A Woman's Place (8 page)

A particularly persistent journalist tripped, or was pushed – nobody ever knew – and suddenly there was pandemonium, with angry voices raised, fists flying, notebooks snatched; for a brief glorious moment battle raged, as furious Tories vented long-standing anger on the media for their intrusion into this, to them, entirely private event. There was no love lost between the two sides but, as the heaving mass threatened to crush weaker souls against the wall, Robin Bell waded in and separated red-faced Honourable Member Freddie Ferriman from the
Globe'
s deputy editor Jim Betts just as the former was about to land a punch on the latter.

‘I shouldn't, sir, if I was you,' he calmly advised the panting Ferriman, who tugged down his disordered waistcoat and straightened his tie. The MP snorted an oath at his opponent, then turned and pushed his way through the crowd.

Betts pulled out a grubby handkerchief and secretly cursed his luck that the blow had never landed: a senior newspaperman rendered battered and bloody by an MP would have made a splendid story.

At the top of the stairs the chairman of the '22 and the Party Chairman halted in horror at the melee. After a quick consultation with the police it was decided that cowardice was the better part of valour. The two scuttled into Room 10 instead. The press were rapidly admitted and made to sit, like naughty schoolboys before a headmaster. After all, the dignitaries told each other, it was the press who really counted.

Back in the basement room Harrison absent-mindedly ate his chips and fiddled with the television remote control. Never one to waste energy, he avoided crowds, and had reckoned there would be trouble as the result was announced. What excited him was not so much the count – an
outright winner first time was unlikely – but the reaction of those who came second and third, which would decide whether a second ballot would go ahead.

The cameras showed the oldest candidate at his desk in the Treasury, apparently nonchalant; but the familiar matey grin was belied by the darting of his eyes. He was in his mid fifties. This would probably be his last chance. The youngest of the three was pictured at home, his expression impassive and self-contained. The third was in a television studio, elbows on table, pursed mouth hidden by clasped hands, outwardly cool and joking with the crew, inwardly in turmoil.

What did it mean, to lead the country? For a brief moment Roger thought he must be mad. He had no sense of mission; no small voices in his head spoke to him of destiny. He had never planned this day. Yet somehow, perhaps from the first moment he had arrived at Westminster, his foot had been placed firmly on the bottom tread of an invisible escalator which now had brought him enticingly close to the top.

‘Sit down!' roared the chairman of the '22. Betts muttered incantations against the chairman's mother and offspring. Every seat was taken. He subsided to the floor, pen poised.

‘Right!' The chairman debated with himself whether to wipe his perspiring face first and decided against it. ‘Are we ready? The count for the leadership contest, first ballot, is as follows…'

Down the corridor it dawned on three hundred MPs that they were being completely bypassed, and, what was worse, by the fellow they'd elected to put their interests first at all times. Jammed between Bampton and Ferriman (who had been widely congratulated at his contretemps with the hated press), Elaine joined in the widespread catcalling. In vain did the senior vice-chairman, who was equally annoyed, try to mollify Members' disgust.

Floor managers signalled. The candidates were hushed by sound recordists. Lights brightened, throats were cleared. Roger was conscious that his heart was thumping so powerfully that it must be visible through his shirt. He concentrated hard on the black spot at the centre of the camera's eye and made himself breathe slowly, in, out.

‘I'll do it in alphabetical order. Clarke: forty-one.'

The figure in the Treasury bowed his head, then shrugged and smiled. At the back of Room 10 journalists yelled for the number to be repeated. The air of confusion increased.

‘Dickson: one hundred and eighty.'

The Chairman roared it with a flourish like a darts referee in his local Conservative Club. Roger bit his lip. Better than predicted. Far better. Not enough to win on first ballot, but…

‘Portillo: eighty. And that means there will be another ballot next week…'

Noise engulfed the room as reporters ran for the door; an intrepid few, ignoring the Commons' antiquated rules, pulled out mobile phones and started shouting into them. Into the rapidly clearing space in front of the dais the two chairmen stepped gingerly. Now it was time to face the Members.

‘There shouldn't be another ballot.' The older beaten candidate leaned forward in his chair. ‘The party has clearly indicated its preference and I for one won't argue with that. I am prepared to concede right now.'

In the studio the TV producer gasped and kept the camera trained full on his target's face. An order was rapidly hissed down the wire to the stringer with the other loser. In view of what had just been said, was he also prepared to recognise the claims of a man who had won the support of over half the party?

The young pretender paused. The private struggle did not show, not in a single flicker. Behind him his wife's normally controlled face betrayed a mixture of anxiety and disappointment. There would be other chances. He had time on his side. To continue the fight would risk splitting the party; on the other hand, to give in gracefully would immediately make him heir apparent.

‘Yes,' he said.

Harrison whooped and punched the air in delight. In Room 14 the assembly was made aware that the transition from one leader to the next had been completed. Some scowled and muttered but the main reaction was relief.

The interviewer turned to Roger Dickson and cordially shook hands. A new deference crept over his features.

‘Well, Prime Minister …' he began.

Elaine heaved the cardboard box sideways along the hall and deposited it heavily on the floor. As she did so the bottom gave way. Out tumbled books, CDs, old letters, scruffy hairbrushes, spray bottles, a bedside light, assorted make-up, several unmatched socks, a radio, a teddy bear, an alarm clock in the shape of Donald Duck, two posters of the Cure and an ancient pair of trainers entangled with a skein of purple leggings.

‘Thanks, Mum.' Karen, seated cross-legged on the bed, began to scrabble vaguely at the mess. She tuned the radio into the news for her mother. ‘Where's my Dire Straits CD? I thought I put it in here.'

Hands on hips, Elaine looked around. Anthony York's house was a straightforward Victorian terrace of the kind which once attracted Pooterish assistant bank managers with harassed wives and numerous children, and which now offered a roomy home for couples on second marriages with combined offspring. The half-dozen staircases and lack of parking were a nuisance, but there was ample room for both partners to have their own space, the nanny her own quarters and the infants their own TVs. It was also perfect for a group of friends to share.

Outside the frontage was narrow and the garden non-existent, merely a few tired privet bushes and a dusty bay tree in a broken pot. Yet a handsome door with its original stained glass and art nouveau tile border hinted at a stylish interior, while the black-and-white chequered hallway and the airy conservatory at the back had won over its new owner at once. Battersea was almost walking distance from the Commons; the tip of Big Ben was visible from the end of the street. It would make an ideal base for aspiring MPs and the odd additional tenant, such as Ms Karen Stalker.

Karen had just fished two mugs out of another box and was heading for the kitchen. Elaine lounged against the wall and watched as her daughter made instant coffee, and noted with maternal affection how the girl carefully wiped up the small spills of brown powder and milk. She must be growing up.

‘It's a splendid place. Your new friend Anthony seems to have both taste and the funds to indulge it. Do you get on all right?'

‘Yes – well, he's a bit shy, isn't he? He must be over thirty but he's no idea how to talk to girls. Maybe he's the strong silent type. Rather attractive in a gloomy way so perhaps I'll have the chance to find out. Fred's OK, though – closer to my age, but a bit out of his depth. Could improve, probably. Lachlan is grand – he's the doctor, Anthony's cousin, and American. He works strange hours at the hospital, and of course Anthony and Fred are out all day and most evenings, so they don't get in my way.'

The radio was chattering excitedly about the first appointments by the new Prime Minister. Karen sensed that her mother's attention was on the broadcast. ‘Will you be involved, Mum?'

‘Doubt it. If I was, it wouldn't be today but tomorrow.'

‘You mustn't spend the evening worrying about it. Would you like to come here for supper? I can't guarantee cordon bleu…'

The focus of mothering was shifting: pleased but patronised, Elaine shook her head. ‘That's sweet of you, but no. Actually, I have a date.'

She knew it was a mistake the moment she said it. Karen whirled round, eyes alive. ‘Great! Anyone I know?'

Elaine pursed her lips. ‘No, fortunately. We're going to a club – Le Beaujolais in Litchfield Street. Next to the Ivy but friendlier, George says.'

‘Ooh! George who? At least it's not that awful Roger Dickson. He may be Prime Minister but I could never understand what you saw in him. But I'm glad for you. After all, you're still … well, not bad for your age, Mum, are you? Anyway, I trust you to behave.'

Her mother raised an eyebrow. ‘Chance would be a fine thing, to be frank. And now I'll leave you. Don't go making eyes at the boys. After all, at your age…'

She dodged a well-aimed dishcloth and the moment dissolved in laughter.

Yet as Elaine drove away she wondered quite what George had in mind for the evening, and afterwards. And whether she was still capable of responding.

Cameras clicked and whirled as each incumbent left Downing Street. For several, to be chased down the road by jostling photographers while trying to contain their joy and retain their dignity was an unnerving experience. The cavalcade resembled nothing so much as stolid grey Thames tugs pursued by hungry seagulls. Others, older hands, slid into waiting cars and informed their drivers, who of course knew already.

Up in the white drawing room where the interviews had taken place the atmosphere was still fraught. A crumpled piece of paper lay ignored in the comer of the room where it had been thrown. One or two MPs who had backed the wrong side had objected bitterly to being removed to make way for fresh faces. The new team was younger, leaner: a lot of old fat had been cut away. How right Gladstone had been, that the first requirement of a good Prime Minister was to be a good butcher.

Roger Dickson poured himself a stiff drink and motioned to his companions to do the same. His Private Secretary demurred politely; his job done, he gathered his papers and slipped out. At last Roger noticed how tense he had become, and with a heavy shrug relaxed the tight knots in his shoulders.

‘Now, Peter. You wanted a word.'

Peter Aubrey hesitated, then took a seat on the elegant sofa and tucked his legs underneath. With a deliberate gesture he set his drink down on the polished walnut table. The old Prime Minister would have rushed across with a cardboard coaster to slip under the glass: no wonder he'd had a reputation for being naff.

‘You asked me this morning to be your new Party Chairman and I have spent most of the day in Central Office. I thought it wise to bring you up to date at once with the state of affairs there. Particularly over money.'

He sensed immediately Dickson's famous knack, whoever was speaking to him, of giving that person his undivided attention.

‘We have trouble. I'm not saying the old Chairman pulled the wool over anybody's eyes but he never was any good at maths.'

Dickson smiled. He had relished that sacking. ‘He wasn't bad at promoting himself, and that was about it. We are still presumably in overdraft?'

Roger knew the answer to that one. The Party Chairman swallowed half his Scotch and grunted.

‘Inevitably. Better than it has been: it stood at nineteen after the previous election and over sixteen halfway through the last Parliament. Millions of pounds, in case you need reminding. At that point, you will recall, our bankers decided they had to protect their own investors and took over the Smith Square lease. So we'd spent a fortune on the office only to lose the whole thing. Great accounting, that was.'

‘What do you want me to do?' The question was put quietly. In this unrecorded conversation private arrangements could be proposed but denied absolutely later.

‘We can't get the constituencies to raise more – they're stretched to the limit. Business is being very sticky. I think you're going to have to woo a few big donors. If I give you a small list of names, could we start off by inviting them here?'

Dickson grimaced. ‘Will any of them be British?' he asked, an edge of sarcasm to his voice. There had been comments in the previous Parliament over donations from foreign businessmen, the fraudulent activities of at least one of whom had led to considerable embarrassment. Not that the money had been returned.

‘One or two. Some of the others might like to be – or have a brother-in-law who'd give a bob or two for a British passport. The most obliging expect only a knighthood. Once upon a time they'd have coughed up simply to keep the other lot out, but not any more. Don't ask, Roger: you know the score. Nobody gives money to a political party without wanting something in return.'

‘God, I loathe this sort of thing.' Dickson frowned. How speedily the pleasure of high office had become tarnished. He straightened. ‘Right, Peter. Let me have a list and we'll arrange an event. Whatever you say.'