The Child in Time (29 page)

‘Your speech just now in the Commons didn’t seem much impaired,’ Stephen said.

The Prime Minister resumed in a quieter voice.

‘Charles was introduced to me at a lunch I gave for a fresh intake of MPs, one October many years ago. His energy and wit – he seemed determined to make me laugh – his charm and his enthusiasm for everything the Party stood for seemed quite implausible. I thought he was pulling my leg, parodying something I did not quite understand, and that made me think he was clever, but perhaps a little untrustworthy. Over the next few meetings that impression was dispelled and I became very fond of him. So youthful, cheerful, funny, and with useful experience behind him in a number of fields. Seeing him, and of course I never saw him alone, always bucked me up. I began to envisage a future for him. Something on the public relations side. I thought that one day he might make a very impressive Party Chairman.

‘I brought him on, advised him to get his name about, so it wouldn’t be difficult to offer him something. He needed bulking out with experience, I thought. Then there would be no stopping him. When I initiated the Childcare Project I made sure Charles had responsibility for some of the subcommittees. That gave us the opportunity to meet confidentially every now and then. He was full of ideas and I looked forward to these meetings. I began to call them a little more often than was necessary. You might think it extraordinary and perverse that I should form an attachment to a young man …’

‘Oh no,’ Stephen said, ‘not at all. But he is someone’s husband. And you are the upholder of family values.’

‘Oh that,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘He has no children and one would hardly describe what he has with his wife as a family. There’s a lot of unhappiness there you know.’

‘Really?’

‘Even with Charles at the Home Office, the Project under way and regular full Cabinet meetings, I still saw very little of him. So, after much reflection, I called in MI5 and had him, well, followed, on a daily, round-the-clock basis. I had no suspicions, of course. He was as loyal to his country and Government as I am. I went to great lengths to make sure that no file was opened on him. You see, having him followed was a way of being with him all the time. Can you understand that?’

Stephen nodded.

‘Seven o’clock every evening I received detailed, typed-up accounts of his movements and contacts during the preceding twenty-four hours. I read them late at night in bed, after the despatch boxes and FO telegrams. I imagined myself at his side. I got to know his habits, his favourite places, his friends. You yourself featured a fair amount. It was as though I were his guardian spirit.

‘Over the months the reports accumulated and I read back through the pages, as one might a favourite romantic novel – not that I read such things. I noticed how rarely his wife accompanied him, how insistent she was on keeping her distance from his political career, at least outside the home.’

‘She had a job,’ Stephen said.

‘So you say. Other disturbing patterns in Charles’s behaviour were emerging. There were visits to unlikely private addresses in Streatham, Shepherd’s Bush, Northolt. It was concern, not jealousy I assure you, which made me ask MI5 to investigate more thoroughly. You can imagine my shock when I learned that he was visiting prostitutes. Then it came
out that these were places which catered for highly specialised tastes.’

‘What sort of tastes?’

‘The clients did a great deal of dressing up. More than that I did not wish to know. What I did know was that this was clear evidence of deep unhappiness in his marriage. This was surely the behaviour of a very lonely man. After all, he did not even remain faithful to one establishment. I thought I must help him, talk to him, reassure him. I was devising the pretext for a meeting when I received his letter of resignation. I was upset, more than that, angry. I wanted to have him watched in Suffolk, but MI5 were complaining about the allocation of manpower with no justifying results. To send people out there without convincing explanations would have aroused suspicions. So since that time I have been cut off entirely from Charles. I have nothing but the old reports and, of course, the minutes of our Project meetings.’

Stephen was careful to keep his tone neutral. ‘Why not take the day off and go down there yourself and see him?’

‘I can’t go anywhere alone. Bodyguards apart, I have to take the nuclear hotline and that means at least three engineers.
And
an extra driver.
And
someone from Joint Staff.’

‘Disarm,’ Stephen said, ‘for the sake of the heart.’

The Prime Minister had the knack of ignoring irrelevant remarks. ‘I’d like to know how he is, what he’s doing. You were going to phone me, remember?’

‘I only stayed for the evening, and saw more of his wife. I think he’s well enough, taking things quietly, thinking of writing a book.’

‘Did he talk about his political career? Did he mention me at all?’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’

‘No doubt you think this is all quite ludicrous since he’s young enough to be my son.’

‘Of course I don’t.’ Once more his phone was ringing.

The Prime Minister glanced at the clock on Stephen’s desk. ‘What I would like you to do, Mr Lewis, is to convey a simple message to Charles. I would like to talk to him, in person, not on the telephone. If he prefers to be left alone, then I shall respect his wishes after one last meeting. It is easier for him to contact me, and he knows how that’s done. Will you be seeing him soon do you think?’

Stephen nodded.

‘Then I will be grateful to you.’

Though neither of them rose, the interview was at an end. To be alone with the head of Government was an opportunity to give voice to an interior monologue which had been running for years, to confront the very person responsible, and question, for example, the instinctive siding in all matters with the strong, the exaltation of self-interest, the selling off of schools, the beggars, and so on, but these seemed secondary to what they had been discussing, little more than faded debating points to which there would no doubt be well-rehearsed responses.

Stephen thought of Thelma. ‘I’ll be very happy to pass on your message.’

The Prime Minister rose, releasing the scent of cologne, and smiled as they shook hands. ‘You signed the form?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I know I can trust you completely.’

The gentleman with the half-moon specs heard the scrape of the wooden chair; the door opened just before the Prime Minister reached it. Stephen watched the receding back, then, as soon as he was alone, set about making his final preparations to leave. He raked out the fire and bolted the study window. The snow was beginning to pile on the stone ledge. He opened a drawer in his desk and took from the leaves of a blank notebook six fifty-pound notes which he kept for emergencies.

He stepped out into the hall in time to see the man with the armful of telephones going out the front door. The
others followed right behind. The last to leave was one of the security men who, with a theatrical gesture of his hand, indicated that Stephen should inspect his dining room. Everything was back in place, even the dirty teacups and old magazines. Lying on the table was a polaroid of the room just before it had been requisitioned. Stephen turned to congratulate the man on his colleagues’ thoroughness, but he too was gone.

He turned out the lights, took his bag and used three separate keys to lock his front door. On the next floor down, Mr Cromarty’s flat was in darkness. Stephen had to pause while he searched his bag for the note he had written, and it was while he was pushing it under the door that he heard his own phone ringing upstairs. He hesitated, calculating his chances. Perhaps, just, if he rushed and was competent with the keys. But there had been enough delay. He picked up his bag again and took the stairs three at a time. He ran out towards the roar of traffic, out on to the pavement, his arm already raised for the taxi he had not yet seen.

He had less than thirty minutes to wait for his train. He was too restless, too squeamishly intent on protecting the random movement of his own thoughts to squeeze into the moist, breathy din of the station café. In the pub next to it serious drinkers were three deep at the bar and someone was shouting. So he bought an apple, posted his letter and wandered up and down the platforms, stamping his feet against the chill of the glistening concrete. He got up close to a diesel which had just come in. In the cab the driver was snapping switches, shutting the monster down. Stephen still had an ambition to be asked up. As a boy he had never dared approach a train driver. Now it was even harder. He stood breathing clouds and eating his apple, trying not to look ridiculously hopeful, and yet unable to move away in case the driver was inspired to invite him. But the man had
put a folded newspaper under his arm and was climbing down. He passed Stephen without a glance.

Further back from the platforms, by the tall doors of the ticket hall, a crowd of beggars clustered round a kicked-in photograph machine. There were more than a hundred of them, driven in off the streets by the cold. Many were wearing Army surplus greatcoats. Still with ten minutes to spare, he wandered in their direction. They were not on the job. It was not allowed in stations, and no one risked giving when there were so many of them about. But a few optimistic types on the edge of the crowd were calling to passers-by without seeming to move their lips. The rest were silent. Only expectation could keep them placid all in one corner of the station. There was a soup kitchen on its way perhaps, or a meal ticket hand-out.

The sweet reek of unchanged clothes and methylated spirit was strong even in this frozen air. A thirty-foot ventilator grill had become a packed dormitory. Stephen walked its length. If they could hang on another month or so for the warmer weather they had every chance of making it through to the following autumn, when the sifting would begin again. Tonight the minority without greatcoats would have trouble. He had reached the end of the row of bodies and was looking down at a familiar face. It was hard, small-boned, for a moment ageless. It belonged to a figure curled up on the iron bars, knees drawn up to make space for a large old man. The dulled eyes were open and stared past him. It was an old friend, someone from his student days, Stephen was beginning to think, or someone from a dream. He had always known that sooner or later he would run into someone he knew with a badge. Then he saw her – the girl he had given money to the year before, ten months ago. He recognised, beneath the nylon anorak, the yellow frock, now grey. The face, though unmistakable, was transformed. The mocking liveliness was gone. The skin was pockmarked and coarsened, pudgily slack around features
which had edged closer together for safety. Her arms were crossed over her chest.

He had decided to give her his coat. It was old, and he was about to step into a warm train. He removed it, set down his bag and, crouching down, shifted into her sight-line which she was too tired or indifferent to adjust. He tried to remember how he had seen Kate in this girl. He put his hand on her narrow shoulder. The man next to her had propped himself up on an elbow. For such a large body the voice was squeaky and depressingly cheery. ‘Oi, oi. Fancy that, do ya? She’s not interested.’ He laughed.

Stephen spread his coat over the girl and touched her hand. It was as cold as the surrounding air. He touched her face and the eyes continued to stare, their indifference confirmed in absolute terms. He picked up his bag and straightened. To retrieve the coat now was impossible. He could not remember whether he had emptied the pockets. Behind him a whistle blew and a train creaked into motion. By the station clock he could see he had less than a minute and a half.

The man was watching him and the coat. ‘Go on,’ he said shrewdly, ‘or you’ll miss it.’

Stephen knew that if he reported the matter he would not be leaving London that night. He dithered a moment, backed off, turned and walked quickly, then broke into a run when he saw a guard on his platform walking the length of the train slamming the doors. He did not look back until his hand was resting safely on an icy door handle. Over a hundred yards away, obscured for a moment by a passing mail cart, the man was on his knees holding the coat aloft and feeling through the pockets. A shudder ran through the train. Stephen jerked the handle and climbed on, and began his customary search for the loneliest seat.