The Image in the Water (8 page)

‘Why, Roger?' Silence. ‘Was it about school? Something you've done? Or we've done?' Silence. ‘Was it the story in the newspaper?'

‘They laughed at me. Gromson got hold of the maths beak's copy. I didn't understand what it meant.'

Then at last proper tears began to flow.

They had more or less guessed after they had heard of Roger's conversation that morning with the headmaster. Clive Wilson had fewer inhibitions than the rest about other people's privacy. Anyway, hadn't Roger given them, his friends and allies, the right to know? Acting on a hunch Clive had telephoned the headmaster of Hillcrest at lunchtime, describing himself as a close friend of Roger worried about his state of mind and wondering if something was amiss with one of Roger's boys. The headmaster had portentously but understandably declined to give any information to a stranger. ‘We at Hillcrest take seriously our responsibility for the privacy of the boys in our care.'

Wilson had seen his opening. ‘Then both boys are safe and sound in your care?'

‘Yes, indeed. There's no problem with Tom, and Roger came back to school late this morning.'

So the crisis, if there had been a crisis, was over. Clive shared the news with the rest of the campaign committee as they gathered again at seven, as agreed, in the small private room at the Carlton Club. A round table in the centre was laid for the dinner with Roger to which Sarah Tunstall had invited the five influential backbenchers. Clive gazed at the massed ranks of cutlery and glasses. ‘I see you like to put plenty of sticky on your fly-paper, Sarah.'

But she was not the sort to enjoy that kind of banter. She would eat some of each dish and sip each wine, knowing that these things were important for the male politicians whom she despised.

‘I just hope he's on good form.'

‘He bloody well ought to be. He's catching up fast. That poll in the
Standard
…'

They had all seen the mid-afternoon edition. It was unreliable, in that few MPs would feel compelled to tell the truth to journalists at this or any stage of the contest. Also, of course, it had been taken before the thunderbolt. It showed a marked swing towards Roger, compared to the week before:

A separate poll alongside it, of party members in the constituencies, showed a bigger lead for Joan Freetown, but also a
majority saying that they would be influenced in their vote by how the MPs had voted the week before.

‘One more heave …' There was something about political infighting that stimulated platitudes even in intelligent people.

‘He should be smiling …'

Indeed, coming through the door at that moment, Roger was smiling. For that moment, misunderstanding each other, they were all happy. Then he broke it up. Going to the drinks table at the side of the room he began clumsily to splash cold white wine into glasses from an opened bottle in a refrigerated container.

‘Here's yours, Sarah … Let's all sit down now. I've something to tell you.'

They sat, untidily, at different angles round the table laid for others.

‘I've decided to pull out. You'll understand when I tell you. You've got children, Sarah, so have you …'

He told them about Hillcrest and young Roger. They tried to look sympathetic but in their hearts none of them sympathised. The boy was safe, back at school. Some of them had met him, a thin, insignificant lad. There was no reason for Roger to jump out of his groove. They were silent while each considered from which angle to counter-attack.

‘Roger, we all understand how you feel. Some of us have children at school, we know how they can worry, and that makes parents worry too.' Clive Wilson came first, the quickest though not the most skilful. His hand tightened on his glass as he got under way. He would write it all up, with advantages as Shakespeare said, in his diary that night. The publishers were nibbling already. He went on, ‘There are other
factors, Roger, which you simply have to take into account. You won't have seen the poll in the
Standard.
It shows a strong swing in your direction.'

‘Yes, I saw it. Sam got it for me. It was taken before the story in
Thunder
.'

‘Of course. But the swing has gone on through today. That's the point Sarah was making this morning. I've had several pieces of evidence since then. Seebright and Spitz have miscalculated, as the tabloids sometimes do. The parliamentary Party will not stand being dictated to by the press.'

‘It'll be in all the papers tomorrow. They'll wallow in it. The pious broadsheets worst of all. Wiping the smut away with their silk hankies.'

‘Then the swing to you will continue. The wiser lobby correspondents know how to sniff the breeze. Before long they'll be writing it in your favour. Particularly
Thunder's
rivals. In my judgement you've as good as won.'

Roger became irritated. ‘That's not the point. They'll all print the story and the picture. They'll make sure their readers get a good wallow in the mud before they tell them how disgracefully muddy it is.'

‘That's their way. But on balance—'

Roger tried to cut short the discussion, fortifying himself behind his bulky shoulders and long arms stretched out on the table. ‘There's no balance, Clive. Look, I know how hard this is on all of you. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I owe you apologies and more. That's at one level, and I don't underestimate it. But it's my life, not anyone else's, which is on the board. I've made a decision to take it off the board. That means the game's over.' He paused. ‘Sometimes you hesitate before a decision. I did that all the way back from the bloody school. I
decided at the Chiswick flyover. After that the traffic lights went green all the way up to the Cromwell Road. The lights approved all right. I know it was the right choice.' He tried to push them on to a practical plane. ‘So that's it. Thank you all very much. We need to draft something very simple – personal reasons, nothing complicated. We'll put it out at once. I'll dine pleasantly with your guests, Sarah. Then home to bed. Tomorrow, as they say, will be another day.'

But, of course, they could not let him off like that. Sarah had meant to tackle him on the same grounds as Clive Wilson, namely the swing in his favour through the day. That had not worked. She cast back to her days as a mother of two young children, one now a merchant banker, the other, a girl, making forlorn music in Orange County, California. ‘What does Hélène think?' she asked, to gain time while she thought.

‘I haven't asked Hélène. She leaves that decision to me.' It might seem odd to others, but that was the way it was. He had looked in on South Eaton Place to change his shirt between Hillcrest and the Carlton Club. If Hélène had been in, he supposed he would have told her. She had been out shopping. It had not occurred to him to try to reach her on her mobile. He supposed that he ought to do so fairly soon so that she would not be surprised by reporters. But Hélène was not part of the action. Perhaps that was one of the things that was wrong.

Sarah had thought out her line. She moved across the room and stood over him. In daytime her hair and clothes escaped all discipline. The disorder in her dress was saved from being ridiculous by her statuesque figure and the powerful way in which she moved. She swept through the House of Commons tea room like a queen who shopped at Oxfam. About six o'clock most evenings a change occurred. Her unruly grey-blonde
hair was captured by a gold band and imprisoned in a thick tress flowing from the nape of her neck. For the evening she favoured flowing dresses, green, blue or red, the colour always stronger than was fashionable, the material giving off a metallic sheen and a general effect of concentrated power. She was one of Roger's sternest critics at the Home Office, favouring mandatory terms of imprisonment for all serious offences and a national police force. When asked by the press why, despite this, she favoured him for prime minister, she replied, ‘He's the best man we've got.'

‘You don't favour a woman prime minister then, Mrs Tunstall?'

‘Clearly not.' And that was all they could get. She had worked harder than any of them for Roger among the MPs. Heaven knew what arguments she used. This dinner was to be, or was to have been, the climax of her effort.

Without genuine sympathy for Roger but for tactical reasons, trying to remember what it was to have young children, she spoke in a softer voice than usual. With difficulty she had remembered the boy's name. ‘Have you really thought this through, Roger?'

He lifted his head out of the fortress of shoulders and arms, and looked up at her. This might be more difficult to deal with. ‘What do you mean, Sarah?'

‘Young Roger's had an upset.' She had a subdued West Country accent. ‘He'll have another tomorrow when the rest of the papers drool over the same story. Your quitting tonight won't change that. Indeed, it'll add to the sensation.'

‘For a day or two, Sarah, then it will be over.'

‘You know better than that, Roger. The story will be with you and the lad for the rest of your days. Whether it throws a
big shadow or a little shadow on his life will depend on how you handle it now. If you quit tonight, it'll be a big shadow, now and for ever. It'll be what people remember you by. They won't believe you threw away the premiership simply because one afternoon all those years ago you drank too much scrumpy in a seaside pub and held hands with a Kraut on a Devon beach.'

‘That's all there was. What I told you was true.'

Sarah had him on the defensive. She touched him gently on the shoulder. A week ago they had hardly known each other. ‘We know it's true. You told us, and you're not a liar. But who'll believe it? There's plenty of truth in life that no one will believe. Usually because it's too small. Particularly in politics. Politicians have to pretend that whenever there's smoke there's fire – otherwise what would we live on? The press even more so. After all, there have to be headlines every day. Your story is just a tiny wisp of smoke. It was all over by teatime. If you quit, everyone will believe it was a raging forest fire.'

For a moment it was as if they were the only people in the room. From the walls Lord North and Benjamin Disraeli, both connoisseurs of political drama, looked down with interest.

‘You miss the point, Sarah. Only big people cast big shadows. I'm going to cut myself down to size. Not a big chap any more. So if … when I'm out of all this no one will be interested. Page one tomorrow, page eight in a week's time, then silence. Blessed silence. And the children and I can get back to normal life.'

Then Sarah made a fatal mistake. Having chaired all day the Select Committee on the final long-delayed audit of the Millennium Dome, she was tired. She had drunk two glasses
of Chablis. She could not sustain the uncharacteristic effort that she had made to get into his mind. She fell back into her everyday role as a bit-part politician. She took her hand off his shoulder. Her voice was harsh again. ‘Do you really want to see that bitch Joan Freetown in Number Ten?'

So that, as Roger had sometimes supposed, had been her real motive in supporting him. He won back control of the discussion by throwing a question to John Parrott, the PR man. ‘John, is there any evidence that Joan Freetown was in any way behind the
Thunder
story?'

John Parrott hesitated.

‘Well? Come on, you must know.'

‘No evidence. She's been at home all day, refusing comment. Her people say it came as a complete surprise to her. They're firm that she won't touch it.'

‘Why did you hesitate? Let's get this straight.'

‘It's just that David Alcester's been going round with a grin on his face dropping hints of more to come. He's close to Seebright. But that doesn't implicate her.'

‘That man's a snake – she'll find him out in good time. She's the one who's standing, not bloody Alcester.'

‘She'd be a disaster,' said Sarah.

‘Not a disaster,' said Roger. ‘We mustn't believe our own propaganda. Or, at least, not the wilder bits of it. You dislike her because she bangs about and has no sense of humour. Both things are true. They're not hanging offences.'

Sarah was not having this. ‘You dislike her too. And think of that populist Budget. It was all wrong and went sour very quickly.'

‘I'd never go on holiday with Joan – or tell her about my love life, let her buy my shirts. But I did a deal with her on
Russia the other day, remember? She's straight and she's strong. The Budget was a mistake. She'll learn. And you'll all learn to live with her.'

It was not a cheerful evening. For the most part the dinner guests and the support committee steered away from the subject that had brought them together. The argument was over; the statement had been quickly drafted. It said simply that for personal reasons Mr Roger Courtauld was withdrawing from the leadership contest, and would give no interviews. The chairman of the Foreign Affairs Committee talked at some length about the collapse of the revolt in Russia. They argued whether the Scottish Parliament was entitled to hold its own referendum on Scottish independence. Sarah explained why the Crown Prosecution Service was not taking action against the accountants who had concealed for several years the financial problems of the Dome. Roger left early, though courteously, and with thanks to them all. There was no port.

Letter from Joe Seebright, editor of
Thunder,
to Herr Friedrich Vogl:

Thank you so much for your letter. I can quite understand your concern, and am glad that you wrote so that I can clear it up.

My colleagues and I are deeply appreciative of the help which you have given us in our project. It is true that some of the material which our representative Mr Scrowl discussed with you has been caught up in the present political contest for the leadership of the Conservative Party. We regret any difficulty this may have caused you, but we considered that the public,
indeed the democratic, interest in this matter should prevail.