A Woman's Place (5 page)

The President froze, heart fluttering. Beside him a secret service man's hand slid inside his jacket.

‘After what your country did – throwing all those poor people out. Murder and rape. Dispossession of all our goods. Have you come to apologise?'

Now the police officers were filtering into the crowd to identify the owner of the voice. It was not African, but not quite English either. East African Asian, perhaps, though Mangaluso could see no one who might fit that description.

‘That was over twenty years ago. We have offered to pay compensation. We want people to return and start up their businesses again. We need them …' The quaver in his voice made it rise to a squeak.

The tall Duke and the tiny baroness positioned themselves one on each side and, taking their guest's elbows, propelled him gently into the car. As it moved away the President stared back into the crowd, fear on his face.

‘Sorry about that,' remarked the Duke genially. ‘Democracy, you know. I should take no notice.'

‘That was the policy of my predecessor,' the President replied. His pulse was still racing. ‘Did him no good, I am sorry to say.'

‘Oh, really?'

‘He ended up floating down the river past the presidential palace. My faction came to power last year in the first truly democratic elections since the British left. And now I have to persuade people like that' – he jerked his head back at the dispersing crowd – ‘to forget the past and return. We are desperate for their business skills.'

‘I'm sure we all wish you may succeed,' the baroness soothed.

‘I have no choice,' the President muttered. ‘In our country there is no House of Lords for ex-leaders, madam. Only the river, and the morgue.'

‘Is anybody looking after you, Anthony? After your success this afternoon you should be making a grand entrance.'

Anthony York raised his head from the Press Association tapes in the corridor outside the Smoking Room. He wondered if it had been so obvious that he was nervous of entering the Members'
Dining Room nearby on his own. He smiled gratefully at Elaine Stalker.

‘So let's go in together. I should be delighted to bask in your reflected glory. And you might give me some good ideas about my own speech next week.'

Her gentle compliments settled his nerves. The two pushed through the doors and walked inside. The room was nearly full, and noisy. Elaine paused by two empty places at a long table near the window. ‘May we join you?'

Two of the men made half-hearted attempts to rise to their feet but nobody else acknowledged that a woman was present. Elaine preferred it that way, but reflected with amusement that one of the Tory Members so studiously ignoring her had recently garnered modest headlines with a speech supporting a return to old-fashioned good manners – on the part of other people towards himself, no doubt.

‘It will be a relief not to have quite so many late nights and heart-stopping votes, now we have a bigger majority,' Edward Bampton was saying. ‘I'll have the roast beef, and make sure it's well done, please.'

‘I'll have the same,' another voice chimed in. Fred Laidlaw was not about to risk arguing the merits of rare versus well-done meat with a Minister whose reputation for pugnacity ran before him. Not that he cared much either way.

The service was speedy though slapdash, the food surprisingly good, if modest in quantity. Bampton sent his plate back for an extra slice. Soon the talk turned to Anthony's achievement as anecdotes flew thick and fast about famous maiden speeches – John Major's in 1979, over-long and very boring, and Margaret Thatcher's as she moved a Private Member's Bill which, with typical persistence and luck, she piloted into law.

‘Found somewhere to live yet?' Elaine was only a few years older than Anthony but felt almost motherly towards him.

‘I'm staying with a relative at present but I'm looking for a house to buy, probably in Battersea.' That he could lay hands on the £200,000 required put Anthony into a different category even from many Tory MPs. ‘My cousin Lachlan is coming over from America to study medicine at St Thomas's, but I could offer rooms to other colleagues. I intend it to be both comfortable and convenient for the House.'

‘I'd be interested.' Fred was instantly eager. His initial searches for an affordable flat around Westminster had proved depressing. ‘If the rent's reasonable, that is.'

‘You'd be welcome. And maybe we could invite a nurse or two to join us; it would be nice to have some girls around. Not', he added hastily, seeing Elaine's expression, ‘that I'd expect them to do housework or anything. I do believe in female equality. But I'd prefer a mixed house.'

‘You'll get yourselves talked about, with women on the premises,' Bampton commented.

‘I don't think so.' Anthony's manner was stiff. ‘It would be a highly respectable establishment. I'd see to that.'

‘When did you say this property would be ready?' Elaine asked thoughtfully. ‘It might be perfect. You see I know somebody else who might be keen to join you…'

Away from its public areas the Palace of Westminster is a rabbit warren, a maze of narrow hallways, pockmarked stonework, unnumbered doors, dark staircases leading nowhere. Dead ends abound among the eleven hundred rooms and two miles of corridors. A sudden turn will reveal a broken photocopier littered with tom inky paper or a sackful of old memos or a bin stacked with tinned food for a blind man's dog. Among the twenty-four bars and restaurants is nowhere for the public to obtain a cup of tea; the river terraces will accommodate thousands on a summer evening yet the Chamber is not big enough to seat all the elected Members. From the roof garden to the underground rifle range, from the lofty room behind the clock face to the mouldering archives in Victoria Tower, its secret comers are known in their entirety to no one. All that its inmates can aspire
to is a working knowledge of one small part, with fear and hazy ignorance about the remainder.

Through her affair with Roger Dickson, Elaine had become familiar with the ministerial area at the back of the Speaker's Chair. One set of stairs squeezed around a recently modernised lift and headed down into Speaker's Court, where Ministers' cars were parked by the Speaker's ornate doorway and where sick Members, brought in to vote to save Ministers' skins, could wait in their ambulances to be ‘nodded through' by the whips.

Another route would have led Elaine upstairs and to Roger's ministerial room, where their last unhappy encounter had taken place. She would not be going there again. If it was true that Roger was moving to the Foreign Office then the choice would not be open to her, for he would decamp to that most magnificent of Whitehall buildings, where grand staircases and marble floors proclaimed the glories of empires only grudgingly given up and not yet forgotten. He deserved his success, but still the thought of the seal such a move would put to the end of their relationship – that the room above would be reallocated promptly to its next occupant, who would shift around the furniture and change the pictures – was deeply painful.

A third exit took her along a gloomy corridor past the offices of both the Home Secretary and the Leader of the House. At the latter the door was ajar. The sound of laughter floated out from a curtained inner room as glasses clinked. Being in charge of the management of the government's programme in the Commons without taking direct responsibility for any of its contents could be a grind or one of the most delightful jobs in the Cabinet, depending on the instincts of the holder, usually a senior figure on his way out.

Elaine doubted that such a description would ever attach to her. A government post, let alone the distant reaches of the Cabinet, seemed gone for good. When she had arrived at Westminster four years earlier her personal baggage had included much the same ambitions as most other young MPs'. There was no reason why not. As a university graduate and local councillor she had better intellectual equipment than most and more political experience than many. As a pretty young woman she obtained rather more than her share of media attention which rapidly made her familiar in the country, and thus, at least in theory, an asset to her party. Yet somehow nothing had worked out.

Maybe it had had something to do with her relationship, though she was reluctant to admit it. Not that she and Roger had been discovered: on the contrary, their discretion had been absolute and neither was likely to make an indiscreet remark in future out of what had been, she was sure, a true love affair. She was well aware that her original attraction to Roger had been a mixture of sex and politics. He had not been her equal but her whip. That meant he was in a position to advise and guide her, and in directly practical ways to
help,
by recommending her for promotion. Yet the call had never come. Perhaps the fear of discovery had held him back when he could have assisted her most, right at the start. He had been tremendously encouraging; but the near certainty remained that every time Roger Dickson's opinion had been sought he had suggested somebody else.

She walked on, briefcase in hand. There was nothing much in it except a Joanna Trollope novel to read before going to sleep. Despite living alone Elaine did not mean to drown her sorrows entirely in work. Too many Members forgot that the day would inevitably come when they would walk down these corridors for the last time; the outside world demanded a more balanced approach to life. She wondered how she might feel on that day herself…

‘Hello, Elaine.'

As she came round a windowless corner a sensor switched on the ceiling light. She stopped dead.

‘Roger! You startled me.'

He was taller than in her dreams, broader, more physical. The dark suit and plain shirt were as before but the flowered silk tie in blue and gold hues was new, bought to hint at a modernity he probably didn't feel. He was carrying a red box in one hand, a folded newspaper in the other. She
registered the short intake of breath, saw the flush mount on his cheeks, the effort he made to set his face into a pleasant but controlled expression. She could smell him – the Imperial Leather soap he used, but no aftershave, no perfume of any kind.

‘Sorry. How are you, Elaine? You did splendidly to retain your seat. The polls were so against you.'

She took a small step backwards, to move away from his influence and retain some modicum of self-control. This was a struggle he must not see. If she wept for this man she must weep alone.

‘And you are doing well, Roger. I am proud of you. Off to the Foreign Office – and where next, I wonder?'

‘Oh, don't you start as well, Elaine. I've had my fill of stupid questions from journalists. It would be nice to retain a sense of my own ordinariness for a while longer. The standard reply, as you well know, is that there's no vacancy at No. 10: period.'

Both laughed ruefully. It had been the anxiety about exposure in the over-heated British press which had forced Elaine to end their affair; but she recognised also that the private Roger was now buried so deep that she might as well have made love to a video-recording as seek to retain contact with the real person. It would be an age before he could abandon his official cover and return to normal life – and by then he might have forgotten all about her.

Suddenly Roger glanced up and down the corridor. Satisfied, he reached out, held her arm and spoke urgently.

‘We meant something to each other once, Elaine, and not so long ago. You are a fine woman. I probably should have told you years ago that you mattered a great deal to me. I'm sorry, I'm not very good at this, but do think there is any chance…?'

Elaine detached herself firmly from his grasp. She prayed her voice would not betray her.

‘No, I don't think so, Roger. It's simply too dangerous. You know that. And now if you don't mind…'

His expression darkened. She turned away, unable to hold his gaze. It would have been so easy to touch his cheek, to invite him quickly back to her flat for coffee, to agree with him that such as themselves led charmed lives and that all they had to do was be ultra-careful.

‘Then let me try another tack. I shall need a new PPS, as mine has been promoted, and am in a position to ask for whomever I want. If I ask for you, Elaine, would you say yes?'

A plum job. Bag-carrier to the Foreign Secretary; to move in the best Whitehall environment and with the most able civil servants and diplomats. To see the secret telegrams and faxes. To know what was really going on, not only in Britain but in Europe, the USA, the Far East, anywhere. She would learn a tremendous amount about government inside and out. Foreign travel galore, too. With Roger: an official, permitted intimacy which could lead to…

‘No, Roger. Please don't. If I'm to make my way up the greasy pole I have to do it without special help. People would gossip, don't you see? It might show, somehow – the way I looked at you sometimes, or a comment you let slip. You're going to be Prime Minister some day, as I always predicted. That will be good for our country as well as wonderful for you. I'm not going to spoil it. Thank you, but please – find somebody else.'

Brusquely, face averted, she pushed past him, headed down the stairs and out into the night. Behind her the last bell rang to announce the end of business. A policeman shouted the traditional goodnight: ‘Who goes home?'

Once alone Elaine walked rapidly, eyes unseeing, towards her empty flat. 

Elaine tucked her suitcase more tightly under her seat, murmured excuses for the umpteenth time at the last person who had tripped over it and eyed her empty polystyrene cup with regret. The packed train pulled out of Victoria Station on its way to Brighton. It was October: Party Conference time.

‘I suppose we should be pleased it's only seven minutes late,' she remarked to Diane. ‘Probably some colleague who insisted the train be held up for him.' As she spoke the jovial mass of the Party Chairman lurched against her arm and almost buried her in an expansive grey-flannelled bottom.

Their travelling companion heaved himself away. Elaine caught her secretary's eye. Both giggled. ‘You were probably right,' Diane agreed good-humouredly. ‘But I shouldn't say it so loudly next time. Spoil your chances of promotion.'

‘What chances?' Elaine did not allow any bitterness to show. After more than four years in Parliament she understood only too well the machinations required to make progress: the compliments to be offered to Ministers at Question Time, the supportive presence throughout a tedious debate, the long hours in the Members' Dining Room and the Smoking Room as bores old and new exaggerated their latest triumphs – she had tried all that. From time to time the dearth of females and the sparkle they could bring to the front benches was remarked upon and her hopes would rekindle. Yet the macho style of the Commons, its male language and nuances – the whole dusty code of the place – militated against women.

It was, she murmured, enough that she had won again. It was a privilege even to be an MP.

‘I do enjoy it; and I'm genuinely glad to have the job. D'you remember what John Smith said a day or two before he died – what everyone wanted as his epitaph? “Give us the chance to serve.” Well, I feel like that.'

Diane raised an eyebrow. She was present in her own right as an officer of Battersea Conservatives. To save money the two had decided to rent a holiday flat together on the seafront. It would not do to bicker. On the other hand, her employer needed to be in feisty mood to make a success of the Party Conference. Diane leaned over and patted Elaine's hand.

‘Fine: I understand entirely. But in that case why be so darned defensive about it? You wouldn't be a normal politician if you didn't want to be a Minister. And you shouldn't be left to stew. May I suggest you go out and show everyone this week exactly what they're missing if you are?'

Elaine's mood lifted. ‘I'll put in a speaker's slip. Law and order debate maybe. Call for the death penalty for all crime, including insulting Prime Ministers. Especially previous PMs like Lady Thatcher. That'd go down well, wouldn't it?'

Three large Jaguar cars moved smoothly down the motorway towards the coast. In each sat a man for whom the Conference would have dramatic long-term results. Two were to love the same woman. Two had expectations, while the third, though beyond ambition, was the shrewdest and most worthy of all.

Roger Dickson settled himself into the back seat of his black bullet-proof XJ6. The low-slung vehicle weighed a ton; its solidity brought a sense of complete isolation from the outside world.

Half-heartedly he flicked over his papers. The briefings on the forthcoming European summit in Vienna were of great significance, yet for the moment their value lay more in the legitimacy they conferred on his use of both car and chauffeur. He could have taken the special train, but to read Cabinet documents in an open carriage was not allowed. If, however, urgent matters required his attention – and it was his own decision whether they could wait or not – then use of the government limousine was, naturally, essential.

Roger frowned slightly. There had been a time when such cynical considerations would never
have occurred to him. As a junior banker on his way from cashier's desk to the boardroom, via marriage with the boss's daughter, he had eschewed contact with anything demeaning. As a government whip he had known many MPs channel money from the Fees Office into their own pockets – employing a wife as staff at £10,000 a year, for example, when the lady couldn't feed paper into a typewriter, or booking on a foreign trip a research assistant whose talents were solely in the bedroom. Such behaviour he deplored. Sometimes it had been his role to warn the more blatant perpetrators, but only on the practical grounds that they were in danger of being caught. Perhaps the demands of high office had blunted his sensitivities – necessarily, for a totally upright life within the rules would have been very uncomfortable. It wasn't as if ministerial jobs were well paid; had he stayed with Tarrants Bank, his income would have been at least twice that of a Cabinet Minister, possibly more. But was using the Jaguar – which privately he could hardly have afforded – so different? It amounted to misuse of public funds – well, almost. In other countries nobody would have turned a hair; only in Britain did it matter. He bade his conscience be still, and with an effort continued to read.

For him it would be a tremendously important Conference: his performance would be assessed for every nuance. If there were to be a leadership contest, would he throw in his hat? If he did, would he stand a chance against the more ideologically pure candidates? Would he go down well with the blue-rinsed brigade, those supporters whose long-suffering loyalty to the party guaranteed them a say of sorts in who should lead it? The question of who could inspire the average voter was seldom mentioned. Who might best lead the country was not a criterion which counted at all.

It would not be a long journey. Charming commuter villages slid past the smoked-glass windows, their window-boxes showy with pink and mauve autumn asters and trailing ivy, their smellier agricultural links long since sanitised away. Neighbourhood Watch boards vied with parish council notices and tidy litter bins. Roger saw a well-dressed woman out with her dog nudge the squatting animal into the gutter, and smiled. The Conference hotel would swallow him and his doubts soon enough. He abandoned the folder and lay back with his eyes closed.

The largest of the three cars was a flashy silver XJ12, its interior upholstered in cream leather. The travellers were a thickset olive-skinned man at the wheel, and his wife. The woman was handsome, dressed in a brilliant yellow sari, her hair coiffed and oiled, face immaculately made-up. Chattering happily, she riffled through a pile of invitations on her lap.

‘We have been invited to the “One Nation” party on Thursday night, to a South African Embassy reception, and to the Greater London Area reception tomorrow,' she enthused. ‘Oh, Jayanti darling, do you think we will get to meet the Prime Minister? What would I say to him? I am so thrilled! Our first Party Conference! Now tell me – shall I wear my red sari tonight?'

Jayanti Bhadeshia knew that while his wife required an attentive audience she was not in the habit of listening to the responses. To satisfy her he grunted encouragement from time to time. Meanwhile he drove quietly, revelling in the six litres of power beneath his right foot. That he and his beautiful wife would make quite a stir in Brighton he had no doubt. The TV cameras would catch her swirl of silk, his flashing smile, as two obviously well-off Asians circulated among the white faces.

A plan was forming in his mind. If he genuinely wanted to become a notable figure in British life as opposed to a businessman known well only in his own community, then more time would have to be spent at events like this, where the couple's very uniqueness would attract attention. That would suit Pramila perfectly. It might never occur to her that they were being patronised, though with his greater experience Jayanti had no doubt that he would encounter prejudice and would feel it keenly when it came.

At last Pramila's prattle penetrated his consciousness. ‘No, no,' he corrected her testily. ‘I am not available on Thursday morning. You know that; I have accepted an invitation from Prima Cable
Corporation for a business breakfast. At the Metropole Hotel. It is an important meeting and wives are not permitted. That morning if you are shy without me you should have breakfast in the room.'

‘Could I go shopping, perhaps?' Pramila turned silkily towards her husband, so that, although he kept his eyes on the road, he was aware of her coquettish expression.

He suppressed a sigh. As she began to pout he knew he was beaten. If his wife exacted her price for being left to fend for herself it could be a costly breakfast.

In the third Jaguar George Horrocks listened with increasing dismay to the faint rattle behind the polished wood dashboard and cursed the time before Ford took over the ailing luxury car-maker. That would mean a full service and oil change after the Conference with a big bill to follow.

Maybe he could charge it to the company. After all, he had only agreed to attend in order to host the Prima breakfast, as its senior non-executive director. Party conferences were not his style usually but the chairman was in Hong Kong. The guest list was distinguished and would allow plenty of opportunity for lobbying – a couple of Ministers including, discreetly, the Industry Minister and the PPS to the Home Office, and the junior man at the Department of National Heritage. In London
ever-vigilant
civil servants guarded their charges like Victorian chaperones with precious virgins. The more sway a chap had, the harder it was usually to meet him. Other countries understood far better than the British the obligation to co-operate with businessmen. This was not corruption, as the Minister's staff would fear; this was legitimate lobbying, and George had no qualms about it.

The guest list contained several other intriguing or useful people – potential and actual investors, especially. He was not yet acquainted with Jayanti Bhadeshia but the name was increasingly quoted in the financial and gossip columns. Guessing that he might be a Conservative supporter, George had taken a chance in inviting him and had been gratified at the prompt response. He would make a point of seating Mr Bhadeshia next to a PPS or a Minister; then he'd watch, with detached amusement, to see which gentleman impressed the other more.

A couple of ladies had accepted. Dr Mary Archer – in fact, she was Lady Archer since her husband was a peer, but with justifiable pride in her own remarkable career the lady had a right to the label she preferred. She would grace any table. And another Lady, Elspeth Howe, wife of the former Foreign Minister. If her husband had been soporific, the ‘dead sheep' of legend, she was the opposite: headmistressy, kind and vigorous. He paused, then allowed his thoughts to rest on the last woman on the guest list, whose biography he knew, now, almost by heart.

In truth Elaine Stalker had nothing to do with Prima or telecommunications or the challenge of cabling every street in the nation to bring thirty-channel television into each home. She might have little to contribute to the discussion and was an unlikely investor. Yet when various MPs' names had been mooted it was the work of a moment to comment that there ought to be at least one woman MP at their table, and that Elaine Stalker was probably the most worthwhile. She had a reputation for asking intelligent questions. Male Ministers and their acolytes would be kept on their toes.

Most of all, George thought with anticipation, he simply wanted to see her.

‘Much better here than at Blackpool, isn't it, Mrs Stalker?' Elaine felt a sinking sensation at the ingratiating whine. The man was small and seedy-looking, his Fair Isle sweater dotted with shiny badges and congealed food. The shirt collar peeping over the top was mangled and the cuffs grubby.

Most people at Conference, particularly in years when party support nationally was a bit thin, were hard-bitten but genuine. Some, however, were groupies whose persistent attentions could be achingly depressing. Elaine lowered her coffee-cup into its saucer.

‘Well, these facilities are much newer. And the atmosphere is better, you know, when we've just won an election.'

‘Oh, yes,' the small man responded eagerly. His accent was nasal, Midlands. ‘I should 
introduce myself. I'm Roy Twistleton. From Newcastle. Under Lyme, that is. I was on the council there … well, until a year or two ago.' His face fell, then brightened. ‘But I'm going to stand again, although it won't be easy – we lost nearly every seat.'

He hesitated, before it came out in a breathless rush.

‘And I've applied to go on the candidates' list. What I want to do, Mrs Stalker, is be an MP. Like you.'

Elaine suspected that ex-Councillor Twistleton read those books on self-improvement which recommend perpetual optimism. It might be a greater kindness to put him off.

‘It's a hard life, Roy. Both before and after elections. Nursing a constituency can be tough, not to mention expensive – loads of travel and time off work. Have you talked it through with your family? And your employer?' She gestured vaguely at the appalling sweater. ‘And then, you know, appearance matters. Have to dress smartly and that.'

Roy Twistleton looked crestfallen. His hand defensively twiddled a badge. ‘I don't have an employer. I'm unemployed, to tell you the truth, since the factory closed, but I call myself a consultant. D'you think I'd have any chance?'

Elaine's heart softened. ‘I'm sure you have, though in the end that's for other people to decide, Roy,' she offered gently. ‘The voters, I mean. But you've been successful with them once and there's no reason why you can't do it again. It may take ages, but I hope we'll see you at Westminster in due course.'

As he grinned happily she moved away, to be halted at the door by the restraining hand of Betty Horrocks.

‘I was about to rescue you. Who was that – anyone you know?'

‘No, not at all. He wants to be an MP. I should have told him to try window-cleaning instead: it's easier and less precarious – and probably better paid.'