This Honourable House (5 page)

Then, one idle morning, as he had flicked through the
Guardian
adverts without knowing quite why, he found himself envying those who would apply. The problem with his current post, he had concluded slowly, was that he was doing nothing worthwhile, and it wasn’t as if his day-to-day satisfaction could be improved upon by shifting to another practice, or trying to teach. He hated being in the legal profession: it was little more than a conspiracy to make money out of fools. He ached inside.

Black Dog loomed briefly. How well Winston Churchill had named it, that trough of depression that lurched like a slavering canine ready to bite and bounded up on him unawares. Edward had realised ages ago that he didn’t need to be in a mess to feel unhappy. At certain times, like Churchill, he could feel pain even when pain was absent. But whenever he was stressed, even though the outcome might be much desired, Black Dog would pad silently behind him. Like now. ‘I am your closest friend,’ Black Dog would pant, its dank flanks heaving. ‘I am here to help you. When you want to feel sorry for yourself, come walk beside me. I am always here. I will not hurt you. I am better than being alone with your fears.’

But the creature came from depths that could only be visited by abandoning any vestige of normality or balance. Given too much leeway it would seize him in its jaws and drag him down. Edward Porter knew exactly how that could happen and how horrible it felt. Black Dog had bitten him several times already in his thirty years. The temptation to court the creature had to be kept at arm’s length. It was too easy to give in and lose one’s sense of reality.

Edward sighed, and tried again to make neat notes, to keep his mind on the essentials that might just help him win this new job. What questions might be asked, and how might he respond? The first, obvious one was: what relevant experience had he? None at all, but this might be turned to advantage, surely. He had never served in opposition; he had no baggage. His experience was entirely
practical, in the business world, which arguably would be useful to an administration most of whose minions had never handled a balance sheet. He wanted to work, not in politics as such, but with someone in power. He had no dogma to offer, and would rely on the best outcomes available. If that meant he would be accused of pragmatism, he had a feeling that this new untried government would not take it amiss. The answers to practical problems were seldom written on tablets of stone brought down a mountain by some bearded Moses. He would say so, firmly, but with a pleasant twinkle in his eyes.

He might be quizzed, with a hostile edge, as to what he could offer when so many volunteers had slaved away, brought the party into Whitehall, and now needed employment? Wasn’t he a carpetbagger? If politics hadn’t grabbed him before when the party was suffering in opposition, why should it now? The answer was obvious, and true. He wanted to do something useful, and be of benefit to his fellow man. The possibility that a speech in Parliament, or a neatly crafted piece of legislation, could be of direct service to millions of citizens fascinated him. Nothing like that could be said of his appearances for this or that plc before a judge. Black Dog could be kept more easily at bay, Edward told himself, if he could justify his own existence. To do it in the shadow of a splendid woman like Diane Clark would add enormously to the savour.

Edward rummaged in a drawer for the necessary papers. The references would follow. He wondered whether his birth certificate and other personal documents would be required, then decided against. There were – gaps. Some elements might need explanation, though it would be a harsh employer who refused him on those thin grounds. One aspect of Diane Clark that particularly appealed was that she seemed free of prejudice. Indeed, her reputation had been made fighting for equality for the downtrodden. She was exactly the sort of person who might sympathise.

Edward warmed to the idea. He had never spoken about Black Dog to anyone, but perhaps Diane would understand. It wasn’t as if he had asthma, or epilepsy, or any other condition that in fairness he had to communicate to a potential boss. If the new post became his and met his expectations, his depression might be permanently put to flight. That alone was a strong reason to seek pastures new.

And he would take this suit to the cleaner’s today, so that he would make the best impression. And buy a new tie. Diane was a single woman, feisty and energetic. His appearance, as a modest, passably handsome young man, might make the difference.

‘You really expect me to say all this?’ Frank Bridges got himself ready to explode. It was bad enough that he was to give the keynote speech at the Institute of Directors Annual Dinner. The audience would be well-heeled businessmen, and a few women, resolutely opposed to the new government and its philosophy. They had fought many of the most advanced ideas of the manifesto including the minimum wage, the windfall tax on utilities, the New Deal for the unemployed and membership of the euro. Getting the nation’s so-called entrepreneurs to embrace new thinking was God’s own job. Worse, the damn thing would be black tie, which he loathed. He was beginning to feel like a bloody penguin.

‘I wouldn’t mind quite so much,’ he prodded the page, ‘if it wasn’t such goddamn obscure twaddle. If I don’t understand it, I bet they won’t. It doesn’t say
anything
.’ The private secretary twisted his hands together. He was a thin grey man, in a charcoal grey suit, silvery grey tie, with greying hair and, Frank noticed grimly, pale grey eyes with a slight tic. It was as if all colour had been drained out of him along with his blood supply years ago, as a precondition of seniority in Whitehall. He writhed under Frank’s glare. ‘But, Secretary of State, that’s the whole idea.’

Frank was bewildered. ‘You’ve just lost me entirely.’

‘It’s supposed to be obscure.’

‘Oh, is it? Why, in God’s name?’

‘Because it isn’t
supposed
to say anything.’

Frank held his head in his hands. The open ministerial box was mute in its sympathy. His interlocutor pressed home his advantage. ‘Instructions. We can’t have you making any more promises, Number Ten won’t allow it.’

‘That I’m well aware of. We got our knickers in a twist before the election by making far more pledges than we’d bargained for. The bills don’t add up. Mouths are to be sealed shut from here onwards. At least, till the next election, and that’s way off.’

The private secretary visibly relaxed. ‘Any initiatives have to be cleared first. The pecking order, as you know, is Number Ten press secretary, then Number Eleven, and if there’s any chance of a vote on it in the House, Number Twelve.’

‘The spin doctor, the Chancellor, and the Chief Whip. Yeah, I know,’ Frank growled.

The civil servant looked pleased, as if a recalcitrant pupil had at last grasped an important lesson. ‘So obscurity is the order of the day, Secretary of State.’

Frank shuffled testily through the papers, crossing out the clarifications he had hoped to make. ‘I don’t suppose there’s much chance of you dropping that “Secretary of State” lark, at least while we’re in private? Makes me sound like a bird-of-paradise or something. Can’t you call me Frank?’

The anxious tic returned. ‘I’d rather not, Secretary of State, if you don’t mind. It’s not form. But you can call me William.’

Frank checked to see if the public-school educated official was having him on, but decided that ‘William’ was sincere. ‘And what about the press on the evening, and questions?’

‘No problem. You’ll speak at the end of the meal, replying to the toast to the government, and that’ll be that. The media will not be present in force. They’ll get this press release and guidance from the press office as to what it means, and they’ll be quite satisfied. The Institute of Directors are very reliable on security, Secretary of State. That’s why we thought this would be a useful opportunity for you.’

‘You mean they’re safe, there won’t be any trouble, and I’ll be hard-pushed not to behave myself?’

‘Something like that, sir.’

‘Even if I say nothing at all?’

William bowed slightly.

‘And I suppose,’ Frank persisted glumly, ‘that if I add any remarks off the cuff, crack a few jokes or try to be a human being there’ll be hell to pay? Then I’ll be wading in deep doo-doo for days?’

‘Not only you, Secretary of State. If there’s any kind of fuss, we will have to answer as well.’

‘You especially, I suppose, William?’

‘I am responsible for the content of that script, yes. And for persuading you to stick to it. If I can.
Sir
.’

‘Frigging hell,’ said Frank, under his breath, but further resistance was futile. He sighed, threw the hated speech back into the red box and closed the lid with a furious bang.

Gail awoke with a headache. Her eyelids were stuck together. A shoulder ached where she had lain on it awkwardly. Her mouth tasted foul. London: the atmosphere was so polluted. Not like the fresh country air of Cheshire. But Cheshire was gone, and she would have to adjust.

The bottle was on its side, a single drip still on its lip. Ring stains marked the bedside table. The smeared glass was still half full. Head down, Gail trudged into the small kitchen, threw the bottle into the bin, washed out the glass and up-ended it on the draining-board. The latest television interview yesterday afternoon had gone well, but the line of questioning had upset her. Getting drunk
on neat gin afterwards had not healed anything, but it had been worth a try.

The flat was still crammed with cardboard cartons full of her stuff. She had not had the heart to sort it out, to send what was no longer needed to a charity shop, to hang up her clothes and put away the rest. Some of the prettier outfits would still serve for her media appearances. Mr Maxwell had advised her not to overdress but she had been unclear exactly what he meant: downbeat or scruffy was not in her repertoire. A formal suit required costume jewellery and red lipstick, though the ring finger was left painfully bare.

Only the dolls had been lovingly unpacked, and arranged over the living room, their glass eyes twinkling-brown or blue under the electric light. The computer still sat in its box; it presented a challenge and a reproof, for Gail had never felt confident using it. But her skills would improve with time, Mr Maxwell had assured her, and he urged her to take a course, to master the damn thing, to become a thoroughly modern single woman. Like thousands of others in London, this God-forsaken hole.

It was horrible being alone. Not the same as waiting for Frank on the tedious evenings when he was at a meeting. Then, there was the certainty that he would soon breeze in, bang the door, fling his briefcase on the stairs, forget to hang up his coat, and give her a kiss. After his election as an MP, if she got fed up during weekdays when he was at Westminster, she could take the train to London and potter round, go to an exhibition or to an afternoon matinee. She had never been one for socialising and did not have a coterie of friends to gossip or have lunch with. The wife of a busy political man had to be circumspect in what she said, but that had suited Gail’s shy nature – she had found the noisier public affairs rather a trial.

This was different. The room was empty except for herself, and it would remain empty. The flat had been chosen for its convenience and price, not for its proximity to any acquaintances or family. Without a supreme effort, she would stay alone.

The letter-box rattled. The sound inside her head was of jailers’ keys, metallic and threatening. The post would be smaller now, no longer the dozens of fat brown envelopes addressed to Frank that would absorb his entire attention over breakfast and had so irritated her. Some post was still being sent on; these days, the main items were junk mail, from companies that never bothered to update their mailing list. They followed the bottle into the overflowing bin.

Two white envelopes were addressed to her, both with printed addresses. One was from the bank. A reminder, courteous for the moment, to pay an overdue credit card bill. She would have to concede defeat on that one soon, cut the card across, put it in the envelope and mail it back to them. The money dear Mr Maxwell was arranging for her would be needed for expenses, or a rainy day. Frank, she felt bleakly, could not be relied upon to keep up his payments, not with That Woman guarding the cheque book. The other was from the council, asking coolly whether she would confirm that she lived alone since it would entitle her to a discount on her council-tax payments. Gail stared at it, biting her lip. Its thoughtless cruelty took her breath away. She hid it under the wizened apples in the fruit basket.

She filled the coffee machine with water, listlessly folded a filter paper, measured stale ground coffee into the container. To distract herself she flicked once more through the pile of newspapers that lay in a disorganised heap next to it. The headlines
‘CABINET MINISTER’S EX-WIFE IN DESPERATE STRAITS’
and
‘THE PUBLIC SHOULD KNOW WHAT A CREEP MY HUSBAND IS’
– should have pleased her, but instead intensified her sense of loss.

Perhaps this furious tirade against her husband and his new wife was a mistake. The old Gail would not have indulged in such petty attempts at revenge. She should never have sunk so low. Maybe those who said she should have borne her humiliation in mute dignity had had a point. But the campaign had its own momentum and was virtually unstoppable. It gave her grim satisfaction when interviewers expressed their sympathy. Besides, it filled her days.

A brown envelope and a small package remained. The first contained a note from the library in Cheshire about an overdue book. That went under the apples also. The package was a battered Jiffy-bag, re-used, the old lettering covered in obliterating stickers, her own name and address handwritten in crude capitals. The postcode had been added in pencil at the sorting office. There was no sender’s name or identification mark. It puzzled her. She let it sit on the kitchen table for a few minutes as she fetched cereal and milk from the fridge. After a few spoonfuls she felt slightly better. She found a pair of scissors, cut across the end of the package and tipped it up.