This Honourable House (22 page)

‘Yeah. Doing my boxes. My first quiet evening in for a month. Hazel’s gone to the
Dorchester for a charity do, posh frock, the lot. How’s everyone at your end?’

‘Ain’t seen you for a while, Frank. The boys and me were wondering how you’re getting on.’ There was a gruff snicker, as if the caller felt Frank was under an obligation or would grasp some underlying meaning.

‘Not too bad. Got a knocking in the papers today from the old lady, though. Did you see it?’

‘Yeah. That’s why we thought, the boys and me, that we’d better touch base with you, see if we can help.’

‘If Hazel had her way, you’d be tying Gail to the stake right now and lighting the blue
touch-paper
.’ Frank laughed hollowly. ‘My lady wife – the new one, that is – was not thrilled to read the personal reflections of her predecessor in the nation’s gutter press.’

‘It were odd, though, Frank,’ Vic continued, with what passed for him as a thoughtful tone, ‘no mention from Gail of the pressure she’s been under. How she swears you’ve been getting at her.’

‘Lawyers,’ said Frank bluntly.

‘Do you think she might be persuaded to back off?’ Frank realised that Vic had misunderstood. ‘I’m not keen to get lawyers involved, injunctions and the like. Not if I can help it. Costs a fortune, and even more bad publicity. But if there was any other way to persuade her to lay off…’ He breathed a heavy sigh and wondered what had prompted the call.

‘Put her out of action.’ It sounded like a statement, not a query. A hint, just a hint, of excitement.

Suddenly Frank wanted to end the call. It had a sinister ring that was totally out of place with his elevated position in the Cabinet. This sort of joshing, wishing someone ill, had never been his cup of tea even in the bad old days of his police service, and he was uneasy with it now. The records of some of his former acquaintances, Vic in particular, made him shiver. He made his voice
good-natured
. ‘All we’d like, both Hazel and me, is an end to her whinges. I feel sorry for her but there’s nowt I can do. Silly cow must realise that. If anyone could dissuade her, Vic, I’d be eternally in their debt but I doubt it’ll happen.’

‘Do me best, guv’nor,’ said Vic, and suddenly the line went dead.

Diane filled the kettle, plugged it in, found an opened packet of chocolate biscuits and put them neatly on a plate with a doily, laid the tray with an embroidered teacloth, cups, saucers, sugar bowl and milk jug the way her mother insisted, and carried the tray into the living room.

Mrs Clark lived in sheltered housing. She was a tiny woman almost hidden in an ancient armchair. Her hands were restless on the rug wrapped around her knees: thin, pale hands, the skin so translucent that the blue veins showed through. But the eyes were sharp as they swept over the tray. ‘What about spoons? Can’t stir our tea without spoons.’

‘Right, Mum. Sorry.’ Diane returned to the kitchen and corrected her mistake, wishing her mother had at least uttered a word of thanks.

‘Got yourself in the paper again.’ The old lady pointed to the folded newspaper down the side of her armchair. ‘Bit more complimentary than usual. They tried to get a quote from me, but I’m too wise. I wasn’t talking.’ She cackled.

‘Fine, Mum. But you could have said you’re proud of me, or something to that effect.’ Diane poured the tea.

‘Why should I do that? Only give you a big head. No, better to say nothing. Then they can’t get at me.’

The logic was unassailable, but an ally instead of an onlooker would have been nice. Diane recalled how Frank Bridges, despite himself being targeted, had turned up at her celebration party to give her support, and felt grateful.

‘Still,’ Mrs Clark conceded, ‘the article you sued was not pleasant reading. My next-door
neighbour showed it to me – she was quite upset. It said you didn’t know what it was to be a normal woman. I couldn’t answer that.’

‘You could have said,’ Diane supplied gently, ‘that it’s true your daughter doesn’t lead an ordinary life, but if everyone did we’d never get anybody into Parliament. That doesn’t mean I don’t understand the needs of mothers and children.’

‘But you’ve never been normal,’ her mother replied sharply. ‘Even before you got so obsessed with politics. You could have been, of course.’ She folded her hands firmly over the rug.

‘Oh, Mum, don’t start.’ Diane glanced wearily out of the window, but the day, which had dawned happy, was fading into bleak dusk.

‘It was your own fault. And your own decision. You could have been normal. You could have been a mother like anyone else. But no! You wanted a career, didn’t you? Now see where it’s got you.’

It was an ancient refrain and Diane had heard every twist and turn many times before. She busied herself with the tea tray and broke a biscuit in half. How much easier it would have been had she not done her duty and come here, if she had contrived to ignore the miserable old woman who could not make her welcome. Her mother had never loved her. Or perhaps she had wanted for her daughter, or through her, what Diane could not give. It helped explain why it was so much easier to find love in bed. And if that love faded, to move on to another with some haste. But a parent could not be exchanged for a new model. If they had faults, if they lived in a selfish cocoon, that was too bad. Duty had brought her here, and would keep her until the verbal abuse, a ritual to establish superiority, was completed. Then they might get on to other topics: the antics of the other residents, the forthcoming outing, the failings of the local council, the iniquities of the pensioners’ Christmas bonus.

Diane roused herself. ‘I had no choice, Mum.’

‘You did. You could have gone in a different direction.’

‘I
couldn’t
,’ Diane heard herself almost shout. ‘Give it a rest, Mum, I’ve had enough of this.’

‘You’ll live with what happened till the day you die,’ said the old woman smugly. ‘God will punish you.’ She reached out a shaky hand and lifted her cup, slopping tea into the saucer, but victory was in her eyes.

Diane sighed and clamped her mouth shut. Once more, her mother had won.

‘I was watching you last night,’ Diane said, as she brushed her hair. Early mornings had acquired a kind of magic, even though the days were drawing in so that the radio alarm often woke them in the dark. She smiled. ‘Want some coffee?’

‘I’ll make it.’ Edward pulled on a blue towelling robe he had brought to the flat with a small collection of his clothes. ‘Was I talking in my sleep again?’

‘A little,’ Diane said. ‘You’re not nearly as disturbed as you were. The kicking particularly seems to have diminished. It has to be confessed that you weren’t the easiest person to have around, that first couple of weeks.’

‘Apologies. You were very patient with me.’

‘I had faith that once you settled down, and got used to the notion that we are special friends, you might feel more comfortable. Your subconscious might like what it found. And give you some peace.’

Edward stood in the modest kitchen, measuring ground coffee into the filter. He switched on the machine and they savoured the aroma with pleasure, noses in the air. Diane was already showered and dressed, though without tights or shoes. She dug her naked toes into the living room carpet. ‘I admit to being fascinated, Edward. You’re not the only man I’ve heard burbling his life story in his sleep, but I wondered whether you’d decided to find out about yourself. It might help.’

‘There’s a downside,’ Edward answered slowly. ‘My adoptive parents are wonderful. They gave me everything, and I’ve always thought of them as my mother and father. They might be terribly hurt if I started this investigation.’

‘But why?’

‘That’s obvious. To my mother especially, it’ll feel like a rejection. It’s as if they didn’t give me enough, that I’m not satisfied with them.’

‘You could solve that problem by not mentioning it just yet. Or discuss it only when you’ve discovered something, and invite their support.’

‘Maybe. But you got me thinking hard about my identity. Why on earth should it bother me that I’ve never met my natural parents? They didn’t bring me up. Whoever they are, they abandoned me. I have quite negative feelings about them. Anyway, who I am doesn’t depend on who or what I was born. I believe that very strongly.’

Diane poured coffee and filled bowls with cereal. She had not regularly eaten breakfast before Edward, but now relished the few private moments with him at the start of each day he was with her. ‘Go on, I’m listening.’

‘Well, we must all have traits we inherited from our parents. Plus what we’ve been brought up to value or believe in. But we should judge people on what they do. The theologians called it free will, the gift of God to Adam. Our lives are not merely determined for us but to a large extent are under our own control. So what matters in evaluating people is how they deploy the talents they’ve got, what effort they put in, what they set out to achieve and why; and how far, with a fair wind, they can get.’

‘Not on what they say?’ Diane teased.

‘Only up to a point. Our world at Westminster is one of speeches, statements, questions in the House, interviews, sound bites on TV and radio. Books and articles, memoirs, autobiography. Margaret Thatcher’s total runs to fourteen million words and is available on CD-Rom. She can’t deny anything she ever said, such as being in favour of Europe or voting for flogging – yes, she did. People such as her or yourself, Diane, are endlessly hoist by the petard of what they’ve committed themselves to, what they’ve said. Of course that’s true. But more importantly, as the polls show, ministers are getting judged on what is actually done. Talking alone isn’t enough.’

‘I couldn’t agree more. But what has this to do with your search for your identity?’

Edward’s brow furrowed. ‘I haven’t achieved much – haven’t had much chance, yet. But I would hope to. Maybe as an MP myself, though for the time being I’m content as a backroom boy. I love working with you, Diane, as much as I enjoy being … here with you, as we are now.’ He blushed. ‘So I lack a clear sense of my own worth, and that’s got little to do with what my real name is and whether my real grandma died aged fifty or lived to be ninety-four.’

Diane pondered. ‘But it completes the picture. Knowing oneself involves putting together a jigsaw puzzle. There are gaps to be filled. Other people can provide a perspective. You may be too introverted, or too preoccupied by the daily grind, to see the overall picture.’ She prodded him playfully. ‘At least you haven’t been depressed lately. I seem to be having a beneficial effect on you.’

‘Absolutely. I feel safe with you. Daft, isn’t it? Given, shall we say, that I must be one of many?’

‘You are totally, utterly special. Do you have to take tablets? You can leave a supply here.’

‘Not at the moment. I haven’t had a bout of Black Dog since I decided to get out of commercial law and follow my instincts here.’

‘I knew someone similar to you once.’ Diane collected their dishes and rinsed them quickly under the tap. ‘Ages ago. Bill, his name was. He was taller and thinner than you; knocked himself about a bit with drugs, but then we all did in those days. I lived in a commune for a while – my mini rebellion, to escape the stifling atmosphere of home. He had pale eyes that seemed to glow in the dark, or maybe that was just the grass we smoked. But black moods would come on him that he simply couldn’t shake off. I never found out what happened to him.’

Edward had taken his clothes and disappeared into the shower. As she waited Diane finished dressing then leaned against the bathroom door and reminisced. ‘It was marvellous then. It gets labelled the Permissive Society, but that’s exactly what we were aiming at: permission to be whatever you wanted, to achieve your potential. We believed we’d find our identities through enlightenment, but really all we were doing was getting high and screwing around. I had sex with five men in one night for a bet. Including Bill, now that I remember.’

Edward’s head came round the shower door. Foam flecked his body. ‘Am I supposed to judge you by
your
actions? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?’ His tone was jocular.

She handed him a towel. ‘Course not. But you could infer that I’m a reformed character. More or less.’ She told him about the Prime Minister’s injunction. ‘You’re not supposed to exist, sweetie, but what a drab world it’d be without you.’

Edward stood before her, rubbing his wet hair. Diane reached out and stroked his damp belly, then his penis. He jumped as if he had received an electric shock. She ran her fingers lightly over the purple skin, over the scrotum, let her fingernail pause on the glans, all the while smiling at him. An erection was beginning. ‘No, not now,’ he said, and firmly pushed her hand away.

‘Why not?’ She pouted.

‘Because we have work to go to. Duties, obligations. We may not be a married couple but we should aim at a degree of respectability. Or, at least, reliability. That means, not letting sex take over. Doesn’t it?’ He suddenly looked anxious as if he had overstepped a mark. The erection had subsided. He pulled on his shorts quickly and moved away from her.

‘Suppose so. But if we were a married couple, would that mean you’d make love to me more often, sweetheart?’

‘Probably. Is that what you have in mind?’ He was fastening buttons and his belt, putting on socks and shoes, his face turned away from her.

Diane sighed. ‘Impossible, for the moment, while I’m so prominent. What an extraordinary discussion, to have marriage enter the frame so soon, if ever. I’m amazed at myself. But I’ve never thought this way before. Something about you, Edward, makes you terribly precious to me. I don’t feel any age gap. I’m falling in love. If you mind, you’d better warn me. My old style was
exploitative, I see that now, not least because with you I feel totally protective. The critics were not entirely wrong.’

Edward was now fully dressed and checking the contents of his pockets: wallet, handkerchief, keys, spectacles, Filofax, mobile phone. He kept his eyes averted so that Diane could not easily read his reaction to her remarks. ‘If I were to get married I would probably need my original birth certificate,’ he commented gruffly.

‘Not necessarily. When were you born?’

‘The family always celebrated the day I arrived, which was two or three weeks after the actual date of my birth. My mother says I was an April Fool’s Day joke, but that as a baby I made them laugh every day of the year.’

‘She sounds lovely, your mother.’ Diane was wistful.

‘She is. She’s a fan of yours. I should love you to meet her.’

But it was time to leave. That day they were heading in different directions. On the doorstep, out of sight of the street, they kissed. Diane marched towards the official car parked nearby. After a few minutes more, Edward glanced up and down to ensure that he was not under observation, locked the front door and walked resolutely away.

Andrew Marquand was seated at the Chancellor’s big leather-topped desk in the oak-panelled room in the Treasury, his boxes opened wide in front of him. Behind on the mantelpiece sat a marble bust of Disraeli. Andrew would have preferred one of William Pitt the Younger, inventor of income tax: a man who had left his country in a better financial state at the end of office than he had found it on entering, a result Andrew profoundly hoped to repeat in due course.

To reach his office he had taken a back route from his rooftop flat in Number Ten Downing Street. The official residence of chancellors was Number Eleven next door, with the Chief Whip a few yards further on at Twelve, the shabbiest and darkest of the properties. Andrew had swapped for the comfort and convenience of the Prime Minister’s wife, older children and new baby, and felt no rancour about it. If that’s what the Boss wanted from him, he was happy to oblige. One per cent inflation and a viable exchange rate, however, were proving tougher to deliver.

Apart from their location, the properties were not ideal for their purposes. Money had been spent on the two main residences under all three of the last prime ministers, not least Margaret Thatcher who had appointed herself guardian of their eighteenth-century heritage. Until her time it had been possible for the public to walk up the narrow cul-de-sac to within a few yards of the doorways, and indeed to be photographed without hindrance standing on the steps of the famous house, as Harold Wilson had been as a boy. But fear of terrorists, whether from Northern Ireland, Libya or further afield, had compelled governments to adopt security measures. Massive wrought-iron gates were erected at the entrance to Whitehall with barriers and police boxes. Behind them ministers could come and go under cover without any need to smile and wave at onlookers. Andrew reflected, none the less, that it was typical of the woman and her blinkered outlook that she had not thought to create a television studio in the cellar. When press reaction was required, he and other ministers could find themselves out in the cold, their backs to the police boxes, pontificating into a wobbly microphone and struggling to keep their hair in place against the wind. It was thoroughly unprofessional, but even this media-savvy Prime Minister had failed to put it right.

The terrace was a rabbit warren of interlocking corridors and staircases. It pleased him to become acquainted with the more unusual corners. His favourite loo, for example, was situated in a nook near the White Room in Number Ten. It was done up in gold foil from top to bottom in the most hideous style. Not real gold, but gilded aluminium cladding, which presumably could be removed by plumbers. He had been unable to discover who was responsible: if it had been Mrs Thatcher, her taste was more ghastly and provincial than he had previously assumed. But he wouldn’t have put it past
her.

Andrew had dismissed his officials and had been working quietly for an hour. There came a tap at the door. It was Melvyn.

‘Order some tea and sandwiches,’ the Chancellor said. ‘One or two things I have to clear up with you.’

The refreshments came as they were discussing Andrew’s Mansion House speech, due to be delivered the following Tuesday. Melvyn was less anxious about the content, over which he had little influence, than about the inevitable human-interest questions the press would be asking. He made notes.

‘Will you be refusing to wear white tie, as usual?’

‘Of course.’ Andrew glowered.

‘And what shall I say is the reason this year?’

‘Same as last. It’s a load of tomfoolery. It creates and foments class distinctions. It is part of the Establishment’s effort to keep the working class in their place.’

Melvyn wrote dutifully. It occurred to him that, if he were in playful mood, he could add a few other explanations: that the Chancellor was too mean to invest in a set of expensive garments he would wear but seldom. That the Chancellor was a vain man who realised that his spreading girth did not look its best in formal attire. Melvyn sucked in his own belly, experimentally, and felt his face turn red. That the Chancellor would feel a fool, for no good reason, and that the Chancellor did not enjoy feeling a fool. Or that the Chancellor liked to strut his radical stuff while maintaining one of the most conservative fiscal programmes in memory: the best Tory chancellor for decades, one wag had called him. But his refusal created an incident every year, and made him sound silly. It gave the impression he was being prickly and dogmatic for the sake of it, which made his negotiations with City authorities on bigger issues more fraught than they might otherwise have been. Conformity had its benefits.

‘Another point that’ll come up. Will you be taking Fiona?’

‘For heaven’s sake, that’s none of their business. I shall be making a keynote speech about preparations for the euro. What does it matter whether I have a woman with me or not?’

‘I’m afraid that is what the media will want to know,’ said Melvyn  meekly.

‘Then we had better keep them guessing. The truth is I haven’t decided. I may, or I may not. Which would produce the effect I want?’

Melvyn was mystified. ‘What effect?’

Andrew thumped the table with his fist. ‘That they take some notice of what I’m actually saying, you idiot.’