A Woman's Place (64 page)

Whatever the future held for others, for Martin Chadwick it would be rosy.

At the far end of the same building there was a great deal of activity. It was such a squeeze to fit in any kind of decorating or renovation at No. 10. The place was so busy and, if truth were told, overcrowded. But needs must: new carpets for the Prime Minister's personal flat had been on order for months and had at last arrived. The housekeeper had insisted on no further delay. Mr and Mrs Dickson would sleep downstairs for a short while until the work was finished.

Meanwhile some of the heavy furniture presented problems. From the moment the PM had left that morning the two blue-overalled removal men had sweated and tugged; the result of their labours was an ungainly pile in an adjoining office, with the unpalatable thought that in a week's time it would all have to be put back again.

‘That desk'd be easier to shift if we took the drawers out.' Arthur stood hands on hips, breathing hard.

Steve nodded. ‘Right. Hope they're empty – don't want to be accused of nicking state
secrets.'

Together they set to. The old central drawer held notepaper and oddments; others contained scribbles on curled-up bits of paper, an ancient copy of
The Economist
, half a packet of sugar-free gum, a faded wedding anniversary card. One drawer appeared to be stuck.

‘Give it a tug,' Arthur suggested. He was the ideas man.

‘Right,' Steve said again and bent to his task. Grasping the handle he pulled sharply. There was a splintering sound and the entire drawer came away. Startled, Steve fell over backward with the drawer and its miscellaneous contents on top of him.

He sat up and rubbed his shoulder as the two men surveyed their handiwork. Then Steve, whose eyes were still at the same level as the drawer opening, knelt and peered into the hole.

‘What's this?' he murmured. ‘Secret compartment, by the looks of it. These old desks have their mysteries, don't they? Let's see.'

He reached in his arm, grasped the tiny handle and pulled out a small wooden box. Arthur peered curiously over his shoulder.

‘Something in here,' Arthur said. ‘An envelope – must have been left behind. Could be hundreds of years old.'

‘No, I don't think so.' Steve picked it up and turned it over. ‘It's addressed to somebody alive and kicking right now. My auntie's MP, in fact. “Mrs Elaine Stalker”, that's what it says.'

He straightened up, the letter in his hand, their immediate objective forgotten.

‘Well, now,' murmured Arthur. He scratched his head slowly, ‘That's a turn-up for the book. Should we give it to her? Or maybe it should go to Mrs Dickson? This is her desk after all.'

‘Or maybe it should go to the
Globe
,' grinned Steve, and he put the letter in his pocket.

‘Yeah!'

Karen Stalker leapt in the air and ran to her mother.

‘Watch my hat, Karen!'

‘Oh, never mind your hat. Or mine. Now you've done it I want to give you the biggest hug. You deserve it.'

Laughing, Elaine succumbed to her daughter's warmth, then smoothed down her new coat and adjusted the corsage on her lapel. The lone photographer beckoned her to turn in his direction. Self-consciously her finger flew to the scars on her neck and her upper lip, then with an intense shake of her head she made herself ignore them and smile into the camera.

‘And George too,' cried Karen determinedly. ‘The pictures can wait.' She reached to kiss him on the cheek but he put an arm round her waist and hugged the girl to him, his face suffused with joy.

‘Golly! Do I have to call you Dad now?' she enquired in mock deference. ‘You going to tell me what to do?'

‘Get on with you,' he grinned. ‘If I can't tell the new Mrs Horrocks what to do – and I've tried it, it doesn't work – I doubt if the next generation will take a blind bit of notice. Call me George as you have always done.'

In the background Betty Horrocks smiled indulgently. Tactfully she guided Karen out of the way to stand with her and Diane. The wind threatened to lift all their hats. ‘Let them have their first photos together, dear,' she whispered. ‘As man and wife. It's their day. At last, thank God.'

‘They picked fine weather for it,' Diane remarked sociably. ‘Pity to miss the State Opening, though.'

‘On the contrary, it's a perfect choice.' Betty was pulling on her gloves. ‘The whole country's attention is elsewhere, including the blasted press. Anyway, I reckon they've got their priorities absolutely right.'

‘They make a handsome couple, don't they?' Diane clutched her handbag to her own solid
body. Her tone was wistful. ‘She seems to have got over that dreadful ordeal. What a business! Yet she's never breathed a word about what really happened.'

‘She brushes it away with, “He's dead, so what's the point?” Sensible attitude, I'd say.' Betty began to hunt through her handbag. ‘Come on, Diane, Karen: where's the rice? Quickly now.'

‘I hope they'll be very happy.' Karen realised she was about to cry. She wondered if every wedding was like this, and whether acceptance of Fred's repeated offers mightn't be a good idea. Though not just yet. She wanted to prove herself first. He would be miffed when he discovered she had not told him about this event.

But then nobody knew. For it was, out of choice, entirely a private matter, and not a parliamentary affair.