A Parliamentary Affair (4 page)

Elaine shook her head, eyes bright with amusement.

‘Arrogance, alcoholism and adultery. As long as you succumb to only one, you’ll survive.’

Roger Dickson still felt uneasy as he crossed the tiled floor of Members’ Lobby to return to the whips’ office. The light-hearted banter with Elaine Stalker troubled him, for it had quickly turned into a more probing discussion, and this in a place whose Members refrain from examining their motivations too deeply for fear of what they might find. Certainly there was a conflict between being nice and effective, for individuals, ministers, governments. Politicians were required to make promises which could not be kept. They were supposed to know all the answers in a world of shifting uncertainty. The man who responded truthfully ‘I don’t know’ would be sidelined very quickly. He compromised, daily, as a whip, and counted it a success to survive without ruffling feathers. But Elaine Stalker clearly did not think that was enough.

Roger sighed. Not only Nigel Boswood but the Prime Minister showed it was perhaps possible to be both nice and effective. Now there was a chap who rose to the top not by eloquence or aggression but by infinitely patient persuasion. A man without enemies, at least in the heady aftermath of electoral victory, whose critics in the campaign had managed only to complain he was
too
nice. Yet the edge was there as well – for this was the man who had stopped returning Margaret Thatcher’s phone calls, once he had firmly replaced her.

The Prime Minister had learned his skills through three years in the whips’ office. That cheered Roger Dickson up: whatever his own prospects they were infinitely improved by service as a whip. He turned off Members’ Lobby down the short flight of stairs and opened the door on his left into the lower whips’ room.

Johnson was tapping away at a word processor, inputting details about his charges. Each whip covers a geographical area with perhaps forty MPs, as well as several government departments. Johnson was nearly six foot four, a laconic individual sporting a neat Vandyke beard, unusual in a modern right-winger. It had been a form of protest, for Mrs Thatcher did not trust men with beards.

Without looking up from his flickering screen he greeted Roger. ‘I saw you chatting that girl up. My God, Dickson, they’re not here five minutes and you’re already making a play. Should be ashamed of yourself.’

To his own surprise Dickson needed a moment to consider his response. He walked over to the stationery cabinet, found the scotch left from before the election and poured himself a couple of fingers.

Johnson grunted a refusal. ‘Not for me. I’m on the front bench for the wind-ups in a minute; can’t go breathing fumes at everybody. Come on, Roger, what’s she like?’

‘Smart, spunky and quite intelligent, I think. Going to find it tough here. Brightens the place up, though.’

Johnson was a bachelor with a long-standing girlfriend who adored him but could not figure out how on earth to make him marry her. ‘Don’t hedge. You know what I mean. She’s much the
best-looking
of a rather poor bunch. There may be sixty females here now, but apart from the
mouth-watering
Virginia I wouldn’t give you tuppence for any of them.’

Roger Dickson was surprised at his own distaste. Maybe he was getting too old for this sexist schoolboy joking. It no longer seemed funny. He wondered with a shiver if the women ever discussed their male colleagues in the same dismissive way.

‘I disagree: several are quite pretty. But one can’t, these days, just go round making passes at the women. They’re a new breed and won’t have it. You know the old saw: “I’m all in favour of more women in Parliament, my dear, as long as you’re all attractive.” I imagine if you said that to the lovely Ms Stalker she would sock you one.’

‘Ah! Now I might enjoy that.’ Johnson triumphantly came to the end of his list, pressed ‘Save’ with a flourish and swung round to face his friend. ‘I bet she’s looking for it. Did she bore you with conversation about her husband? No? There you are. It might not be too difficult to find out more. She took quite a fancy to you, it was clear. So: a bottle of best champers to whichever of us lays that bright-eyed lady first. Failing her, one of the others. But Elaine Stalker looks as if she might be special. You on?’

Dickson raised his glass. He had little intention of pursuing the bet but even less of having a pointless row about it. ‘You are a rogue, Johnson. Believe me it looks different when you’re a married man. I’ll attempt to keep you informed of her preferences. Now if you don’t shift your butt the Chief will be on the warpath.’

The monitor on the wall pinged as the name of the person speaking in the Chamber changed from an obscure backbencher to the new Labour spokesman. Johnson cursed and fled. For a moment Roger Dickson stared into the golden dregs at the bottom of his glass. The multicoloured hue looked familiar, somehow. With a start he realised that Elaine Stalker’s hair was exactly the same shade.

Upstairs alone in a small cramped room without a window, number T1-04 on Commons Court, Andrew Muncastle threw down his pen in disgust and tore up another sheet of Commons paper. To be
tipped off that his early bid to speak had been agreed by Madam Speaker was wonderful. To have been warned that he was likely to be called, not in a few days’ time, which would have been bad enough, but immediately after the front benches tomorrow and thus become the first maiden speaker – that was utterly terrifying.

There were ground-rules. He would not be interrupted, for the first and only time in his career. In return he was supposed to be non-controversial, though that tradition had been breaking down in recent years. It was
de rigueur
to pay compliments to his predecessor, and to describe his constituency in glowing terms. He would mention his grandfather, who was so proud of his grandson’s ambition, so different from the dull despised son, Andrew’s own father. Miss Boothroyd would call Andrew by name, a practice dating back to an earlier cross-eyed Speaker who, following the custom of merely nodding at the Member, had caused endless confusion; but for all other purposes he was referred to by the name of his constituency. That generated sentiments of continuity and duty which chimed well with Andrew’s earnest character.

Christ, he was nervous. Dickson the whip had already given him firm guidance. He should time the speech for seven or eight minutes, no more. He was not allowed to read it out: the Commons had neither desks nor tables, and Members who read their speeches were catcalled: ‘Reading! Reading!’ In the days of Charles I, the King’s spies crept around the Commons after hostile debates collecting scraps of paper as evidence of treason. More than one Member ended up at risk of his life. It was safer, therefore, to speak from the heart.

The national press, already tipped off, were desperate to get hold of him. Local radio in the constituency and both local television stations were primed to relay his contribution in news bulletins. He knew he should be thrilled and inspired by beating everyone else to the tape, yet instead he felt nauseous. There must be something wrong with him. Perhaps this whole idea of going into politics was a mistake.

Andrew took another extra-strong mint, picked up his pen again, and went back to work.

The morning dawned bright and clear. Elaine woke with a start, the rumble of traffic in her ears. It was all very well having taken a flat close to Westminster, but buses and taxis trundling along Victoria Street were not the most attractive dawn chorus. Gurgling from the bathroom reminded her she was not alone. Karen had bagged it first and would leave toothpaste all over the sink, hairspray on the mirror and wet towels on the floor.

Elaine’s daughter was currently on holiday from boarding school. Mike was on extended service in the USA for the month – which precluded him yet again from childcare. Fortunately Karen had been keen to come and help out for a few hours, particularly when Elaine realised that she could legitimately offer pocket money from her clerical allowance.

In fact the office needed all the help it could get. Over 70,000 people had dutifully voted in South Warmingshire and it felt as if most of them had written to her since, with congratulations or moans or desperate problems needing the new MP’s urgent attention. Half the constituency had always been safe; the other half had been Labour more often than not. The combination made the seat marginal. Those letters would have to be attended to promptly and efficiently or there could be trouble next time.

After two weeks as an MP the constituency post amounted to around fifty letters a day, but at present piles of advertising and bumf were adding to the heap, plus endless invitations to attend briefing meetings, seminars and pressure groups. Her spirits sank. She had not the faintest idea how to respond, nor how to put it all in priority order. The answer was to get somebody else to do it. Surrounded by newly printed notepaper, envelopes and file covers, with Karen struggling to keep the tide at bay with the letter opener, Elaine felt her most pressing task was to find a secretary.

Fate intervened. The phone rang.

‘May I speak to Mrs Stalker?’ A businesslike woman’s voice.

Elaine was weary of being canvassed for specialised insurance or answering yet another opinion poll of new Members.

‘May I ask who wants her, please?’

‘My name is Diane Hardy. I used to work for a Tory MP who lost his seat and I’m looking for a job. I still have my Commons pass. Loads of references and all that … can work a word processor or electronic typewriter. I’ve worked at the House in all ten years. Do you think Mrs Stalker might be needing a secretary?’

‘You bet,’ breathed Elaine in relief. ‘Where are you? Bring your CV and come and have a chat. How much do you want paying?’

Thus Diane Hardy entered Elaine’s life. She was fat and frumpy and fun, endlessly inventive, a whizz at the typing, kind and gentle with fraught constituents, discreet about their tiresome foibles and deliciously rude about all authority. Her family background was more elevated and metropolitan than Elaine’s. She had never married but sometimes had a man friend vaguely in tow. Long ago there had been an intense affair with a male MP, but she had sensed very quickly, being like most Commons secretaries smarter than her boss, that nothing would come of it. Ever since she had preferred to work for old buffers or for women Members. Diane lived with her cheerful mother and four contented cats in Battersea and was a power on the local Conservative ladies’ committee. Rapidly she brought order to Elaine’s chaos.

‘Anything from other constituencies – and you as a woman will get a lot – we send straight to their own guy. That’s what he’s there for, even if he’s a lazy beggar and they prefer to write to us. Anything on local policy gets sent to the council. The smaller the problem the bigger the fuss: we just tell them it’s not a parliamentary matter. You got good councillors? No? If you want to save yourself a lot of trouble in future I should acquire a few, otherwise you’ll be doing all the councillors’ work as well. Don’t touch planning applications with a barge-pole. If you take sides you’ll only antagonise the other lot, who will never forgive you and will go and join the Liberals. Much Liberal Democrat support throughout the country comes from people bruised by encounters with the British planning system. Same with divorce cases – nobody will thank you and you’ll lose more votes than you gain. Correspondence about current government disasters gets sent to ministers. They thought up the sodding policy, so let them defend it. Campaigns about whales and deforestation and donkeys in Spain, we’ll produce a standard reply; if a punter sends in a postcard or a coupon from a newspaper and can’t be bothered to write a real personal letter, then neither can we. They’re mostly Liberals too, you know, so don’t get upset. Nasty missives calling you a slag and worse I will tear up immediately, unless you’re masochist enough to want to see them. Likewise fan mail I can deal with and send them a signed photo, otherwise it will only make you vain. That will leave only a handful of proper letters and serious invitations you’ll have to think about. Does that sound better?’

It was breathtaking, if a little cynical. ‘I have an advice bureau every weekend too,’ Elaine added weakly.

Diane rocked back on her heels. ‘That is unwise,’ she said severely. ‘However much time you give, it will always be filled. Some people will just come to pass the time of day. Once a month is quite enough. And if you haven’t already moved into the constituency don’t, not if you ever want any peace.’

‘It’s too late I’m there already. Actually I like it, but thanks for the advice.’

Elaine felt chided and vaguely cross, but was not about to dispute with her newly acquired treasure. Leaving Diane muttering at the heaps as Karen discreetly headed for the photocopier, Elaine walked down the corridor, trying to get her bearings.
It was all turning out much harder than she had anticipated. Why did everybody try to persuade her to do things differently? Never in her life before had her competence been so thoroughly and regularly

Andrew Muncastle sat on the edge of his seat and waited.
This was it
.

Tubby Peter Pike, Labour front-bench spokesman on the environment, wagged his stumpy finger one last time in mock fury at the government and settled back on the green leather to the ragged cheers of his supporters.

In truth there was not a lot for Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition to feel happy about, after losing another election. The greasy-pole game – who was out, who was in, which names were moving smoothly up, which into political oblivion – now dominated bars and tea rooms. The performances of the front bench, particularly newish faces like Keith Quin and Janey Irvine, were under close scrutiny. Such gossipy evaluation gave hope and a flicker of interest to both sides. There would be new leaders. There would always be another election.

There would always be new entrants waiting nervously at the starting gate. Andrew felt his mouth go dry as Speaker Boothroyd rose to her feet.

Betty Boothroyd looked splendid. She had dispensed with the wigs worn by her predecessors for hundreds of years, and in so doing had sparked off a debate among the judiciary as to whether the wearing of stiff powdered horsehair on one’s head conferred more dignity on the wearer, or less. She fitted everyone’s idea of a bright, formidable, no-nonsense north-country headmistress. It felt like a revolution.

Up in the gallery Tessa Muncastle held Barney’s hand. Next to her, rigid and proud, sat Andrew’s grandfather, now over eighty. In the car coming down Sir Edward had tried talking about his own days in Westminster but quickly sensed that Tessa, keeping half an eye on Barney and threading through unfamiliar London traffic, was not really interested. Women had better manners in his day. Lady Muncastle, the old duck, had probably been just as bored with his rattlings-on but at least she had pretended and been jolly supportive, at any rate in public. His granddaughter-in-law was a different matter. This pale, preoccupied woman would have a dismal time as an MP’s wife if she really found the whole business a chore and couldn’t be bothered to hide it.

Tessa screwed her lacey handkerchief into a ball. Her palms were sweaty and itchy. In recent weeks her eczema had flared up again. It was as if the tension found its way into her bloodstream and there turned to acid, so that her perspiration became a cruel, unstoppable dew attacking her sensitive skin in the worst places. It was starting again around her armpits and inside elbows and knees and under her breasts, and would be the devil to shift. Hot nights in London were the worst. She would wake up scratching, rubbing sore patches, trying to keep her hands away from the flaming skin down there between her legs, until at last she would give up and head for the bathroom and shudder as cold water touched the hot flaky flesh. Andrew regarded it dully as just one more reason why she didn’t like him to touch her. It was hard to explain her anxieties. Initially sympathetic, he had lost patience little by little; it was simpler to leave her alone.

The Speaker knew where Andrew was sitting, had checked long before Pike sat down. Members opposite were heading off to the tea room but his own side had been primed that maiden speeches would be made, and stayed put. Cabinet ministers smiled vaguely back at him, while the whip on duty was a familiar face, Roger Dickson. He at least knew what Andrew planned to say, for the two had rehearsed it with a stopwatch earlier that morning. Andrew had then copied it out by hand, in capital letters, on small sheets of House of Commons notepaper. Nobody would mind, should he dry up with nerves, if he referred to his notes, but in fact he knew the speech by heart. He felt comfortable with old methods familiar from school debating days; then he had done rather well. Nervously he patted his tie, checked his fly zip one last time and wished he was somewhere else. Speaking in the Commons was not like making speeches from a platform, where the orator is at least able to see faces and tell by their reactions what impression is being made, so he (or she) can speed
up, pipe up or – if the audience is asleep – blessedly shut up. Here he was confronted by a sea of backs, all dark-suited like his own, apart from the isolated dots of women in bold reds and yellows. The faces opposite were too far away to be useful and anyway would deliberately register disinterest or disapproval to put him off. It was no part of their brief to make encouraging noises at government new boys.

The hollow ache in the pit of his stomach intensified. Breakfast had been difficult, lunch impossible. He was conscious of being hemmed in. Members were twisting in their seats to look at him with curiosity and commiseration. Everyone else either had been through this or was worriedly awaiting his own turn. He gritted his teeth and checked his opening sentence once again.

Madam Speaker was looking at him, eyebrow raised.
Are you ready?

Nod, take deep breath.

‘Mr Andrew Muncastle!’

To his surprise, everyone bayed ‘Hear, hear!’ before he had even opened his mouth. He rose, almost lost his balance, steadied. The Prime Minister had stopped chatting to Sir Nigel Boswood and was turning around. The PM’s maiden had lasted fifteen minutes and was regarded at the time as unmemorable, worthy but boring. Look where it had got him barely a decade later. Maybe plod was better than splash.

‘Madam Speaker. I start by paying tribute to my predecessor in the constituency of Hampshire South West, Sir Percy Duff, now Lord Duff, whom many Honourable Members will know. He served the area for twenty-two years and was highly regarded. His will be a hard place to fill.’

More rumbling ‘Hear, hears’. I have just told my first lie in Parliament, Andrew noted with detached amusement. Now he was on his feet he was beginning to relax. If he had any ambition it was to make a better fist of being an MP than the lazy old sod who had been pushed out by an exasperated management committee, warned that if he did not retire pronto they would deselect him. Andrew glanced at the gallery. His grandfather appeared to be hanging on every word. The old man didn’t say much. Barney was wriggling, Tessa looking anxious as usual.

‘I am proud also to recognise the contribution in my life of my grandfather, Sir Edward Muncastle, formerly the Honourable Member for Hornchurch, who to my delight is here with us today.’

Everybody looked up, then back to Andrew with more respect. Roger Dickson opened the large blue folder, wrote Andrew’s name in bold ink, and added: ‘3.42 p.m. Started confidently. Good speaking manner, pleasant.’

‘It is normal practice, I understand, to say kind things about one’s constituency, and in the case of Hampshire South West that is easy to do. We have the youngest population, highest rate of home ownership and lowest unemployment in all the area south of Oxford. We owe a great deal to positive economic change under recent Tory governments.’

‘Hear, hear!’

‘Yet this is no NIMBY area – not for us the cry, “Not in my back yard”, for we have also made welcome the biggest biological waste disposal plant in Europe and generate from it three hundred megawatts of electricity which is sold to the National Grid.’

‘Your shit is my command,’ muttered a voice behind him. It was picked up by the microphone and could be clearly heard across the Chamber. Members smothered guffaws. Andrew coloured furiously, swallowed hard and decided to ignore the cherubic slob Ferriman sitting behind him who had scored a direct hit.

He had opted to concentrate on the issue dominating the press, the world conference on the environment at Rio de Janeiro. ‘It is thus entirely appropriate that the Member for Hampshire South West should be concerned at the impact of human activity on the environment. On present trends the
earth’s surface temperature will rise in each decade of the next century by between nought point two and nought point five degrees Celsius. That rise is faster than any seen in the past ten thousand years and will make the globe warmer than it has been for a hundred thousand years. It behoves us all to take a close interest in the
hot air
being emitted by mankind.’
Hit back;
he smiled sweetly back at Ferriman, who chortled in delight.

‘Success at Rio, and no doubt at summits to come, depends on trust between countries. We British can achieve nothing on our own. The United Kingdom must also make the point that not all the growth in deserts is due to global warming: much is due to simple population pressure in countries which have turned their back on modern contraception. That must change, or all our efforts will be nullified by increasing numbers of mouths to feed. I hope our own government will take a strong line in Rio on this matter.’

Tessa shrank back in her seat. She and her husband had one profound disagreement: her religion. Her heart sank and she uttered a silent prayer that he was not going to start attacking the Pope. She need not have worried. Andrew had said as much as necessary for a maiden and was coming to his peroration.

‘This sovereign House has a role to play in environmental matters, even if we are concerned at encroachments on its influence.’ More ‘hear, hears’, with feeling. The underlying battle of the 1990s causing trouble for MPs would not be the impact of hairsprays on the ozone layer but the steady erosion of their powers by the tides of Brussels.

‘In these ways, Madam Speaker, I believe we can slow down the process of global warming, and hand on to our children and grandchildren an inheritance both worthy and intact. I hope our government can take a world lead in so doing. They have my full support in this important task.’ The clock showed he had been speaking for eight minutes exactly. It seemed to have gone in a trice, yet every second had been elongated, giving him time to observe his neighbours, the Clerk to the Parliament, still bewigged in black robes like an old judge, the gleaming gold mace dubbed a ‘bauble’ by Cromwell, Hansard’s staff upstairs tapping silently on shorthand machines, pausing a fraction after he paused, the press gallery scribbling away, with the new chap Jim Betts from
The Globe
craning his neck over the balcony and the
Times
sketch writer Matthew Parris in his corner seat watching the scene pensively, pencil in hand.

God, it was over. Andrew sat down weakly to encouraging murmurs. MPs do not clap, except on extraordinary occasions such as Miss Boothroyd’s elevation; their hallmark is restraint. Few, however, had made as workmanlike a job of their maiden speech as Andrew. He had been cool, well informed, clear-thinking, a little provocative. He had not crawled to his masters, not grovelled, nor had he broken any other conventions by being rude or hostile. He had not fallen over, lost his place, cracked a joke that wasn’t funny, made a fool of himself. And he had had the courage to be first.

Roger Dickson contented himself with one further scribbled remark: ‘Nervous, but plenty of self-control. COMPETENT.’

Andrew would never see it, but that would do nicely.

His snub nose came up to the level of the counter, so by standing on tiptoe he could just see the puddings. Luscious sultana cheesecake; five different kinds of fruit yoghurt; a vast, tempting piece of chocolate cake, bent over by the weight of its own sinful cream; slices of pale-green melon, little silver dishes of curved yellow peaches glistening in heavy syrup, tiny sweet mandarin segments. He looked up at his mother hopefully.

‘I’m not really hungry, Mother. Could I just have cake?’

It would be better to say no, to insist that Barney eat properly. Tessa felt panicky again. It would not do to risk a row here in Strangers’ Cafeteria, in the very bowels of the Commons open only to Honourable Members and their guests, with Andrew standing beside her a touch impatient and
jumpy after his great triumph, and Sir Edward already shakily paying for his tea. She nodded mutely. The child, eyes wild with delight, helped himself, using both hands to carry the plate with solemn dignity to a table.

A handsome, well-dressed woman with a familiar face chuckled. Tessa Muncastle could never remember names: there had been so many new people to meet. The woman sensed her uncertainty and introduced herself, speaking equally to both mother and child.

‘Elaine Stalker, South Warmingshire. You’re with Andrew Muncastle, are you? Is he your daddy? Did you hear him speak? Gosh, you should be proud of him.’

Barney nodded earnestly as they sat down. It was very cramped; the child’s feet were knocking against Tessa’s knees. The little boy picked up a spoon and fork and, concentrating hard, manfully tried to eat the disintegrating cake the way he had been taught. A dark chocolatey chunk slowly slithered off the fork on to his new shirt and best school tie. The small face began to crumple and blue eyes filled with tears.

Mrs Stalker leaned over diplomatically. ‘If I were you, I’d try this way.’ She handed him a large spoon. ‘Nobody here has any manners and MPs are the worst of all, so you’re in good company.’

Confidence and pleasure restored, the child tucked in gratefully. Elaine sipped her tea. Ten years ago, when Karen had been about his age, she had started exploring the idea of getting to Westminster. It had not been for want of trying that it had taken so long.

‘Do you like being an MP?’ Tessa was making conversation. She would have preferred to have taken Barney and Sir Edward straight home.

‘Do I like it? Oh yes, this is what I’ve always wanted to do. It’s all very bewildering at first. I expect Andrew feels exactly the same, though he’s finding his feet quicker than most of us.’

Over on the far side of the room Andrew, cup in hand, was bending over a table talking to colleagues. He seemed almost to have forgotten them.

Elaine caught Tessa’s wistful expression. ‘It must be even harder being an MP’s wife,’ she suggested. ‘After all, we make a choice but our families don’t. We have the fun and privileges and you take all the hard knocks.’ She didn’t believe it, suspecting that in reality it was often the other way round, but it was a kindly flattery. The reaction took her aback.

Tessa Muncastle, head bowed, was picking at the tablecloth and talking in a low, urgent voice. ‘I hate the whole business,’ she was saying. ‘Andrew says I’ll get used to all the attention, but I’ve always been shy and I find it so hard. It’s all right for him: meeting people and shaking lots of hands and being seen in public is all part of his job and he’s good at it. I get the most awful sick butterflies every time. Now he’s famous I’m being asked to draw raffles and give interviews but it scares me, Mrs Stalker. I’ll make a fool of myself and say all the wrong things, then Andrew will be furious. It makes me so miserable. Most of all, I hardly ever see him. How am I supposed to manage when he doesn’t get home till eleven at night? Then there’s the child. He’s only five. It’s important for a boy to be close to his father. When is he supposed to see Barney?’