A Woman's Place (51 page)

Elaine sat and brooded. A murder, close to her. Two murders, in fact, if one counted that poor woman in the crowd at St Kitts. Both women, both killed with a single blow. Both with a knife. She shivered. Despite the heating the room felt chilly.

She was beginning to wonder whether George hadn't a point. Was the game worth the candle? Did she have the right to put herself so at risk, let alone her daughter and those near to her?

George had been trying to reassure her that she had a value other than in politics. She had rejected his comments out of hand, but of course he was correct. She could do useful work outside: she would never starve. Worthy charities would welcome her intervention, and might offer her employment. George's business friends would take care of her. Or she could return to teaching, or even local government, where the pressure was less and the sense of achievement in many ways greater. She would survive. But not, it appeared, if this maniac got any closer. She felt panicky. Who was he? What did he want?

Fiona appeared at the door and coughed discreetly. ‘Minister, are you very busy? Your daughter is here. You're not due to see that delegation from Esher until noon, so you've plenty of time.'

Elaine checked her watch. ‘Has she eaten? Then put the Esherites off till one-thirty and get us both some sandwiches. And wine, please, I think – I could do with a drink. If I don't have time for my daughter, particularly today of all days, then I've got my priorities wrong. Send her in.'

As Fiona was leaving the room, Karen pushed past her and rushed in. She hugged her mother, but the anxious look on the girl's face added to Elaine's pain.

‘Mum! What's going on? I was hauled out of a lecture by the dean. The police didn't say much. They said you'd tell me…'

Mother and daughter moved instinctively away from the large polished table to less formal armchairs at the other side of the room. Karen kicked off her shoes in a gesture unconsciously similar to Elaine's and curled up. Her mother motioned her to silence as Fiona brought in plates and a bottle. In a few moments the girl was munching a ham sandwich and accepting a glass of white wine.

‘So what's happening? The detective said you're connected in some way with this dead body.
Did you know her?'

Elaine shook her head. ‘Not personally. But there was something which suggested that I or those near me might be in the firing line, a bit.' She stopped. How to tell a daughter about unknown terrors? Karen had never taken much notice as an adolescent when her mother had tried to warn her about the pitfalls of adulthood. The child had insisted on making her own mistakes. She had suffered for it, with what had amounted to a breakdown and a spell in hospital, stomach-pumped after a botched suicide attempt. Elaine was acutely aware that the girl had never revealed the source of her misery then. The only explanation must be that it had involved her parents. The time was not yet ripe, however, to unnerve the youngster.

‘Anyway, we have to be more careful. Don't let strangers into the house. Best of all, don't be alone in there.'

‘That could be difficult.' Karen reached for another sandwich. ‘There's only Fred and me now. Bit like being a married couple.' She chuckled. Her mother looked as if she could do with cheering up. ‘Which is what we practically are. And if Fred has his way we will be.'

Elaine stopped eating. ‘What – our Fred? The PPS here? I hope he hasn't been taking advantage of you.' Her eyes narrowed as Karen burst out laughing. ‘Or is it the other way round, miss? Have you been manipulating him to your own ends?'

Karen's dancing eyes met hers and both succumbed to giggles. The girl was relieved: her mother's miserable face had cut her to the quick. ‘Manipulating? In a manner of speaking, you could say that. But he wants to marry me, Mum. I mean! Can you see me as an MP's wife, opening bazaars and clinging to my hat? Poor Fred. He's quite besotted.'

Elaine's jaw dropped in surprise. Karen related the conversation on the Embankment bench in the shadow of Cleopatra's Needle. At last Elaine's practical nature reasserted itself.

‘You could do worse,' she remarked thoughtfully. ‘He would be considerate, and the fact that he's devoted is a plus, not a problem. Anyway, what's wrong with the idea of you as a conventional wife? I did it long enough.'

‘No, you didn't,' her daughter corrected her. ‘You never were the little wifey, obsessed with shopping and housework and babies. You were always
working
, the whole time I've known you. With just as big a job as Dad. And it was absolutely clear to me as a kid that your career was at least as important to you as I was – more so, often.'

‘My God,' Elaine whispered for the second time that morning. ‘Was it really that awful? I didn't mean to neglect you – it's just the way my stupid mind functions.'

Karen shrugged. ‘It wasn't awful at all. It isn't now. It was frequently fun being your daughter, in fact. I could get to the front of the queue at the cinema at home. When I was little people would give me sweets – even money, sometimes. Boys didn't like it, that's true. They thought I'd talk politics. But then I wouldn't spend time with anybody who bad-mouthed you anyway, so it panned out fine.'

‘I think I owe you an apology,' muttered Elaine. ‘There is clearly a side to your life of which I've been completely unaware. If my being famous or so engrossed with myself has caused you grief I'm so sorry.'

‘Don't be silly, Mum.' Karen held her mother's hand for a moment.

Outside, Big Ben was striking noon. Elaine waited till the chimes ceased. ‘You don't have to be a conventional wife either, Karen, sweetheart,' she said quietly. ‘You and Fred should talk it through. Don't say yes unless you're sure. But it's for each couple to decide how they want to live. Most women work; most women today are equal partners, more or less, with their men, at least in decision-making if not in earning power. Even Cabinet Ministers' wives do their own thing. The constituencies don't like it, but so what? And you'd not be a hindrance or handicap to our Fred. In fact, you'd be the making of him.'

Karen licked her fingertips contentedly. ‘He thinks so too. But would it work the other way round? I mean – do I
need
to get married? Is there any point in it? I can have everything I want through my own efforts: I don't need a man to provide, as women used to. I can earn a living. I'll pay taxes in my own name. I can buy a house, and have my own mortgage. And car, eventually. I'll have my own pension, and pay for it. I can travel and see the world. I'll compete on equal terms, have a good job and a grand old time. I don't want kids yet, though I suppose I'll go broody some day – but not for ages. Even then I can have them without a piece of paper and gobbledegook at an altar. So come on, Mum, tell me, why bother getting married? What's the point?'

Elaine shifted in her seat, then realised her daughter, though musing out loud, was seeking answers. She leaned back, wineglass in hand, and stared at the ceiling. It was blank: there were no easy solutions written on it.

‘I've been asking myself the same thing in recent days,' she responded slowly. She sat up and looked straight at Karen. ‘Ever since George asked
me
to marry
him
.'

It was Karen's turn to be startled. ‘What? George Horrocks? Ooh, Mum. What did you say to him?'

‘I said no. Now I'm wondering whether that was wise. And whether I've put him off for good, which would make me very sad.'

There was a moment's silence as both women digested the shared news. Elaine spoke first. ‘What do you think of George?'

‘Dunno. I've not met him properly. But now I understand why Betty said I should. If you like him, Mum, you carry on. I won't stand in your way.'

‘Thank you – though nothing would, if I intended to go ahead. But I've exactly the same worry as you. The question I can't resolve in either my head or my heart is whether I wish to be a wife again, with all the complicated baggage-train of conventions and misunderstandings that implies. If you love someone, you don't make calculations like that – you fall in love and get married; or, as you rightly say, just move in, open a joint account and share the washing-up. Yet experience suggests that a more hard-headed approach, almost a trade negotiation, might be better for the long run. On the other hand, how could anybody human be so cold-blooded, faced with an attractive, charming and loving man?'

Karen gazed shrewdly at her mother. ‘Do you love him, Mum?'

Elaine parried. ‘Do you love Fred? Or are you simply very fond of him? I take it he's keen on you. And presumably has hidden talents – which I don't want to know about,' she added hastily.

‘He's learning,' Karen remarked coolly, which made her mother blink. Then, ‘One thing's for sure. They both love us, don't they? Or they wouldn't have asked us to marry them. What a pair we are, we Stalker women. I think I could grow to love Fred in time, but not yet. That's the answer to your question. But you haven't answered mine. Do you love George? Or not?'

If I lost him
… Elaine allowed the picture of a world without George Horrocks to float before her eyes. The doorstep to the flat would have been empty. No umbrella would have been held to protect her; the rain would have slid down the back of her neck without hindrance. Indeed, there would have been no theatre visit either – no quiet drinks, no delicious suppers at his house, no hands caressing her thighs in his bed. A colder, lonelier world, with the fear that some day a card would inevitably arrive inviting her to George's marriage to someone else.

Elaine rose and crossed to the window overlooking Whitehall. Karen joined her and put an arm around her mother's waist and her head on her mother's shoulder. The two leaned on each other gently like sisters, each with an empty glass in her hand, and considered the past, and the future.

‘Yes,' said Elaine simply. ‘I do love him. I don't think he knows how much; and neither did I, till you prodded me.' She bowed her head. ‘God help me. My marriage to your father failed because I put my job first. I'm in danger of losing George in the same way, but quicker. Do we have to? Isn't
there some middle way? We don't want to be old-fashioned wives, yet we need to be loved and secure in the most traditional fashion possible. I can't see the way out.'

‘If you love him that's a start. At least Fred and I have time on our side.'

‘Get on with you. George and I aren't in our dotage yet.'

‘But you're not getting any younger, Mum –'

Elaine gave her daughter a playful push. The discussion had reached its natural end. ‘That will do, miss. Now I have people to see. Thank you for coming and cheering me up. God, what a day. There's one thing I'm quite sure of, though.'

Karen was gathering up her bag and jacket. ‘Mmm – what's that?'

‘That I love
you
very much, and am delighted you're my daughter. If anything happened to you, I don't know what I'd do.'

Elaine opened her eyes with a start, certain it was not yet time to get up, but panicky and fearful. For several minutes she stared at the darkened ceiling in complete incomprehension. A rivulet of sweat trickled between her breasts; her body felt feverish. Then she threw off the duvet and sat up.

There had been a noise. She stayed still and listened. Outside the weather was miserable, dank and windy. A gust rattled the window – was that it? She was thirsty; she rose and entered the kitchen, opened a cupboard for a glass, turned on a tap. The fridge motor rumbled into life and made her jump. Inside it a plate rattled. Still groggy she reached into the fridge and rearranged the contents, then picked moodily at a piece of cheese. It might give her bad dreams, but she did not care.

No psychiatrist was needed to tell her what was the matter. Her brain began to churn again, as she knew it had in those moments of fitful sleep. The image of George's face on her doorstep intermingled with press pictures of the dead girl and her own fingernail as it traced the line on a crumpled piece of magazine of the murdered woman's dried blood. If only George were at her side, he would coax her out of this misery. If George were present, however, she would not feel so disordered.

She mustn't let herself become afraid. Inspector Morris had his job to do. Maybe he had had to warn other women featured in the media that this maniac had an obsession with them, too. Perhaps the lunatic liked blondes – Helen Mirren, or Felicity Kendall, women whom she resembled slightly. She had not thought to ask and was uncertain whether such knowledge would have made her feel more secure or less.

Nobody realised the hidden dangers facing prominent women. To be targeted directly by a nutter, an irrational person who could become a danger to herself or her family or (because of his twisted mind) to an imagined rival or a critic, was a permanent worry. It had happened to Monica Seles when a man had lunged with a knife and disrupted the champion tennis player's career. It had happened to actress Jodie Foster and led to an assassination attempt. More than one actress had had to resort to the courts to fend off an over-zealous admirer.

What would she do, if she found herself in such trouble? The advice was to stay cool and avoid confrontations. The safest course was exactly the opposite of her instinct to stand up and fight for herself – it was better to attempt to win the person's trust, and in so doing to disarm him. Even unwittingly, over a period of time loyalties could shift. The phenomenon, she had heard, was dubbed the ‘Stockholm syndrome', after the Sveriges Kreditbank robbery in 1973, when a remarkable realignment of affection of victims towards their captors took place. The befriending didn't have to be real, but it had to be convincing.

Elaine's teeth chattered. She returned to her bedroom and sat down, shoulders slumped. An early start to the day loomed, with a smart turn-out and preferably a sparkling performance, yet she felt terrible. She ran her fingers through her hair: it was dry, straw-like, the ends split and lifeless. A much-needed appointment to keep the fading locks blonde had had to be postponed.

What had also disturbed her slumber had been the recurrent demands of the MIND speech. It could no longer be ignored. The bland phrases of the agreed text, jumbled, ungrammatical and disorganised but with fragments of coherence – like the conversation of an Alzheimer's sufferer, she recognised grimly – jarred in her head.
These were not her words, not her sentiments
. Did she have to say them?

The window-pane rattled again, suddenly, loudly. Elaine gave a little cry. That was not the wind, surely, but a pebble or gravel. Briefly she debated whether it would be safe to check, then shook her head crossly. She pulled up the window and leaned out. A blast of cold air hit her. Nobody was visible in the poorly lit street below, only a swirl of litter from a torn binbag. Yet the notion persisted that the disturbance had not been entirely imaginary.

There was nothing more she could do. She shut the window, crawled back into bed and tucked the bedclothes tightly up to her chin. She tried to breathe deeply and rhythmically. If she gazed long enough into the dark, sleep, however episodic, would come.

As the train lurched around a curve Martin Chadwick braced himself, bent across the table and whispered as loud as he dared.

‘Minister – forgive me. I don't wish to disturb you. Have you read today's press cuttings yet? You should. Especially the piece in the
Globe
.'

He pushed the photocopied bundle across and glanced around distastefully. It was all very well for the Minister to come over public-spirited and insist on taking the train. First-class rail travel offered certain advantages, he would admit, especially in such wet weather. Quite decent coffee in white cups. A proper tablecloth with silk flowers perched in a little vase. A free
Daily Telegraph
for those passengers who, having paid over £70 for their tickets, were too mean or rushed to buy a paper. The chance to stretch one's legs and to use the loo. A magnificent breakfast, had the Minister not turned up her nose at slices of bacon, black pudding and fried potatoes, a disdain Chadwick had felt honour-bound to imitate. No: what irked him was the presence of other passengers, those whom Transport Minister Steve Norris had memorably called ‘dreadful people'. They were dreadful because they were
listening
. The Rover, however cramped, bore no risks that someone might overhear his elegantly phrased advice.

‘You trying to warn me – are the papers nice or hostile?' Elaine began to turn over the pages. The extracts had been delivered early to her flat but she had had no time to read any.

Chadwick grimaced. ‘See for yourself, Minister. Page fourteen.'

Obediently Elaine found the right page and began to read the editorial out loud.

‘God, that's a dismal start,' Elaine muttered. ‘Whatever my view on St Kitts it's hardly “prestigious”. A dump, more like. And where did they get these figures? There aren't anything near four hundred patients there.'

‘From last year's annual report of the hospital trust, I expect.' Chadwick shrugged. ‘Before the most recent run-down. The staff numbers are a bit out too, but then I'd expect the unions to exaggerate. That's probably their source.'

The clip did not include the photographs of the demonstration at St Kitts and its tragic aftermath, but Elaine could imagine what the double-page spread looked like.

She bit her lip. The grime on the train window, the slanting rain outside, obscured the landscape from view and reinforced her unease that she did not know where she was heading. ‘You anticipating strife in Brum?'

‘The police will be out in force,' Chadwick replied grimly. ‘You open the conference so you're the first speaker. We've indicated that you won't take questions –' He held up his hand as Elaine began to protest. ‘I know it's your preference to be open, Minister, but these are the instructions of the Secretary of State. This closure is a delicate matter.'

That was news to Elaine. She searched Chadwick's face but learned no more. Her disquiet intensified. Without further conversation she opened the file marked for the day, took out her revised speech and forced herself to concentrate.

Keith Quin MP had had a good Parliament, so far. The short, balding, somewhat overweight Labour Member for Manchester Canalside had entered the Commons in 1987 full of fire and brimstone, determined to grind Thatcherism into the ground. In that, he had to admit, he had not yet succeeded, though his spirits were rising as he sensed that change was at last in the air.

A decade or more and two lost general elections behind him, battle-scarred and hardened, he had altered his views five times on Europe, voted for John Smith, Tony Blair and the abolition of Clause Four, first derided then embraced grant-maintained schools and learned to denigrate Arthur Scargill, thus demonstrating a knack of always being on the winning side. Like many of his fellows he
had absorbed some tough lessons, not least the value of patience.

One more push should do it. For the voters, especially the bulk who counted – the English – liked Mr Blair. Poor Michael Foot, he of the wild eye and exotic diction, had never been taken seriously. Neil Kinnock had been worse, with his Welsh accent. John Smith had a more reassuring style but nevertheless was a Scot. But nice Mr Blair was so profoundly and obviously
English,
with his tidy London house, his barrister wife (did Welsh MPs have barrister wives? Keith thought not, on the whole) and bright children at good schools, that the public were charmed. Whether in the end that would translate into victory remained to be seen.

The current disarray on the government side was a big help, but it was also a puzzle. Keith knew little about the workings of the Conservative Party, except that it appeared a streamlined and wealthy machine compared with his own, which was manned by a handful of gloomy activists, most of whom he distrusted intensely. The Tories seemed to have more fun, more style. He pictured flowered dresses and big hats at garden parties at which champagne was quaffed and large cheques discreetly proffered. Yet Conservative Central Office no longer bothered to conceal the £16 million overdraft run up years before with no visible means of repayment. That left virtually nothing in the kitty to fight the next election, a thought which made him hug himself with delight.

For Keith, deep-down, a mystery remained. With all those natural advantages of schooling, breeding and inheritance, how could the Tories have made such a God-awful mess of things?

His current task was to exploit that mess in one particular instance. He walked jauntily down the Library corridor and pushed open the door to the Speaker's offices. The first room was empty, but steam curling from a half-filled coffee-cup on the big desk indicated life nearby. Above his head Big Ben chimed nine-thirty. The bloody thing chimed constantly; enough to drive you crackers.

Would he like to be Speaker, some day? He pondered briefly. No, all that ceremony and gobbledegook was not for him. He'd gratefully accept junior ministership under Mr Blair should it come his way, or failing that prop up the Kremlin Bar with chosen cronies for the rest of his career. It wasn't a bad life.

‘Can I help you?'

The Speaker's trainbearer was a small, trim man. He knew everyone from his vantage point at the Speaker's left elbow: each day his head would bob up and down, his hand scribble furiously on a notepad, as Members rose in their places to indicate they wished to catch her eye. In quieter moments he manned her outer office. The job required both discretion and cynicism, but not humour.