet this little lot alone must have cost all of a thousand pounds. Not short of a bob or two. Mrs Perkins’s mouth snapped shut. She would not permit herself to consider where the money might have come from. That was not her place.

The room took on a tidier aspect as the unmade bed slowly emerged from its disorganised coverings. Mrs Perkins collected several bags of laundry and headed upstairs. Returning with an armful of fresh-smelling clean linen, she began to strip the bed.

Picking up a pillow she began to shake it out of its slip. A small yellow and black envelope fell out with a plop. Ever conscientious, Mrs Perkins made to put it somewhere safe, but natural curiosity persuaded her to sit for a moment on the edge of the bed, cradling the packet in her hand. Nobody was watching, nobody would know. Furtively she tipped the photographs out and began to examine them.