A Woman's Place (12 page)

‘By difficult decisions you mean hospital closures, I take it?' Bampton wished Chadwick would say exactly what he meant. To make the point he exaggerated his own Yorkshire bluntness. The sentence emerged as aggressive, almost hostile.

Chadwick recoiled fastidiously. ‘There may have to be some, yes, Secretary of State. You'll find a possible list as an appendix. These decisions are entirely for Ministers to make.'

‘Do they know – those on this list? I mean, have any hints been dropped?'

The civil servant feigned horror. ‘Hints? No, certainly not. Apart from anything else, not all those listed will close – they're only suggestions at this stage. But I'm afraid we won't get by without … ah … a few.'

Bampton sighed. ‘Derek, take a good look at this, and put some ideas on my desk by Monday. Ask the special adviser to help you; I need a political view on all this, not' – he glared at the imperturbable Chadwick – ‘not just a Whitehall
fait accompli
. And now, gentlemen, it's nearly lunchtime. I suggest we head off out of this air-conditioned hive towards some proper food at Pizza Hut. Anybody hungry?'

Papers were cleared away and the session broke up. Elaine was subdued. Apart from sitting for hours on the front bench during the forthcoming debate – which would involve her reading up the subject in its entirety, in case interventions were required – only one item of work had fallen to her, the response to a late-night adjournment debate initiated by veteran MP Frederick Ferriman. He was known to be in the pay of a large pharmaceutical company, a matter duly (indeed proudly) recorded in the Register of Members' Interests, and wanted to complain about the lack of research on some esoteric disorder. As yet no treatment existed. But, if the department gave way and coughed up, a marketable product might be found. Then Freddie's share options would make him a rich man. Not that that had anything to do with his interest in the topic, of course.

The discussion left her ill at ease. It was not merely Bampton's continued, grating use of ‘gentlemen' when there were several women in the room – that was trivial. Somehow she had been sidelined, though she could not see how. Did it happen like this in all ministerial teams? Nor, as the little group trotted down Victoria Street towards the fast-food restaurant, could she begin to figure out what she might do about it.

One more humiliation awaited her. As the three Ministers and the special adviser, now a jolly quartet, argued about football over pepperoni pizzas in the stuffy but friendly restaurant, a gaggle of middle-aged women, pushing each other in timidity, plucked up courage and approached, autograph books in hand.

Bampton and Harrison spotted them coming, exchanged resigned glances, wiped their mouths, put down their forks and waited expectantly. Elaine, who had taken little part in the conversation, was still eating, though the food was too greasy for her taste. A touch on her arm brought her out of her reverie.

‘Mrs Stalker – it is Mrs Stalker, isn't it? We're down from Lancashire for the day. Sorry to bother you, but could we have your autograph please?'

It was impossible to brush them off, even had she wanted to: the whole clientele was watching in curiosity, whispering. Quickly Elaine complied, then gestured loyally at her companions.

‘You ought to ask Mr Bampton and Mr Harrison here as well. They are much more important than I am.'

The women looked uncertain and scanned the proffered faces. ‘No, it's all right,' the leader demurred. ‘Thank you, Mrs Stalker. We see you on the telly. Congratulations on … you know, being a Minister and that. And good luck.' The rest of the table sat silent, though Harrison seemed to be mouthing something at the women's retreating backs.

Bampton turned to Elaine. ‘You'll have to teach the rest of us how you do it. Carry on like that, and they'll be saying
I'm
the junior Minister in
your
department.'

He stood and hitched up his trousers, laughing at his own witticism. Elaine, her face burning, turned away. She had no idea how to reply.

Prime Minister's Question Time was over. A nervous Roger had persisted, reminding himself constantly that his side had won the election, against the odds, so there was no need to be defensive.

A Ten-Minute Rule Bill intervened, with a Labour Member demanding a commission on the Health Service. No response was required and no vote would follow: even as the man boomed away most Members were heading out. Roger could recall as a child a hernia operation which required ten days' stay in hospital, a dismal business he wished never to repeat. These days it was all done with staples and the patient could return home within hours. Of course the unions didn't like it; but neither did the ostlers, Roger was wont to remark, when the steam locomotive wiped out the stagecoach. Change always brought casualties.

He should spend twenty minutes in the Members' Tea Room and make himself available to the troops. Some would take the opportunity to lobby him and immediately afterwards rush to a phone to press-release the conversation. Others, more helpful, would regard it as their duty to cheer him up or warn him of hazards to come. It was the politician's way of pressing the flesh with other politicians, an essential part of keeping himself ahead. And he enjoyed the indulgence of the Tea Room's traditional toasted muffins.

The debate on the Matrimonial Bill was about to start; Roger had left, slipping out a fraction late, and become entangled in moving Ministers and whips while the Home Secretary and the Health and Welfare team took their places. As he stepped aside he was pushed up against first Harrison, then the junior Minister. And there, for a brief, bitter-sweet moment, he smelled again her scent, looked once more into those candid hazel eyes.

‘Are you answering the debate?' Roger asked, quickly. ‘If so, I'll try and get back for it.'

She was glancing back, sliding to take her seat, anxious not to be late or attract attention. How quickly MPs who have sought the limelight adopt the dull camouflage of ministerial life, Roger realised sadly. He hoped Elaine would not lose her sparkle or be disappointed at the job he had given her. He'd wanted to send her to the whips' office to boost the number of women but the Chief Whip had whistled at the ceiling and asked if he was serious. No more had been said.

‘No – not my turn tonight,' she responded. She seemed downcast, on edge. The answer troubled him, yet he had no choice but to nod sympathetically and leave her to it.

Anthony was restless. It was eight-thirty. The closing speeches would be called within the hour. The chap on his feet was a Tory – which meant there had to be another Opposition Member first. His stomach rumbled discreetly. In the four hours since he had taken his place he'd had nothing to eat but a surreptitiously nibbled Kit Kat.

As usual at supper-time the Chamber was virtually empty. A solitary hack sat up in the press gallery next to the Hansard recorder, both of them struggling to stay alert. The public gallery held a
motley collection of bewildered tourists plus four men and two women sitting solemnly together, whom he took to be representatives of bodies connected with the debate. The other seats upstairs were empty.

At last his fellow Tory, a former Minister long forgotten, sat down. Dutifully Anthony uttered a ‘Hear, hear', and mouthed ‘Well done', though he had hardly noticed what the chap had said.

The bill made him uncomfortable, and he would say so, though there was no question, as a loyal right-wing government supporter, of his voting against or abstaining. Ambition alone would keep him on the straight and narrow for a long while. Yet the purpose of this legislation – to make divorce easier – was ill advised, if the government meant what it said about shoring up the institution of marriage. Anthony wondered if it would be a frequent occurrence that his conscience and his desire to stay well in with the whips would come into conflict, and decided not to explore the question too closely.

Everything else was going fine. The house had been a bargain, in excellent condition, bought from a retired colleague embarrassed by yet another call from Lloyd's. His tenants – companions – were likeable and easy to get on with, though he wished Fred were more clued up. It was even a good idea to have that young woman, Karen, Mrs Stalker's daughter. She added something – made it more of a home, perhaps. It had certainly been delightful to find the kitchen warm and a meal on offer on his return the other evening. He ought to repay her a little, perhaps with supper one evening in the Strangers' Dining Room.

She was so young. Did girls become womanly by instinct? Did men automatically become protective? How were marriages made? His mind was clouded on the matter. There had been girlfriends, but nobody special. One or two had made advances, but his reserve had intervened: he had never felt drawn and drifted away as soon as they became querulous. A protective shell, hard and opaque, shielded his body whenever one tried to get close. Not that he recoiled: touch with another human being was not unpleasant. But if it implied commitment he was at a loss how to respond.

Maybe the dreams had something to do with it. If only they would stop, he would be all right. It was so strange – the only person in those dreams was himself but he couldn't understand what was happening. There hadn't been any for some time. Maybe now he was a success they would leave him in peace.

Suddenly he became aware that the elderly Member opposite was on her peroration and he was likely to be called next. Quickly he checked that his papers were neatly arranged, the documents he wished to quote on the seat by his side.

‘Mr Anthony York!'

The Deputy Speaker settled back in the chair to listen. Anthony rose, cleared his throat, and launched into the third parliamentary speech of his career – the one, he hoped, which would make his name.

Members nodded as he explained his concerns; without knowing it, he was echoing the worries even of Ministers. The legislation did not match either their theories or their preferences.

‘I should like to see a return to older values,' Anthony urged. He let his voice rise a little. ‘I really don't care if that sounds priggish or old fashioned. We should frown, as a matter of policy, on casual or irresponsible behaviour. My Honourable and Right Honourable friends will aver with due caution that the personal morality of individuals is nothing to do with Ministers, but surely that is nonsense.'

The clock showed he had been speaking eight minutes – almost enough. ‘We create moral codes by the laws we pass in this House, and we set a moral tone by our attitude to modern manners. I wish to put on record that I for one disapprove of many aspects of today's society. If by this bill we make it easier to walk away from responsibility then I say to Ministers that they can count on my support only as long as they can reassure me, and others of like mind, that amendments will be
introduced to meet our anxieties.'

He looked around calmly, aware of judgements being made on him. The Minister stared stonily ahead, his back to Anthony.

‘We should be in the business of raising personal and moral standards, not lowering them, and, most particularly, not accepting that they have been lowered irreversibly. We are the arbiters in this House of what is right, and not, Mr Deputy Speaker, mere followers of fashion.'

He had expressed himself more forcibly than he had intended; as he resumed his place, a murmur of approval ran round the benches on both sides. An unusual number had come in to listen and clearly they liked what they heard.

There was a tap on his shoulder. It was the former Minister who had spoken before him, whose own days of glory were long passed.

‘Nicely done, lad. You'll get plenty of Brownie points for that. One little problem you'll have to watch, though.'

Anthony craned around and looked enquiringly into the rheumy eyes.

‘Just remember this. If you're going to take your stand on “Back to Basics” and all that, you'll have to be like Caesar's wife. If not – if you're only human like the rest of us – bear in mind the eleventh commandment. D'you know what it is?'

Anthony waited politely.

‘Don't get caught.'

The wintry sun filtered through leafless branches. In the darker comers, street lamps began to glow amber. Indoors on the refurbished top floor of the Department of Health, Welfare and the Family, modern neon emitted an inadequate light, not helped by the cigar smoke wreathing lazily in the
low-ceilinged
room.

Ted Bampton, as Secretary of State, was entitled to the grandest office in the building, but on his first day had prowled around until he found what he dubbed his ‘eyrie' under the roof. He had a point. It was quieter and cosier; security advisers were happy because it was also further from street entrances. Not that anyone had yet tried to barge in and shoot a Cabinet Minister, but it was better to be wise before the event.

The three Ministers sat in armchairs close to the coal-effect gas fire. On the hearth rug were scattered the morning's newspapers, and a fresh tray of coffee had been brought. No one else intruded: even the special adviser had been asked to leave. In silence Bampton puffed thoughtfully on his Havana. It made Elaine's eyes sting uncomfortably. The department had long since adopted a ‘no smoking' policy but this was his territory. There was nothing she could do but put up with it.

As Derek Harrison returned from closing the door, his expression one of studied innocence, Bampton's look darkened.

‘It's really you I want a word with, Derek, but what I have to say applies to you both. I've been checking through our weekly diaries. Now mine shows, hour by hour, what I'm up to and who with. Yours, Derek, has a few gaps – too many for my liking.'

Harrison was motionless. He had an inkling of what was coming.

‘Look at this here. For both Monday and Wednesday: “Lunch – private engagement”. I've no objection to you dining with your pals, even in the working week, but your office tells me that Monday was at the Savoy and you weren't back till three-thirty. So may I ask what was so important that two appointments had to be delayed because you were late and a third postponed till next month? And it's not the first time.'

Harrison wriggled. ‘It was … a friend … that's all.'

‘As it happens, Martin Chadwick was also at the Savoy that lunchtime with the chief executive of the Pharmaceutical Society. He tells me you had a table in a favoured place in the window and were eating with a coloured gentleman. Would this be a constituent – or a business acquaintance?'

‘He's not coloured, he's Asian. And a very good supporter of the party. In fact he was asking me how he could help – wants to make some big donations.'

Bampton sniffed. ‘Does he indeed? Then the person who should've been feeding him is the Party Treasurer, not you. You know the rules about business links for Ministers, don't you? Margaret used to have a fit if there was any impropriety, and Major made 'em even stricter. You can't get entangled with anything that could compromise you, or the department, in any way. So, whoever he is, get somebody else to look after him – and no more, d'you hear?'

Harrison kept his eyes to the floor. Open defiance would be a mistake; least said, perhaps.

‘And what about Wednesday – yesterday? Who was that?'

Silence.

‘It was at L'Amico in Horseferry Road, and Richard Littlejohn, wasn't it? Don't try and deny it. What the blazes were you doing stuffing yourself with that freak? He's the worst kind of journalist from our point of view. You can't pretend
he's
a friend of the party.'

Derek opened his mouth to respond but Bampton thrust the morning's edition of a tabloid newspaper on to his lap.

‘Full of gossip and bile, he is, against the government. With the sole exception of you, Derek,
whom he praises as “the only original mind in the whole stupid bunch”. Congratulations. Who paid for the meal – him or you?'

A protest was in order. ‘We've been told to improve our news management and that's all I was trying to do, Ted.' Harrison's defensive words were belied by his aggressive posture. ‘I was at school with him. I'm sure he can be trusted.'

Bampton grunted. ‘Oh, yeah. As far as you can throw him. From here onwards, if you're meeting press of any kind, say who. Then we'll know the source of some of these stories, won't we? You too, Elaine. Be very careful. Now, Derek, there's one more matter about your official diary, which I must say has more holes than a piece of Swiss cheese. What's this item here, two afternoons this week, for “research”? What kind of research might that be?'

Chadwick had asked Derek the same question when the driver had dropped a hint, and he'd been told to mind his own business. The official had retired with pursed lips and a prim expression. The same rebuff would certainly not do for Bampton.

Derek pulled a face, then engaged his boss's eye and indicated, man to man, that Elaine was listening. But Bampton was not playing that game.

‘I'm waiting, Derek. Whatever you have to say, it'll go no further than this room. What, and with whom, is this “research”, and how does it help the government or the party?'

Harrison capitulated. ‘It doesn't. It's my girlfriend. She works evenings – she's an actress. So I can only get to see her in the daytime.'

Bampton glowered. The answer was no more than he had suspected. ‘You'll get set up one of these days, Derek. Some pretty little tart'll lie in wait and you'll be up to no good the whole afternoon, banging away dressed to kill in a purple football shirt or her frilly knickers, while somebody's busy taping the conversation or taking pictures. Look what happened to David Mellor and
his
actress: neither of them knew the place was wired. Nothing much in our world happens by accident. You're being a big fool and it's got to stop.'

The two junior ministers sat silent. Elaine could think of nothing to say: while in wholehearted agreement with Bampton she could nevertheless sense Harrison's humiliation and resentment. She wondered who would be made to suffer.

Bampton decided to draw the reproof to its close. He leaned over and wagged a stubby finger under Derek's nose.

‘Whatever you're up to, do it in your own private time, not the department's. And don't go using official cars, for God's sake. If you haven't enough work to do, Derek, we can always find some more. How about the next session of the Cabinet Sub-Committee on Women's Issues instead of Elaine? It's at eleven next Wednesday. Followed by coffee and sandwiches.'

‘But I'd have to cancel…' Harrison stopped. The following week's diaries had not yet been circulated.

‘Exactly. Crab paste with the formidable Miss Widdecombe should cool your ardour. And stick to Young Conservatives from now on.'

‘I am anxious for you, my darling. That's all.'

Pramila Bhadeshia pulled her sari closer and scuttled out of the way of an overladen baggage trolley pushed by a hefty American. Above her the incomprehensible echo of announcements mingled with clatter and loud voices and snatches of muzak. She could see nowhere free to sit. Behind her a hand brushed against her leg, but it was only an enormous young Viking stretched out over several seats snoring loudly. There was litter everywhere, a tattered tide which engulfed the feeble efforts of the only cleaner visible, another diminutive Asian woman in a green uniform. Construction of the new terminal at Heathrow was causing chaos, with both local and international flights crammed into Terminal One. What a dreadful impression it gave of Britain, Pramila thought sadly, then turned again
to her husband.

‘I wish I was coming with you, though I am not happy with this proposed visit. The new President makes promises, but who can tell if he's any better than the last one?'

‘They say he's a good Muslim,' Jayanti muttered vaguely as he rummaged in his coat pocket for tickets and passport. ‘That should make a difference.'

‘So was Idi Amin. At least he claimed to be. It didn't stop him throwing us all out, Muslims, Hindus or no.'

‘You are not to worry yourself. President Mangaluso has indicated that he is deeply interested in my proposition to revive our old operations there. You saw what he said in his letter: that the lessons have been learned, and the Africans now understand that it is necessary to work with people with international business acumen.'

‘It is dangerous. I am frightened for you. I would feel much happier if you were heading for home in India, not some hell-hole in East Africa.'

His flight was called. Jayanti checked the departures board anxiously for his gate, and made to kiss his wife on the cheek. Crossly she moved her head sideways and he missed. In retaliation he allowed himself a moment of exasperation.

‘Home, you say.
This
is home, as I keep telling you. We have no other loyalties now. Do you know my name was passed on to the President by the British Board of Trade? So, you realise, my success here is noticed at the highest level. I will come back with many contracts, you will see. And I promise you I will be careful.'

Pramila bent her head, chastened. Winter holidays were never an easy time, what with Amit wanting to take Varun out on New Year's Eve with his college friends and get him drunk, the girls Priya and Sabita demanding permission to go to parties alone with European boys, and her mother wailing and covering her head every time Jesus was mentioned on the television set. Devout Hinduism was all very well but combined with tremulous old age would try the patience of a saint.

‘You will bring me a present?' It was their way of ending a tiff.

‘Of course. Now will you let me kiss you and go? I'll phone, and I'll be back in a fortnight.'

Elaine cradled the phone handset on her shoulder and reached for her diary. ‘What are your plans, Karen? You planning to be in Warmingshire for the Christmas holidays at all?'

‘Oh, yes, Mum. But I've promised Dad I'd go and spend Christmas with him and Linda and the baby – it'll be the only time all year that I've seen them. Hope you don't mind? And for New Year's Eve – well, I thought it might be fun to go to Trafalgar Square, and Fred wants to go – first year in London for us both – so that leaves the week in between. Can I come then?'

It was on the tip of Elaine's tongue to reply tartly that her home was not a convenience motel, but she feared making her daughter feel unwelcome. Karen's itinerary would leave her mother alone for three out of the four weeks of the recess.

The girl must have sensed her mother's disappointment. ‘What about you, Mum?'

Good question. ‘Apart from sending out three hundred Christmas cards? Well, carol singing on Christmas Eve at the local hospital for a start. We parade around in nurses' cloaks and carry lanterns, just like Florence Nightingale. I enjoy that: most patients have gone home, and the staff make a point of booking in anybody who's got no family. So we have a merry time. On Christmas Day I may return to help serve the turkey – the consultant surgeons carve and have the patients in stitches. If you see what I mean.'

‘But don't you get asked to lots of Christmas dinners? Last year you complained you'd eaten enough turkey to make you cluck.'

‘Yes, but that's before Christmas – and sometimes afterwards, well into January. Christmas Day proper is a different matter. Most families are a bit reluctant to invite outsiders.'

‘Do you want me to cancel Dad?' Karen was clearly reluctant to be forced to choose between her parents.

‘Of course not. Give him – them – my best wishes.'

‘You should have booked a holiday away. Or had lots of friends in for a party. That's the best way.'

Elaine laughed ruefully. ‘I'm on call most of the recess. As for a party, I'd have had to think about it a month ago, to send invitations out. Good idea, though, for next year.' She did not add that holding on to friends outside the political world was almost as difficult as maintaining a family life. There was no point in burdening her daughter. More cheerfully, she added: ‘New Year's Eve is fine – George Horrocks is having people in for drinks and I'm invited to that.'

Karen giggled. ‘Take some mistletoe with you and make sure you get a kiss, for luck.'

‘What are you trying to do to your mother, miss?'

‘Oh, you can look after yourself, Mum. Remember, I've not met this George yet – saw him briefly on the telly at the count, but that's all.'

‘I'm sure his intentions are entirely honourable.'

‘Hope not, for your sake, Mum. See you soon. 'Bye.'

Elaine was not the only person uncomfortably aware that her responsibilities now limited her options to an unexpected degree. Similar considerations ran through the mind of Anthony York as his train sped west into the setting sun.

The Times
lay open but unread. In the window as countryside flashed past he could see the faint double reflection of his own face: regular features, fair hair that turned lighter in summer, broad brow, eyes set wide apart. The Victorians might have found him handsome but today's preferences were for a more pliant, less stem set to the mouth. A slight frown mark, present since early youth, was deepening between the grey eyes. Weight marginally more than on his arrival at Westminster six months ago, but that was no surprise. And he had nowhere really to go other than to his parents' country house near Cheltenham: the only place he had ever called home.

It had been, as far as Anthony could tell, a happy, uneventful childhood. True, his parents were old to bear children, having fallen in love, as they put it, in their dotage – though surely only at about the age he was now. To him and his elder sister they had often seemed so wrapped up in each other that he and Harriet had been left much to their own devices. That had suited both children, for the old house and its rambling gardens were a lovely paradise. In long vacations when the sun always shone he would take books from the library and a bottle of pop and be found hours later, half hidden by buttercups, dozing over Ridley's life of Palmerston or Theodore White on Kennedy, and dreaming of his future.