The Image in the Water (4 page)

Here Joan Freetown had the advantage. Her beliefs were long prepared, well tailored, hanging in the cupboard ready for immediate use. That was not to say that she was consistent, for her philosophy and her practical policies often disagreed. For example, though by nature isolationist, in Simon Russell's last weeks she had joined Roger in forcing on the Prime Minister and the Cabinet British intervention with others in the Russian civil war. But that was in return for Roger's support for her public-expenditure plans, which had been an
essential preliminary to her generous Budget, which in turn was a platform for her real beliefs. Luck had been with her on this bargain. The Russian war was petering out, the British troops would soon be home, and she could go back to denouncing the Europeans, the UN, the Scots and anyone who tried to draw Britain into humanitarian wars. She combined a pro-market free-trade approach to economics with a fierce English nationalism. She had plenty of sources to quote in support of both parts of this equation, even if they sometimes hung oddly together. In style she was definite, often abrasive, and clear; on moral matters impeccable.

Against this what had Roger to offer? Day by day he was forced to find answers to this question. At Exeter University his love had been ancient history. In particular he had devoted himself to the Roman empire. Straight roads, legions, eagles, central heating, universal language and law, almost identical cities planted in the Syrian desert and the waste of northern England appealed to an uncomplicated youthful mind depressed by the anarchy of the modern world.
Immensa Romanae pads maiestas
– the huge majesty of the Roman peace. It was a strong and recurring thought.

But not much use once he had entered the Commons as MP for South Northamptonshire at the age of thirty. There was no huge majesty about the British peace, or indeed anyone else's. He quickly abandoned any scheme of political ideas in favour of Tony Blair's question: ‘What works?' The difficulty, he decided, lay not in hatching ideas but in getting through the improvements that observation and common sense showed to be needed. Eventually promoted by Russell to the Home Office, he had found it apt for this approach. Police, probation, criminal justice, asylum and refugees:
plenty of learned folk argued theory on all these matters, but all theory faded when faced with under-recruitment, occasional corruption, relentless pressure groups, press sensations, public expectations. He aimed at and achieved a reputation for cutting knots, for getting things done. The nature of these things seemed of lesser importance. That was the reputation which had brought him so far up the political tree, one leap away from the top. Behind this piled-up work and practical reputation, there was gradually forming a more liberal and humanitarian approach to politics, such as had led him to press for British intervention in Russia. But there was nothing yet that could convincingly be distilled into a thousand words in the
Daily Telegraph
or a cogent address to cynical backbenchers. ‘Courtauld keeps his feet on the ground'; ‘Courtauld sees things straight, and sees them through'; ‘Courtauld gets the best out of the machine.' That was what his friends said in the tea room. For the time being he would have to be content with it.

The Home Secretary's office was shaped and furnished like the lounge of a 1950s transatlantic liner. Large armchairs covered in light tweed were anchored round two large glass tables, designed to carry heavy onyx ashtrays – removed several years ago on public-health grounds. A sinuous rubber plant opposite the main door tried to slither sideways out of its terracotta pot. Both armchairs and plant looked strong against any ocean storm. Under Courtauld's regime the walls were sparsely lined with Dufy and Matisse prints. A cupboard in the Private Office outside contained a set of Boys prints of traditional London, including the old Home Office in Whitehall. These were offered to incoming home secretaries, usually from the Labour Party, who might have less progressive tastes in art. It
was not thought likely that any home secretary would wish to move beyond Matisse.

Roger Courtauld, who had been at work an hour already, left his desk at one end of the room and took the armchair that had been left for him.

‘Right, press first, as usual.' This was for John Parrott.

‘Much of the same, Roger, except for the piece in
Thunder.
You've probably read it already.' But he handed it round. ‘Joe Seebright is obviously up to something personal. That's his speciality of course. My contacts at
Thunder
are screwed tight this morning. I can get nothing from them. I don't like the sound of it.'

Nor did any of them. Seebright was an enemy. It was one thing to believe, as they all did, that Roger Courtauld was an intelligent and honourable man who was well fitted to lead the country. It was another to suppose that during his adult life he had done nothing small or great, in private or public, that could be used by
Thunder
to present him in poor light. Against that extreme test, who could be saved?

‘Perhaps I should intervene here, Secretary of State. This has just come round by hand.' John Upchurch had been Roger's principal private secretary for three years. He was a meticulous civil servant verging on middle age, who had developed a talent for bureaucratic work and a sound judgement in the rather narrow range of criminal justice decisions that came regularly to be settled in the Home Office. He had been dismayed at first by his new master. By the time he became Home Secretary Roger Courtauld knew that in real life you got the right things done by varying your pace, cutting occasional corners and listening to worthwhile people outside the government machine. Sometimes you had to work
appallingly hard; at other times, if you were to keep going as a human being, you had to break away from work and look after your children, your love of music or your bowling average.

These things Upchurch had slowly learned and reluctantly accepted. As an impartial civil servant he had, as a matter of principle, no part to play in the current party contest for the premiership. But in practice he was fascinated, and kept as close to it as possible. He attended the morning campaign meetings to maintain, as he said outside, essential liaison and ensure that the work of the office did not suffer. He did not utter at these meetings except on occasional matters of fact and procedure, of which this was one.

Roger Courtauld read to himself the letter Upchurch handed to him, then read it aloud to the rest of them.

Thunder

22 March

Dear Roger (if I may make so bold),

I understand that long ago you were for several summers in the habit of taking holidays on the South Devon coast just short of Plymouth. A lovely part of England – you showed better taste than many politicians! In particular you were there during July 1986. It was in that month that the enclosed photograph was taken by a Mr Reynolds, who had rented a cottage on the same estate as yours and who used the same private beach. He formed a habit of taking beach photographs, which he kept. Recently in looking through his collection he came across this particular print, which he has sent to us with the negative. I
should add that Mr Reynolds now holds office in the South Hams Conservative Association and is a strong supporter of Joan Freetown. He appears to think that there is or should be some relationship between this photograph and your own views on marriage and the family. At this stage I would not go so far as that. But as you know we at
Thunder
see it our duty to explore fully all aspects of the character of the two candidates for the premiership. I have taken no decision yet on the publication of this photograph, and should be grateful for your comments, in particular any details you may wish to give us about the relationship it evidently reveals.

Yours ever,

Joe (Seebright)

After they had heard the letter, they saw the enclosed print. It came as an anticlimax. They waited for Roger.

‘The print is genuine.'

‘You remember the occasion?'

‘Vividly.' He paused, looked at them. Yes, he had to treat them like friends. ‘It was like this.'

Shit! Shit! Shit! This absurd disaster was for TV sitcoms, not for real life, certainly not for lucky, intelligent, twenty-year-old Roger Courtauld – but now it was happening, and to him. How did they react in sitcoms? He picked up a plate and threw it at the door through which the girl with a spotty face had just left. The plate shattered and fell to the floor. Close-up to the hero; his good-looking features contorted with anger and thwarted lust.

Returning to everyday prose, Roger Courtauld read again the note that the girl had brought.

Roger

You will hate me for a bit but I am NOT coming with you to Mothecombe this evening. There is no particular reason. It is just that I have decided better not. By the time Deirdre gives you this I will be miles away from Exeter. I expect we will meet again next term. Perhaps we can be friends, ordinary friends. I have enjoyed our time together, but it leads nowhere.

Yours,

Sylvia

God, where did she pick up that trashy false/simple style? Rosamunde Pilcher, Joanna Trollope, even Jilly Cooper? And he had been so sure. His aged green Vauxhall outside was packed high with food and drink, sheets for the big bed, plus a TV in case it rained, the set at the cottage being deeply defective. Sylvia was as unlike her spotty flatmate as possible. Her long slender legs were the most beautiful he had ever seen. Only yesterday …

‘There must be a reason. You must tell me.'

He had tried to coax Deirdre, sitting her down on the only unbroken chair in the kitchen offering a vodka and tonic, boiling the kettle when she said she preferred Nescafé, trying not to notice her spots.

‘Is there someone else?'

Now he, too, was drifting into this bogus romantic prose.

‘I really can't say. She doesn't talk to me about such things.'

Liar. But Deirdre had never been his friend. She had once
almost surprised them in bed together in the university flat that she and Sylvia shared. Almost, because by the time Deirdre had entered the bedroom Roger was represented only by a dent in the bedclothes. Having dressed quickly and quietly in the loo, he had managed to slip out without confronting her. That incident had been the deciding argument for jerking the relationship out of its present pattern of hurried and uncomfortable activity. The expansion of the English universities meant that someone was always entering or leaving the room where he and Sylvia were together, either in her flat in Exeter or the farmhouse which he shared with four others five miles out. So he had organised this end-of-term weekend at Mothecombe, the holiday cottage near the sea that his family had bought ten years ago. His parents and sister would not arrive until Tuesday. He had offered to go four days earlier ‘to get the place ready'. He did not suppose that his parents, let alone his sister, were deceived, but they were a broad-minded lot.

Sylvia wore her dark hair long, though this was not the fashion. It shone as in the shampoo ads. Her eyes were a particularly bright china blue. When those eyes smiled and she produced her soft, sexy laugh, paradise was near.

Had she been bored by his conversation? She was not interested in politics, though she sat up and paid attention whenever Margaret Thatcher appeared on television. After one conversation Roger had bought her a couple of paperbacks about constitutional reform. Had that been an error? Another time he had tried to talk to her about the Romans, had even suggested that they go to Rome together in the spring. She had listened and after a bit smiled and touched his hand. Nothing had come of that. But surely he had not
overdone the tutorials. They had gone often to the cinema, she had beaten him at tennis, they had walked on Dartmoor in pouring rain, and once made love in a slightly muddy field with buttercups and two cows. All this, Roger had thought when viewing matters from afar, was going reasonably well. The next step was to introduce the most beautiful person he knew to the most beautiful place he knew. In a way it would be a test of both.

And now the test was off, the goal gone, the weekend ruined. Roger read the letter for the third time, and found a straw to clutch at.

‘I have enjoyed our time together, but it leads nowhere.'

What if he showed where it could lead? Was she prodding him forward? He found a pen, and scrawled at the foot of her note,

S

Marry me tomorrow.

R

He looked at this for half a minute, then tore the whole lot up. On practical grounds, he told himself. God knows where Sylvia had gone. Her mother was dead, her father wandered round Antibes and St Tropez in the summer. There was no reaching her. Later he did not regret tearing up the letter. Sleeping with a pair of legs, plus long dark hair, even china blue eyes was one thing, marriage quite another.

Roger was still in high frustration, but decisions began to flow from him logically. He swept up the bits of the plate he had broken and finished the glass of vodka he had started while talking to Deirdre. He found space in the car for eight or
nine textbooks on the Roman empire, which he had excluded from his main packing as unsuitable for the weekend as planned. He swallowed a hunk of brown bread and Cheddar cheese. He washed up dirty plates in the sink and left a note for his absent house-mates saying he would be back on Monday for the final end-of-term clear up.

As he drove the twenty-five miles to the sea it began to rain. The vodka inside him and the fact that the windscreen wipers of the Vauxhall did not work made it a dangerous journey. The final track down to the cottage was turning to mud. The car slithered and almost hit a tree. Roger wrenched it straight and came to rest outside the back door. Stumbling through the rain he found the key under the third flowerpot to the right.

Inside, the sitting room was musty. The flies on the windowsill were mostly dead, but one or two crawled sluggishly over the flaking paint. It was almost dark. Roger did not unpack the car, not even the sheets or his night things. He did not use the double bedroom, but found a couple of blankets for the truckle bed in the tiny room where he had slept as a small boy. He stripped to his underpants and, with difficulty, opened the skylight window, letting in a trickle of rain. He did not expect to sleep easily, and he was right. After half an hour he went downstairs, and found a can of warm beer. On the late TV news the Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, elegant but tired, was denouncing the European Union at a press conference in Rome. Roger switched to a channel in which naked bodies writhed in a murky haze. He thought of going out to get the decent TV from the car, but decided not. He was above murky bodies, could not focus on Margaret Thatcher, and outside it was raining hard. He went upstairs again, tossed
and turned, thinking of Sylvia, opened a dog-eared Patrick O'Brian novel, eventually dozed.