A Woman's Place (53 page)

‘I don't see why not. It's only one hospital closure. Not a significant place, though it's close to my patch. I've hardly reversed years of policy – most of the hospitals have long since vanished and been replaced by supermarkets. If this gives us breathing space to rethink what we're doing, that'll be a good thing, surely?'

‘That's not the point. Are you nuts, or what? You went behind my back. You've upset one of our keenest supporters in the health authority. We've got developers demanding millions in compensation. And what the hell for, Elaine? So you can set yourself up as the Mother Teresa of the NHS, is that it?'

His face was turning purple. Elaine felt a twinge of alarm.

‘I was merely trying to do what I thought was correct. It was my brief, after all – nobody else's. And I will be happy to defend myself this afternoon in the Chamber.'

‘No, you bloody well won't. I'm answering that PNQ, not you.' Bampton wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glared at her. ‘You'll stay put. In the department. Don't budge, don't go anywhere. Certainly not to the House. And keep your big lip buttoned, do you hear?'

She took a step away from the crude fierceness of his malevolence and found herself with her back against the wall. Behind him Miss Clarkson was wringing her hands in silent sympathy. Elaine recalculated rapidly. The situation must not be allowed to deteriorate any further.

‘Ted…' She held out her hand in supplication.

‘What?' He spat out the word.

‘I … I'm sorry. I seem to have set you against me. That was not my intention.' She paused, then was silent. Common sense and ambition together told her she should withdraw the St Kitts closure, and tell him so now, at once, if Ted was to be mollified. He was a key player in her career and she should not have so heedlessly embarrassed him. But she could say no more.

He waited, then shrugged. His voice was gruff. ‘We all do lots of things we don't mean, Elaine. But if I were you I'd sit here quietly for a while. And seriously consider my position.'

Derek Harrison made no attempt to hide the bounce in his step as he walked towards Members' Lobby a few minutes ahead of the Speaker's procession. He was not surprised to find his sleeve touched by several hacks, notebooks at the ready.

‘So what does the 1922 Committee think of all this?' a voice hissed. The Liverpool accent was unmistakable.

Derek turned. ‘Ah, Jim. Well, I can't speak for the whole executive, naturally. We have a meeting later today, then a few of us will go and see the Chief Whip.' That did not sound weighty
enough. ‘And the PM, if necessary.'

‘Stalker's been told to keep her bloody mouth shut. Bampton's answering the question,' Betts continued, never taking his eyes from Harrison's face. He was rewarded with the faintest hint of a smirk.

‘Really? I wouldn't know about that. Maybe the Secretary of State wishes to declare his unshakeable support for his Minister of State's judgement.'

Betts laughed. ‘And pigs might fly. Thanks, mate.'

‘It will be on in five minutes, Minister,' Fiona murmured respectfully. ‘If you want to watch, you'd better come now.'

A dreadful tiredness had overtaken Elaine's post-speech euphoria. As she climbed the short flight of stairs to the press office, the sole place in the department wired up for the Parliamentary Channel, her legs felt like lead. It was only with an enormous effort that she held her head high as she entered the room and took a chair.

Two press officers slid into seats on either side – like warders, she suddenly realised, detailed to ensure that she made no contact with the outside world. They nodded curtly and averted their eyes. Fiona, quietly solicitous, brought her a cup of milky coffee and, most unusually, a small side plate with a slice of cherry cake. Nursery fare, suitable for sick children.

Prime Minister's Question Time was nearly done. Normally she would be seated in the row behind Roger, near the civil servants' box, dressed in a smart suit of an eye-catching colour. Constituents would tell her proudly that they'd seen her and would look for her in the same spot every week. Instead Fred Laidlaw, her junior Minister, was seated there, and looking anxious.

Not that it was the best location if one wanted seriously to follow the proceedings. Usually she was deafened as the voices of the protagonists were routinely drowned out by barracking. On the other hand, sometimes she could hear more than the microphones would pick up – the nastiness about Opposition Members, the sexist comments, the crude imitation of female squeaky voices and of any regional accent which dared show itself on the other side.

Her curiosity was vaguely aroused. How totally different it looked from the viewpoint of the camera compared with being there. The broadcast made the proceedings seem more dignified and mannered. With a
frisson
of amusement and old love she noted the slight bald patch on the top of Roger's head, where normal cameras seldom caught it. She wondered if he knew.

Keith Quin perched on the edge of the front bench like a turkey-cock, aquiver with energy. His right hand clutched a sheaf of papers. He watched the Speaker's face.

‘Right! Time's up,' called the Speaker, for all the world like a northern barmaid.

The Prime Minister subsided thankfully, then shifted to make room for Ted Bampton. Miss Boothroyd peered over her glasses. When she was satisfied that everybody was ready, the circus could continue.

‘Private Notice Question – Mr Keith Quin.'

Keith rose to his feet a mite too quickly and knocked over the glass of water his leader had recently poured. He decided to ignore it.

‘With permission, Madam Speaker, I would ask the Secretary of State to answer the question of which I have given him private notice, namely what's happening to St Kitts Hospital?'

The unaccustomed informality of the question and Quin's grin brought chuckles around the benches. The water dripped on to his feet. Ted Bampton rose at the dispatch box, hitched up his trousers and waited for silence.

‘Madam Speaker, in order to put paid to any speculation I must tell the House that press reports are incorrect. There has been no reprieve for St Kitts Hospital. It will be shut down in the near future. Arrangements are being made…'

Elaine turned freezing cold. In fear she gripped the edge of her seat. The press officers beside her did not move a muscle.

She had expected that Ted would bluster, would circumlocute, would be at his politician's best. He might express regret that mild misunderstandings had occurred. But there would be no question that he would defend her vigorously as a member of his team and stoutly declare his faith in her, at least in public. To do otherwise would call into question his own judgement, not only hers. His language might be lukewarm. He might let it be known that the reprieve was a one-off and did not signal any shift in policy – even that, Elaine could have accepted. Whatever fuss he might make in the privacy of his room, however soured their relationship, in public he would display a united front. That was what leadership was all about.

What she did not expect was this chilling reversal. He had completely overruled her. It was as if every scrap of work she had done, the time and effort she had put in, the high reputation she had gained in so many fields, were as nought.
Ted was wiping her out
. And from his set expression he knew exactly what he was doing.

‘What's going on?' she whispered, bewildered.

In the Chamber a roar greeted the announcement. Members leapt to their feet, trying to catch the Speaker's eye, Harrison prominent among them. The Speaker called his name. As the remote camera sought him out he pulled his cuffs, checked his jacket buttons were fastened, and settled his face to studious composure.

‘Madam Speaker. May I congratulate my Right Honourable Friend on a most sensible decision. Isn't it a fact that the days of incarceration are over? Haven't we allocated billions of pounds to ensure that something better is available? Isn't care in the community a reality, and one of this government's greatest achievements?'

‘Hear, hear!' came loudly and dutifully from those around him. Ted half rose, but Derek had not quite done.

‘And doesn't this call into question the future of the Minister of State for Health?' He smiled sweetly and resumed his seat.

Bampton's mouth clamped shut. Through gritted teeth he managed to squeeze out the formula: ‘I have complete confidence in every member of my team.' He pointedly failed to mention her, let alone single her out for praise. The message was plain.

‘Ah, but
we
haven't.' A voice floated above the baying crowd. Elaine and the television audience did not hear it, but Fred did, and hung his head. And so did the Prime Minister, as he quietly left the Chamber.

‘I think, Ted, that I am entitled to an explanation.'

The evening was turning dark. Traffic ground slowly down Whitehall, red tail-lights winking. Bampton's office had no curtains but the lamps were switched on, angular branches of upturned neon which cast a surreal light not quite bright enough to read by, as if style had taken precedence over utility.

The woman who now sat before him almost buried in a large armchair, a weak whisky cradled in her hands, seemed smaller and frailer than the Boadicea of the morning. She looked as if she had been crying. Ted Bampton felt relieved not to be facing a screaming harridan, as he had feared; but the sight of Elaine's haggard face made him think of one of his daughters the day she failed to get into university. The best fatherly advice then had been not to give up but to try again. The same line would not be appropriate on this occasion.

‘I couldn't let you make policy on the hoof, you must see that,' he began, and stopped.

‘That's not the problem and you know it.' Her voice was becoming stronger. She took a sip of the whisky. ‘Ever since we started working together I have somehow failed to win your trust. We
have never gelled, have we? Not as a team, not as superior and subordinate. And I have tried, Ted, I truly have.'

She looked as if she were about to start crying again. Ted Bampton shifted uncomfortably. Damn women, always expecting special treatment and never quite making the grade. Except Margaret Thatcher: she had had what it takes. But they only came like that once in a generation. Thank God.

He shrugged. ‘Well, I have no trouble getting on fine with everybody else. Has it occurred to you it might be you?'

Elaine looked at him, shocked to the core. ‘You want my resignation, is that it?'

Bampton rose and walked away, out of the circle of adversity. He did not reply. It was not his place to tell the lady that she was not fitted for government, but that was his considered opinion. To have said too much would have been deliberately unkind, and he was not that. Instead he stood on the hearthrug, hands thrust deep into his pockets, and for several minutes examined the toes of his shoes with his lower lip thrust out and a hint of impatience.

‘Then you shall have it. I can't work like this any more. It is making me so miserable.'

It needed only a friendly or thoughtful word, a whisper of consolation and compassion, to bring her back into the fold. Whatever was broken could be mended. But to do that needed a greater spirit than Bampton's.

Instead he turned and headed towards the door. With his hand on the knob, he paused.

‘Right, then, if you feel that way. Take your time. I'll leave you to it.'

She stared at him, unseeing, as tears rolled down her cheeks.

He went out and closed the door behind him with a firm click. As he walked down the corridor he wondered if she meant it. You never could tell with women like that.

The Prime Minister's wife prided herself on knowing her husband rather better than he did himself. That evening some instinct told her to intercept the first editions of the papers and take them up herself to the modest eyrie he kept as his private study.

She was startled to find him stretched out on the old sofa, feet up, though still in his shoes, a drink to hand, eyes closed, and one hand half covering his face. An expression of total desolation suffused the fine features. As she entered the room he started, then slowly swung his legs back to the floor.

‘Roger? You feeling OK?'

She handed him the newspapers. He glanced at the lurid headlines one by one and tossed them aside.

‘What? Yes. Well, no, if truth be told. This Stalker business. What a shambles.'

‘You could have told her to think again.'

‘I could, but Ted wouldn't have her back and it would have been impossible to move her anywhere else. Damaged goods, if you see what I mean. Anyway, she was adamant. She'd had enough, she said.'

‘So she's really gone? She'll be missed.'

‘She will.'

Roger bowed his head and stared deep into his drink. Once long ago he had poured Elaine a whisky, and as he had gazed into the liquid had seen in its swirling colours her golden hair and her laughing hazel eyes. His face clouded and he took a large swallow. A faint sigh escaped from his lips.

His wife seated herself gently at his side and placed a hand on his knee. ‘She was somebody very special, wasn't she, Roger?'

He wondered whether to lie. In his public life he lied and covered up the whole time: the role demanded it. Deception was a deeply ingrained part of his world, and part of his self-protecting nature. He had never told Elaine how he had loved her, though the memory had never faded. The
letter he had written had stayed hidden and he had nearly forgotten it. Her elevation had come because she deserved it, not because he was biased. The same entirely rational considerations had led him to accept with a heavy heart her handwritten note a few hours before. To act otherwise would have been to expose them both. And that would never do.